Complete weird tales of.., p.463
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 463
“Who are they?” she inquired.
“The Pink ‘uns, Naïda, and Jack Dysart. There’s ten up on every set,” he added, “and I’ve side obligations with Rosalie and Duane. Take you on if you like; odds are on the Pink ‘uns. Or I’ll get a lump of sugar and we can play ‘Fly Loo.’”
“No, thanks.”
A few moments later she said:
“Do you know, somehow, recently, the forest world — all this pretty place of lakes and trees—” waving her arm toward the horizon— “seems to be tarnished with the hard living and empty thinking of the people I have brought into it.... I include myself. The region is redolent of money and the things it buys. I had a better time before I had any or heard about it.”
“Why, you’ve always had it — —”
“But I didn’t know it. I’d like to give mine away and do something for a living.”
“Oh, every girl has that notion once in a lifetime.”
“Have they?” she asked.
“Sure. It’s hysteria. I had it myself once. But I found I could keep busy enough doing nothing without presenting my income to the Senegambians and spending life in a Wall Street office. Of course if I had a pretty fancy for the artistic and useful — as Duane Mallett has — I suppose I’d get busy and paint things and sell ’em by the perspiration of my brow — —”
She said disdainfully: “If you were never any busier than Duane, you wouldn’t be very busy.”
“I don’t know. Duane seems to keep at it, even here, doesn’t he?”
She looked up in surprise: “Duane hasn’t done any work since he’s been here, has he?”
“Didn’t you know? What do you suppose he’s about every morning?”
“He’s about — Rosalie,” she said coolly. “I’ve never seen any colour box or easel in their outfit.”
“Oh, he keeps his traps at Hurryon Lodge. He’s made a lot of sketches. I saw several at the Lodge. And he’s doing a big canvas of Rosalie down there, too.”
“At Hurryon Lodge?”
“Yes. Miller lets them have the garret for a studio.”
“I didn’t know that,” she said slowly.
“Didn’t you? People are rather catty about it.”
“Catty?”
Sheer surprise silenced her for a while, then hurt curiosity drove her to questions; but little Bunbury didn’t know much more about the matter, merely shrugging his shoulders and saying: “It’s casual but it’s all right.”
Later the tennis players, sunburned and perspiring, came swinging up from the courts on their way to the showers. Bunbury began to settle his obligations; Naïda and the Pink ‘uns went indoors; Jack Dysart, handsome, dishevelled, sat down beside Geraldine, fastening his sleeves.
“I lost twice twenty,” he observed. “Bunny is in fifty, I believe. Duane and Rosalie lose.”
“Is that all you care about the game?” she asked with a note of contempt in her voice.
“Oh, it’s good for one’s health,” he said.
“So is confession, but there’s no sport in it. Tell me, Mr. Dysart, don’t you play any game for it’s own sake?”
“Two, mademoiselle,” he said politely.
“What two?”
“Chess is one.”
“What is the other?”
“Love,” he replied, smiling at her so blandly that she laughed. Then she thought of Rosalie, and it was on the tip of her tongue to say something impudent. But “Do you do that game very well?” was all she said.
“Would you care to judge how well I do it?”
“As umpire? Yes, if you like.”
He said: “We will umpire our own game, Miss Seagrave.”
“Oh, we couldn’t do that, could we? We couldn’t play and umpire, too.” Suddenly the thought of Duane and Rosalie turned her bitter and she said:
“We’ll have two perfectly disinterested umpires. I choose your wife for one. Whom do you choose?”
Over his handsome face the slightest muscular change passed, but far from wincing he nodded coolly.
“One umpire is enough,” he said. “When our game is well on you may ask Rosalie to judge how well I’ve done it — if you care to.”
The bright smile she wore changed. Her face was now only a lovely dark-eyed mask, behind which her thoughts had suddenly begun racing — wild little thoughts, all tumult and confusion, all trembling, too, with some scarcely understood hurt lashing them to recklessness.
“We’ll have two umpires,” she insisted, scarcely knowing what she said. “I’ll choose Duane for the second. He and Rosalie ought to be able to agree on the result of our game.”
Dysart turned his head away leisurely, then looked around again unsmiling.
“Two umpires? Soit! But that means you consent to play.”
“Play?”
“Certainly.”
“With you?”
“With me.”
“I’ll consider it.... Do you know we have been talking utter nonsense?”
“That’s part of the game.”
“Oh, then — do you assume that the — the game has already begun?”
“It usually opens that way, I believe.”
“And where does it end, Mr. Dysart?”
“That is for you to say,” he replied in a lower voice.
“Oh! And what are the rules?”
“The player who first falls really in love loses. There are no stakes. We play as sportsmen — for the game’s sake. Is it understood?”
She hesitated, smiling, a little excited, a little interested in the way he put things.
At that same moment, across the lawn, Rosalie and Duane strolled into view. She saw them, and with a nervous movement, almost involuntary, she turned her back on them.
