Complete weird tales of.., p.395
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 395
Her reply was the slightest possible nod.
He looked at her meanly amused:
“It’s really very classical,” he said, “like the voyage of Ulysses; I, Ulysses, you the water nymph Calypso, drifting in that golden ship of Romance—”
“Calypso was a land nymph,” she observed, absently, “if accuracy interests you as much as your monologue.”
Checked and surprised, he began to laugh at his own discomfiture; and she, elbow on the gunwale, small hand cupping her chin, watched him with an expressionless directness that very soon extinguished his amusement and left him awkward in the silence.
“I’ve tried my very best to be civil and agreeable,” he said after a moment. “Is it really such an effort for you to talk to a man?”
“Not if I am interested,” she said quietly.
He felt that his ears were growing red; she noticed it, too, and added: “I do not mean to be too rude; and I am quite sure you do not either.”
“Of course not,” he said; “only I couldn’t help seeing the humour of romance in our ocean encounter. I think anybody would — except you—”
“What?”
The crisp, quick question which, with her, usually seemed like an exclamation, always startled him into temporary silence; then he began more carefully:
“There was one chance in a million of your finding my boat in the fog. If you hadn’t found it—” He shook his head. “And so I wish you might recognise in our encounter something amusing, humourous” — he looked cautiously at her— “even mildly romantic — ah — enough to — to—”
“To what?”
“Why — to say — to do something characteristically — ah—”
“What?”
“ — Human!” he ventured — quite prepared to see her rise wrathfully and go overboard.
Instead she remained motionless, those clear, disconcerting eyes fixed steadily on him. Once or twice he thought that her upper lip quivered; that some delicate demon of laughter was trying to look out at him under the lashes; but not a lid twitched; the vivid lips rested gravely upon each other. After a silence she said:
“What is it, human, that you expect me to do? Flirt with you?”
“Good Lord, no!” he said, stampeded.
She was now paying him the compliment of her full attention; he felt the dubious flattery, although it slightly scared him.
“Why is it,” she asked, “that a man is eternally occupied in thinking about the effect he produces on woman — whether or not he knows her — that seems to make no difference at all? Why is it?”
He turned redder; she sat curled up, nursing both ankles, and contemplating him with impersonal and searching curiosity.
“Tell me,” she said; “is there any earthly reason why you and I should be interested in each other — enough, I mean, to make any effort toward civility beyond the bounds of ordinary convention?”
He did not answer.
“Because,” she added, “if there is not, any such effort on your part borders rather closely on the offensive. And I am quite sure you do not intend that.”
He was indignant now, but utterly incapable of retort.
“Is there anything romantic in it because a chance swimmer rests a few moments in somebody’s boat?” she asked. “Is that chance swimmer superhuman or inhuman or ultra-human because she is not consciously, and simperingly, preoccupied with the fact that there happens to be a man in her vicinity?”
“Good heavens!” he broke out, “do you think I’m that sort of noodle—”
“But I don’t think about you at all,” she interrupted; “there is not a thought that I have which concerns you as an individual. My homily is delivered in the abstract. Can’t you — in the abstract — understand that? — even if you are a bit doubtful concerning the seven deadly conventions?”
He rested on his oars, tingling all over with wrath and surprise.
“And now,” she said quietly, “I think it time to go. The sun is almost shining, you see, and the beauty of the scene is too obvious for even you to miss.”
“May I express an opinion before you depart?”
“If it is not a very long or very dissenting opinion.”
“Then it’s this: two normal and wholesome people — man and a woman, can not meet, either conventionally or unconventionally, without expressing some atom of interest in one another as individuals. I say two — perfectly — normal — people—”
“But it has just happened!” she insisted, preparing to rise.
“No, it has not happened.”
“Really. You speak for yourself of course—”
“Yes, I do. I am interested; I’d be stupid if I were not. Besides, I understand conventions as well as you do—”
“You don’t observe them—”
“I don’t worship them!”
She said coolly: “Women should be ritualists. It is safer.”
“It is not necessary in this case. I haven’t the slightest hope of making this incident a foundation for another; I haven’t the least idea that I shall ever see you again. But for me to pretend an imbecile indifference to you or to the situation would be a more absurd example of self-consciousness than even you have charged me with.”
Wrath and surprise in her turn widened her eyes; he held up his hand: “One moment; I have not finished. May I go on?”
And, as she said nothing, he resumed: “During the few minutes we have been accidentally thrown together, I have not seen a quiver of human humour in you. There is the self-consciousness — the absorbed preoccupation with appearances.”
“What is there humourous in the situation?” she demanded, very pink.
“Good Lord! What is there humourous in any situation if you don’t make it so?”
“I am not a humourist,” she said.
She sat in the bows, one closed hand propping her chin; and sometimes her clear eyes, harboring lightning, wandered toward him, sometimes toward the shore.
“Suppose you continue to row,” she said at last. “I’m doing you the honour of thinking about what you’ve said.”
He resumed the oars, still sitting facing her, and pushed the boat slowly forward; and, as they continued their progress in silence, her brooding glance wavered, at intervals, between him and the coast.
