Complete weird tales of.., p.434
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 434
At first she made no reply, and her gaze remained remote; then, turning:
“Was he your friend?” she asked wistfully.
“I think he meant to be.”
“You quarrelled — down there — in the South” — she made a vague gesture toward the gray horizon. “Do you remember that night, Mr. Hamil?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever become friends again?”
“No.... I think he meant to be.... The fault was probably mine. I misunderstood.”
She said: “I know he cared a great deal for you.”
The man was silent.
She turned directly toward him, pale, clear-eyed, and in the poise of her head a faint touch of pride.
“Please do not misunderstand his friendship for me, then. If you were his friend I would not need to say this. He was very kind to me, Mr. Hamil.”
“I do not doubt it,” said Hamil gravely.
“And you do not mistake, what I say?”
He looked her in the eyes, curious — and, in a moment, convinced.
“No,” he said gently.... And, offering his hand: “Men are very ignorant concerning one another. Women are wiser, I think.”
He took the slender black-gloved hand in his.
“Can I be of the least use to you?” he asked.
“You have been,” she sighed, “if what I said has taught you to know him a little better.”
* * *
A week later when the curtain fell on the second act of the new musical comedy, “The Inca,” critics preparing to leave questioned each other with considerable curiosity concerning this newcomer, Dorothy Wilming, who had sung so intelligently and made so much out of a subordinate part.
Nobody seemed to know very much about her; several nice-looking young girls and exceedingly respectable young men sent her flowers. Afterward they gathered at the stage entrance, evidently expecting to meet and congratulate her; but she had slipped away. And while they hunted high and low, and the last figurante had trotted off under the lamp-lights, Dolly lay in her own dark room, face among the pillows, sobbing her heart out for a dead man who had been kind to her for nothing.
* * *
And, at the same hour, across an ocean, another woman awoke to take up the ravelled threadings of her life again and, through another day, remember Louis Malcourt and all that he had left undone for kindness’ sake.
There were others, too, who were not likely to forget him, particularly those who had received, with some astonishment, a legacy apiece of one small Chinese gilded idol — images all of the Pa-hsien or of Kwan-Yin, who rescues souls from hell with the mystic lotus-prayer, “Om mane padme hum.”
But the true Catholicism, which perplexed the eighteen legatees lay in the paradox of the Mohammedan inscriptions across each lotus written in Malcourt’s hand:
“I direct my face unto Him who hath created.
“Who maketh His messengers with two and three and four pairs of wings.
“And thou shall see them going in procession.
“This is what ye are promised: ‘For the last hour will surely come; there is no doubt thereof; but the greater part of men believe it not.’
“Thus, facing the stars, I go out among them into darkness.
“Say not for me the Sobhat with the ninety-nine; for the hundredth pearl is the Iman — pearl beyond praise, pearl of the five-score names in one, more precious than mercy, more priceless than compassion — Iman! Iman! thy splendid name is Death!”
So lingered the living memory of Malcourt among men — a little while — longer among women — then faded as shadows die at dusk when the mala is told for the soul that waits the Rosary of a Thousand Beads.
* * *
In January the Ariani sailed with her owner aboard; but Hamil was not with him.
In February Constance Palliser wrote Hamil from Palm Beach:
“It is too beautiful here and you must come.
“As for Shiela, I do not even pretend to understand her. I see her every day; to-day I lunched with Mrs. Cardross, and Shiela was there, apparently perfectly well and entirely her former lovely self. Yet she has never yet spoken of you to me; and, I learn from Mrs. Cardross, never to anybody as far as she knows.
“She seems to be in splendid health; I have seen her swimming, galloping, playing tennis madly. The usual swarm of devoted youth and smitten middle-age is in attendance. She wears neither black nor colours; only white; nor does she go to any sort of functions. At times, to me, she resembles a scarcely grown girl just freed from school and playing hard every minute with every atom of heart and soul in her play.
“Gray has an apology for a polo field and a string of ponies, and Shiela plays with the men — a crazy, reckless, headlong game, in which every minute my heart is in my mouth for fear somebody will cannon into her, or some dreadful swing of a mallet will injure her for life.
“But everybody is so sweet to her — and it is delightful to see her with her own family — their pride and tenderness for her, and her devotion to them.
“Mrs. Cardross asked me to-day what I thought might be the effect on Shiela if you came. And, dear, I could not answer. Mr. Cardross joined us, divining the subject of our furtive confab in the patio, and he seemed to think that you ought to come.
“There is no reason to hesitate in saying that the family would be very glad to count you as one of them. Even a little snob like myself can see that there is, in this desire of theirs, no motive except affection for you and for Shiela; and, in a way, it’s rather humiliating to recognise that they don’t care a fig for the social advantage that must, automatically, accrue to the House of Cardross through such connections.
“I never thought that I should so earnestly hope for such an alliance for you; but I do, Garry. They are such simple folk with all their riches — simple as gentle folk — kind, sincere, utterly without self-consciousness, untainted by the sordid social ambitions which make so many of the wealthy abhorrent. There is no pretence about them, nothing of that uncertainty of self mingled with vanity which grows into arrogance or servility as the social weather-vane veers with the breeze of fashion. Rather flowery that, for an old-fashioned spinster.