Neither she nor Dysart spoke. She gazed very steadily at the horizon, as though there were sounds beyond the green world’s rim. A few seconds later a shadow fell over the terrace at her feet — two shadows intermingled. She saw them on the grass at her feet, then quietly lifted her head.
“We caught no trout,” said Rosalie, sitting down on the arm of the chair that Duane drew forward. “I fussed about in that canoe until Duane came along, and then we went in swimming.”
“Swimming?” repeated Geraldine, dumfounded.
Rosalie balanced herself serenely on her chair-arm.
“Oh, we often do that.”
“Swim — where?”
“Why across the Gray Water, child!”
“But — there are no bath houses — —”
Rosalie laughed outright.
“Quite Arcadian, isn’t it? Duane has the forest on one side of the Gray Water for a dressing-room, and I the forest on the other side. Then we swim out and shake hands in the middle. Our bathing dresses are drying on Miller’s lawn. Please do tell me somebody is scandalised. I’ve done my best to brighten up this house party.”
Dysart, really discountenanced, but not showing it, lighted a cigarette and asked pleasantly if the water was agreeable.
“It’s magnificent,” said Duane; “it was like diving into a lake of iced Apollinaris. Geraldine, why on earth don’t you build some bath houses on the Gray Waters?”
Perhaps she had not heard his question. She began to talk very animatedly to Rosalie about several matters of no consequence. Dysart rose, stretched his sunburned arms with over-elaborate ease, tossed away his cigarette, picked up his tennis bat, and said: “See you at luncheon. Are you coming, Rosalie?”
“In a moment, Jack.” She went on talking inconsequences to Geraldine; her husband waited, exchanging a remark or two with Duane in his easy, self-possessed fashion.
“Dear,” said Rosalie at last to Geraldine, “I must run away and dry my hair. How did we come out at tennis, Jack?”
“All to the bad,” he replied serenely, and nodding to Geraldine and Duane he entered the house, his young wife strolling beside him and twisting up her wet hair.
Duane seated himself and crossed his lank legs, ready for an amiable chat before he retired to dress for luncheon; but Geraldine did not even look toward him. She was lying deep in the chair, apparently relaxed and limp; but every nerve in her was at tension, every delicate muscle taut and rigid, and in her heart was anger unutterable, and close, very close to the lids which shadowed with their long fringe the brown eyes’ velvet, were tears.
“What have you been up to all the morning?” he asked. “Did you try the fishing?”
“Yes.”
“Anything doing?”
“No.”
“I thought they wouldn’t rise. It’s too clear and hot. That’s why I didn’t keep on with Kathleen and Scott. Two are enough on bright water. Don’t you think so?”
She said nothing.
“Besides,” he added, “I knew you had old Grandcourt running close at heel and that made four rods on Hurryon. So what was the use of my joining in?”
She made no reply.
“You didn’t mind, did you?” he asked carelessly.
“No.”
“Oh, all right,” he nodded, not feeling much relieved.
The strange blind anger still possessed her. She lay there immobile, expressionless, enduring it, not trying even to think why; yet her anger was rising against him, and it surged, receded helplessly, flushed her veins again till they tingled. But her lids remained closed; the lashes rested softly on the curve of her cheeks; not a tremor touched her face.
“I am wondering whether you are feeling all right,” he ventured uneasily, conscious of the tension between them.
With an effort she took command of herself.
“The sun was rather hot. It’s a headache; I walked back by the road.”
“With the faithful one?”
“No,” she said evenly, “Mr. Grandcourt remained to fish.”
“He went to worship and remained to fish,” said Duane, laughing. The girl lifted her face to look at him — a white little face so strange that the humour died out in his eyes.
“He’s a good deal of a man,” she said. “It’s one of my few pleasant memories of this year — Mr. Grandcourt’s niceness to me — and to all women.”
She set her elbow on the chair’s edge and rested her cheek in her hollowed hand. Her gaze had become remote once more.
“I didn’t know you took him so seriously,” he said in a low voice. “I’m sorry, Geraldine.”
All her composure had returned. She lifted her eyes insolently.
“Sorry for what?”
“For speaking as I did.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. I thought you might be sorry for yourself.”
“Myself?”
“And your neighbour’s wife,” she added.
“Well, what about myself and my neighbour’s wife?”
“I’m not familiar with such matters.” Her face did not change, but the burning anger suddenly welled up in her again. “I don’t know anything about such affairs, but if you think I ought to I might try to learn.” She laughed and leaned back into the depths of her chair. “You and I are such intimate friends it’s a shame I shouldn’t understand and sympathise with what most interests you.”
He remained silent, gazing down at his shadow on the grass, hands clasped loosely between his knees. She strove to study him calmly; her mind was chaos; only the desire to hurt him persisted, rendered sterile by the confused tumult of her thoughts.
Presently, looking up:
“Do you doubt that things are not right between — my neighbour’s wife — and me?” he inquired.
“The matter doesn’t interest me.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No.”
“Then I have misunderstood you. What is the matter that does interest you, Geraldine?”
She made no reply.