“Haven’t you any normal human curiosity concerning me?” he asked so boyishly that, for a second, again from her eyes, two gay little demons seemed to peer out and laugh at him.
But her lips were expressionless, and she only said: “I have no curiosity. Is that criminally abnormal?”
“Yes; if it is true. Is it?”
“I suppose it is too unflattering a truth for you to believe.” She checked herself, looked up at him, hesitated. “It is not absolutely true. It was at first. I am normally interested now. If you knew more about me you would very easily understand my lack of interest in people I pass; the habit of not permitting myself to be interested — the necessity of it. The art of indifference is far more easily acquired than the art of forgetting.”
“But surely,” he said, “it can cost you no effort to forget me.”
“No, of course not.” She looked at him, unsmiling: “It was the acquired habit of indifference in me which you mistook for — I think you mistook it for stupidity. Many do. Did you?”
But the guilty amusement on his face answered her; she watched him silently for a while.
“You are quite right in one way,” she said; “an unconventional encounter like this has no significance — not enough to dignify it with any effort toward indifference. But until I began to reprove man in the abstract, I really had not very much interest in you as an individual.”
And, as he said nothing: “I might better have been in the beginning what you call ‘human’ — found the situation mildly amusing — and it is — though you don’t know it! But” — she hesitated— “the acquired instinct operated automatically. I wish I had been more — human; I can be.” She raised her eyes; and in them glimmered her first smile, faint, yet so charming a revelation that the surprise of it held him motionless at his oars.
“Have I paid the tribute you claim?” she asked. “If I have, may I not go overboard at my convenience?”
He did not answer. She laid both arms along the gunwales once more, balancing herself to rise.
“We are near enough now,” she said, “and the fog is quite gone. May I thank you and depart without further arousing you to psychological philosophy?”
“If you must,” he said; “but I’d rather row you in.”
“If I must? Do you expect to paddle me around Cape Horn?” And she rose and stepped lightly onto the bow, maintaining her balance without effort while the boat pitched, fearless, confident, swaying there between sky and sea.
“Good-bye,” she said, gravely nodding at him.
“Good-bye, Calypso!”
She joined her finger tips above her head, preliminary to a plunge. Then she looked down at him over her shoulder.
“I told you that Calypso was a land nymph.”
“I can’t help it; fabled Calypso you must remain to me.”
“Oh; am I to remain — anything — to you — for the next five minutes?”
“Do you think I could forget you?”
“I don’t think so — for five minutes. Your satisfied vanity will retain me for so long — until it becomes hungry again. And — but read the history of Ulysses — carefully. However, it was nice of you — not to name yourself and expect a response from me. I’m afraid — I’m afraid it is going to take me almost five minutes to forget you — I mean your boat of course. Good-bye!”
Before he could speak again she went overboard, rose swimming with effortless grace. After a dozen strokes or so she turned on one side, glancing back at him. Later, almost among the breakers, she raised one arm in airy signal, but whether to him or to somebody on the raft he did not know.
For five minutes — the allotted five — he lay on his oars watching the sands. At moments he fancied he could still distinguish her, but the distance was great, and there were many scarlet head-dresses among the bathers ashore and afloat.
And after a while he settled back on his oars, cast a last glance astern, and pulled for the Ariani, aboard of which Portlaw was already bellowing at him through an enormous megaphone.
Malcourt, who looked much younger than he really was, appeared on the after deck, strolling about with a telescope tucked up under one arm, both hands in his trousers pockets; and, as Hamil pulled under the stern, he leaned over the rail: “Hello, Hamil! Any trade with the natives in prospect? How far will a pint of beads go with the lady aborigines?”
“Better ask at the Beach Club,” replied Hamil, laughing; “I say, Malcourt, I’ve had a corking swim out yonder—”
“Go in deep?” inquired Malcourt guilelessly.
“Deep? It’s forty fathoms off the reef.”
“I didn’t mean the water,” murmured Malcourt.
* * *
CHAPTER II
A LANDING
THE ARIANI WAS to sail that evening, her destination being Miami and the West Coast where Portlaw desired to do some tarpon fishing and Wayward had railroad interests. Malcourt, always in a receptive attitude, was quite ready to go anywhere when invited. Otherwise he preferred a remunerative attention to business.
Hamil, however, though with the gay company aboard, was not of them; he had business at Palm Beach; his luggage had already been sent ashore; and now, prepared to follow, he stood a little apart from the others on the moonlit deck, making his adieux to the master of the Ariani.
“It’s been perfectly stunning — this cruise,” he said. “It was kind of you, Wayward; I don’t know how to tell you how kind — but your boat’s a corker and you are another—”
“Do you like this sort of thing?” asked Wayward grimly.
“Like it? It’s only a part of your ordinary lives — yours and Portlaw’s; so you are not quite fitted to understand. But, Wayward, I’ve been in heavy harness. You have been doing this sort of heavenly thing — how many years?”
“Too many. Tell me; you’ve really made good this last year, haven’t you, Garry?”
Hamil nodded. “I had to.”
He laid his hand on the older man’s arm. “Why do you know,” he said, “when they gave me that first commission for the little park at Hampton Hills — thanks to you — I hadn’t five dollars in all the world.”