“But, dear, there are other flowers than those of speech eloquent in the soft Southern air — flowers everywhere outside my open window where I sit writing you.
“I miss Virginia, but Shiela compensates when she can find time from her breathless pleasure chase to give me an hour or two at tea-time.
“And Cecile, too, is very charming, and I know she likes me. Such a coquette! She has her own court among the younger set; and from her very severe treatment of young Gatewood on all occasions I fancy she may be kinder to him one day.
“Mrs. Carrick is not here this winter, her new baby keeping her in town; and Acton, of course, is only too happy to remain with her.
“As for Gray, he is a nice boy — a little slow, a trifle shy and retiring and over-studious; but his devotion to Shiela makes me love him. And he, too, ventured to ask me whether you were not coming down this winter to hunt along the Everglades with him and Little Tiger.
“So, dear, I think perhaps you had better come. It really frightens me to give you this advice. I could not endure it if anything went wrong — if your coming proved premature.
“For it is true, Garry, that I love our little Shiela with all my aged, priggish, and prejudiced heart, and I should simply expire if your happiness, which is bound up in her, were threatened by any meddling of mine.
“Jim Wayward and I discuss the matter every day; I don’t know what he thinks — he’s so obstinate some days — and sometimes he is irritable when Gussie Vetchen and Cuyp talk too inanely — bless their hearts! I really don’t know what I shall do with James Wayward. What would you suggest?”
On the heels of this letter went another.
“Garry, dear, read this and then make up your mind whether to come here or not.
“This morning I was sitting on the Cardrosses’ terrace knitting a red four-in-hand for Mr. Wayward — he is too snuffy in his browns and grays! — and Mrs. Cardross was knitting one for Neville, and Cecile was knitting one for Heaven knows who, and Shiela, swinging her polo-mallet, sat waiting for her pony — the cunning little thing in her boots and breeches! — I mean the girl, not the pony, dear — Oh, my, I’m getting involved and you’re hurrying through this scrawl perfectly furious, trying to find out what I’m talking about.
“Well, then; I forgot for a moment that Shiela was there within ear-shot; and eyes on my knitting, I began talking about you to Mrs. Cardross; and I had been gossiping away quite innocently for almost a minute when I chanced to look up and notice the peculiar expressions of Mrs. Cardross and Cecile. They weren’t looking at me; they were watching Shiela, who had slipped down from the parapet where she had been perched and now stood beside my chair listening.
“I hesitated, faltered, but did not make the mistake of stopping or changing the subject, but went on gaily telling about your work on the new Long Island park system.
“And as long as I talked she remained motionless beside me. They brought around her pony — a new one — but she did not stir.
“Her mother and sister continued their knitting, asking questions about you now and then, apparently taking no notice of her. My monologue in praise of you became a triangular discussion; and all the while the pony was cutting up the marl drive with impatience, and Shiela never stirred.
“Then Cecile said to me quite naturally: ‘I wish Garry were here.’ And, looking up at Shiela, she added: ‘Don’t you?’
“For a second or two there was absolute silence; and then Shiela said to me:
“‘Does he know I have been ill?’
“‘Of course,’ I said, ‘and he knows that you are now perfectly well.’
“She turned slowly to her mother: ‘Am I?’ she asked.
“‘What, dear?’
“‘Perfectly well.’
“‘Certainly,’ replied her mother, laughing; ‘well enough to break your neck on that horrid, jigging, little pony. If Garry wants to see you alive he’d better come pretty soon—’
“‘Come here?’
“We all looked up at her. Oh, Garry! For a moment something came into her eyes that I never want to see there again — and, please God, never shall! — a momentary light like a pale afterglow of terror.
“It went as it came; and the colour returned to her face.
“‘Is he coming here?’ she asked calmly.
“‘Yes,’ I made bold to say.
“‘When?’
“‘In a few days, I hope.’
“She said nothing more about you, nor did I. A moment later she sent away her pony and went indoors.
“After luncheon I found her lying in the hammock in the patio, eyes closed as though asleep. She lay there all the afternoon — an unusual thing for her.
“Toward sundown, as I was entering my chair to go back to the hotel, she came out and stood beside the chair looking at me as though she was trying to say something. I don’t know what it might have been, for she never said it, but she bent down and laid her cheek against mine for a moment, and drew my head around, searching my eyes.
“I don’t know whether I was right or wrong, but I said: ‘There is no one to compare with you, Shiela, in your new incarnation of health and youth. I never before knew you; I don’t think you ever before knew yourself.’
“‘Not entirely,’ she said.
“‘Do you now?’
“‘I think so.... May I ask you something?’
“I nodded, smiling.
“‘Then — there is only one thing I care for now — to’ — she looked up toward the house— ‘to make them contented — to make up to them what I can for — for all that I failed in. Do you understand?’
“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘you sweet thing.’ And gave her a little hug, adding: ‘And that’s why I’m going to write a letter to-night — at your mother’s desire — and my own.’
“She said nothing more; my chair rolled away; and here’s the letter that I told her I meant to write.