Wayward stood looking at him through his spectacles, absently pulling at his moustache, which was already partly gray.
“Garry,” he said in his deep, pleasant voice that was however never very clear, “Portlaw tells me that you are to do his place. Then there are the new parks in Richmond Borough, and this enormous commission down here among the snakes and jungles. Well — God bless you. You’re twenty-five and busy. I’m forty-five and” — he looked drearily into the younger man’s eyes— “burnt out,” he said with his mirthless laugh— “and still drenching the embers with the same stuff that set ’em ablaze.... Good-bye, Garry. Your boat’s alongside. My compliments to your aunt.”
At the gangway the younger man bade adieu to Malcourt and Portlaw, laughing as the latter indignantly requested to know why Hamil wasted his time attending to business.
Malcourt drew him aside:
“So you’re going to rig up a big park and snake preserve for Neville Cardross?”
“I’m going to try, Louis. You know the family, I believe, don’t you?”
Malcourt gazed placidly at him. “Very well indeed,” he replied deliberately. “They’re a, good, domestic, mother-pin-a-rose-on-me sort of family.... I’m a sort of distant cousin — run of the house and privilege of kissing the girls — not now, but once. I’m going to stay there when we get back from Miami.”
“You didn’t tell me that?” observed Hamil, surprised.
“No,” said Malcourt carelessly, “I didn’t know it myself. Just made up my mind to do it. Saves hotel expenses. Well — your cockle-shell is waiting. Give my regards to the family — particularly to Shiela.” He looked curiously at Hamil; “particularly to Shiela,” he repeated; but Hamil missed the expression of his eyes in the dusk.
“Are you really going to throw us over like this?” demanded Portlaw as the young men turned back together across the deck.
“Got to do it,” said Hamil cheerfully, offering his hand in adieu.
“Don’t plead necessity,” insisted Portlaw. “You’ve just landed old man Cardross, and you’ve got the Richmond parks, and you’re going to sting me for more than I’m worth. Why on earth do you cut and run this way?”
“No man in his proper senses really knows why he does anything. Seriously, Portlaw, my party is ended—”
“Destiny gave Ulysses a proud party that lasted ten years; wasn’t it ten, Malcourt?” demanded Portlaw. “Stay with us, son; you’ve nine years and eleven months of being a naughty boy coming to you — including a few Circes and grand slams—”
“He’s met his Circe,” cut in Malcourt, leaning languidly over the rail; “she’s wearing a scarlet handkerchief this season—”
Portlaw, laughing fatly, nodded. “Louis discovered your Circe through the glasses climbing into your boat—”
“What a busy little beast you are, Malcourt,” observed Hamil, annoyed, glancing down at the small boat alongside.
“‘Beast’ is good! You mean the mere sight of her transformed Louis into the classic shote,” added Portlaw, laughing louder as Hamil, still smiling through his annoyance, went over the side. And a moment later the gig shot away into the star-set darkness.
From the bridge Wayward wearily watched it through his night glasses; Malcourt, slim and graceful, sat on the rail and looked out into the Southern dusk, an unlighted cigarette between his lips.
“That kills our four at Bridge,” grumbled Portlaw, leaning heavily beside him. “We’ll have to play Klondike and Preference now, or call in the ship’s cat.... Hello, is that you, Jim?” as Wayward came aft, limping a trifle as he did at certain times.
“That girl had a good figure — through the glasses. I couldn’t make out her face; it was probably the limit; combinations are rare,” mused Malcourt. “And then — the fog came! It was like one of those low-down classical tricks of Jupiter when caught philandering.”
Portlaw laughed till his bulky body shook. “The Olympian fog was wasted,” he said; “John Garret Hamil 3d still preserves his nursery illusions.”
“He’s lucky,” remarked Wayward, staring into the gloom.
“But not fortunate,” added Malcourt; “there’s a difference between luck and fortune. Read the French classics.”
Wayward growled; Malcourt, who always took a malicious amusement in stirring him up, grinned at him sideways.
“No man is fit for decent society until he’s lost all his illusions,” he said, “particularly concerning women.”
“Some of us have been fools enough to lose our illusions,” retorted Wayward sharply, “but you never had any, Malcourt; and that’s no compliment from me to you.”
Portlaw chuckled. “We never lose illusions; we mislay ‘em,” he suggested; “and then we are pretty careful to mislay only that particular illusion which inconveniences us.” He jerked his heavy head in Malcourt’s direction. “Nobody clings more frantically to illusions than your unbaked cynic; Louis, you’re not nearly such a devil of a fellow as you imagine you are.”
Malcourt smiled easily and looked out over the waves.
“Cynicism is old-fashioned,” he said; “dogma is up to date. Credo! I believe in a personal devil, virtuous maidens in bowers, and rosewood furniture. As for illusions I cherish as many as you do!” He turned with subtle impudence to Wayward. “And the world is littered with the shattered fragments.”
“It’s littered with pups, too,” observed Wayward, turning on his heel. And he walked away, limping, his white mess jacket a pale spot in the gloom.
Malcourt looked after him; an edge of teeth glimmering beneath his full upper lip.