“‘Now, dear, come if you think best. I don’t know of any reason why you should not come; if you know of any you must act on your own responsibility.’
“Last winter, believing that she cared for you, I did an extraordinary thing — in fact I intimated to her that it was agreeable for me to believe you cared for each other. And she told me very sweetly that I was in error.
“So I’m not going to place Constance Palliser in such a position again. If there’s any chance of her caring for you you ought to know it and act accordingly. Personally I think there is and that you should take that chance and take it now. But for goodness’ sake don’t act on my advice. I’m a perfect fool to meddle this way; besides I’m having troubles of my own which you know nothing about.
“O Garry, dear, if you’ll come down I may perhaps have something very, very foolish to tell you.
“Truly there is no idiot like an old one, but — I’m close, I think, to being happier than I ever was in all my life. God help us both, my dear, dear boy.
“Your faithful
“CONSTANCE.”
* * *
* * *
CHAPTER XXIX
CALYPSO’S GIFT
TWO DAYS LATER as his pretty aunt stood in her chamber shaking out the chestnut masses of her hair before her mirror, an impatient rapping at the living-room door sent her maid flying.
“That’s Garry,” said Constance calmly, belting in her chamber-robe of silk and twisting up her hair into one heavy lustrous knot.
A moment later they had exchanged salutes and, holding both his hands in hers, she stood looking at him, golden brown eyes very tender, cheeks becomingly pink.
“That miserable train is early; it happens once in a century. I meant to meet you, dear.”
“Wayward met me at the station,” he said.
There was a silence; under his curious and significant gaze she flushed, then laughed.
“Wayward said that you had something to tell me,” he added.... “Constance, is it—”
“Yes.”
“You darling!” he whispered, taking her into his arms. And she laid her face on his shoulder, crying a little, laughing a little.
“After all these years, Garry — all these years! It is a long time to — to care for a man — a long, long time.... But there never was any other — not even through that dreadful period—”
“I know.”
“Yes, you know.... I have cared for him since I was a little girl.”
They stood a while talking tenderly, intimately of her new happiness and of the new man, Wayward.
Both knew that he must bear his scars for ever, that youth had died in him. But they were very confident and happy standing there together in the sunlight which poured into the room, transfiguring her. And she truly seemed as lovely, radiant, and youthful as her own young heart, unsullied, innocent, now, as when it yielded its first love so long ago amid the rosewood and brocades of the old-time parlour where the sun fell across the faded roses of the carpet.
“I knew it was so from the way he shook hands,” said Hamil, smiling. “How well he looks, Constance! And as for you — you are a real beauty!”
“You don’t think so! But say it, Garry.... And now I think I had better retire and complete this unceremonious toilet.... And you may stroll over to pay your respects to Mrs. Cardross in the meanwhile if you choose.”
He looked at her gravely. She nodded. “They all know you are due to-day.”
“Shiela?”
“Yes.... Be careful, Garry; she is very young after all.... I think — if I were you — I would not even seem conscious that she had been ill — that anything had happened to interrupt your friendship. She is very sensitive, very deeply sensible of the dreadful mistake she made, and, somehow, I think she is a little afraid of you, as though you might possibly think less of her — Heaven knows what ideas the young conjure to worry themselves and those they care for!”
She laughed, kissed him and bowed him out; and he went away to bathe and change into cool clothing of white serge.
Later as he passed through the gardens, a white oleander blossom fell, and he picked it up and drew it through his coat.
Shadows of palm and palmetto stretched westward across the white shell road, striping his path; early sunlight crinkled the lagoon; the little wild ducks steered fearlessly inshore, peering up at him with bright golden-irised eyes; mullet jumped heavily, tumbling back into the water with splashes that echoed through the morning stillness.
The stained bronze cannon still poked their ancient and flaring muzzles out over the lake; farther along crimson hibiscus blossoms blazed from every hedge; and above him the stately plumes of royal palms hung motionless, tufting the trunks, which rose with the shaft-like dignity of slender Egyptian pillars into a cloudless sky.
On he went, along endless hedges of azalea and oleander, past thickets of Spanish-bayonet, under leaning cocoanut-palms; and at last the huge banyan-tree rose sprawling across the sky-line, and he saw the white facades and red-tiled roofs beyond.
All around him now, as the air grew sweet with the breath of orange blossoms, a subtler scent, delicately persistent, came to him on the sea-wind; and he remembered it! — the lilac perfume of China-berry in bloom; Calypso’s own immortal fragrance. And, in the brilliant sunshine, there under green trees with the dome of blue above, unbidden, the shadows of the past rose up; and once more lantern-lit faces crowded through the aromatic dark; once more the fountains’ haze drifted across dim lawns; once more he caught the faint, uncertain rustle of her gown close to him as she passed like a fresh breath through the dusk.
Overhead a little breeze became entangled in the palmetto fronds, setting them softly clashing together as though a million unseen elfin hands were welcoming his return; the big black-and-gold butterflies, beating up against the sudden air current, flapped back to their honeyed haven in the orange grove; bold, yellow-eyed grackle stared at him from the grass; a bird like a winged streak of flame flashed through the jungle and was gone.