He said, carelessly good-humoured: “I like women. It’s curious that they know it instinctively, because when they’re bored or lonely they drift toward me.... Lonely women are always adrift, Geraldine. There seems to be some current that sets in toward me; it catches them and they drift in, linger, and drift on. I seem to be the first port they anchor in.... Then a day comes when they are gone — drifting on at hazard through the years — —”
“Wiser for their experience at Port Mallett?”
“Perhaps. But not sadder, I think.”
“A woman adrift has no regrets,” she said with contempt.
“Wrong. A woman who is in love has none.”
“That is what I mean. The hospitality of Port Mallett ought to leave them with no regrets.”
He laughed. “But they are not loved,” he said. “They know it. That’s why they drift on.”
She turned on him white and tremulous.
“Haven’t you even the excuse of caring for her?”
“Who?”
“A neighbour’s wife — who comes drifting into your hospitable haven!”
“I don’t pretend to love her, if that is what you mean,” he said pleasantly.
“Then you make her believe it — and that’s dastardly!”
“Oh, no. Women don’t love unless made love to. You’ve only read that in books.”
She said a little breathlessly: “You are right. I know men and women only through books. It’s time I learned for myself.”
* * *
CHAPTER VII. TOGETHER
THE END OF June and of the house party at Roya-Neh was now near at hand, and both were to close with a moonlight fête and dance in the forest, invitations having been sent to distant neighbours who had been entertaining similar gatherings at Iron Hill and Cloudy Mountain — the Grays, Beekmans, Ellises, and Grandcourts.
Silks and satins, shoe buckles and powdered hair usually mark the high tide of imaginative originality among this sort of people. So it was to be the inevitable Louis XVI fête — or as near to it as attenuated, artistic intelligence could manage, and they altered Duane’s very clever and correct sketches to suit themselves, careless of anachronism, and sent the dainty water-colour drawings to town in order that those who sweat and sew in the perfumed ateliers of Fifth Avenue might use them as models.
“The fun — if there’s any in dressing up — ought to lie in making your own costumes,” observed Duane. But nobody displayed any inclination to do so. And now, on hurry orders, the sewers in the hot Fifth Avenue ateliers sewed faster. Silken and satin costumes, paste jewelry and property small-swords were arriving by express; maids flew about the house at Roya-Neh, trying on, fussing with lace and ribbon, bodice and flowered pannier, altering, retrimming, adjusting. Their mistresses met in one another’s bedrooms for mysterious confabs over head-dress and coiffure, lace scarf, and petticoat.
As for the men, they surreptitiously tried on their embroidered coats and breeches, admired themselves in secrecy, and let it go at that, returning with embarrassed relief to cards, tennis, and the various forms of amiable idleness to which they were accustomed. Only Englishmen can masquerade seriously.
Later, however, the men were compelled to pay some semblance of attention to the general preparations, assemble their foot-gear, head-gear, stars, orders, sashes, swords, and try them on for Duane Mallett — to that young man’s unconcealed dissatisfaction.
“You certainly resemble a scratch opera chorus,” he observed after passing in review the sheepish line-up in his room. “Delancy, you’re the limit as a Black Mousquetier — and, by the way, there weren’t any in the reign of Louis XVI, so perhaps that evens up matters. Dysart is the only man who looks the real thing — or would if he’d remove that monocle. As for Bunny and the Pink ‘un, they ought to be in vaudeville singing la-la-la.”
“That’s really a compliment to our legs,” observed Reggie Wye to Bunbury Gray, flourishing his property sword and gracefully performing a pas seul à la Gênée.
Dysart, who had been sullen all day, regarded them morosely.
Scott Seagrave, in his conventional abbé’s costume of black and white, excessively bored, stood by the window trying to catch a glimpse of the lake to see whether any decent fish were breaking, while Scott walked around him critically, not much edified by his costume or the way he wore it.
“You’re a sad and self-conscious-looking bunch,” he concluded. “Scott, I suppose you’ll insist on wearing your mustache and eyeglasses.”
“You bet,” said Scott simply.
“All right. And kindly beat it. I want to try on my own plumage in peace.”
So the costumed ones trooped off to their own quarters with the half-ashamed smirk usually worn by the American male who has persuaded himself to frivolity. Delancy Grandcourt tramped away down the hall banging his big sword, jingling his spurs, and flapping his loose boots. The Pink ‘un and Bunbury Gray slunk off into obscurity, and Scott wandered back through the long hall until a black-and-red tiger moth attracted his attention, and he forgot his annoying appearance in frantic efforts to capture the brilliant moth.
Dysart, who had been left alone with Duane in the latter’s room, contemplated himself sullenly in the mirror while Duane, seated on the window sill, waited for him to go.
“You think I ought to eliminate my eye-glass?” asked Dysart, still inspecting himself.
“Yes, in deference to the conventional prejudice of the times. Nobody wore ’em at that period.”
“You seem to be a stickler for convention — of the Louis XVI sort more than for the XIX century variety,” remarked Dysart with a sneer.
Duane looked up from his bored contemplation of the rug.
“You think I’m unconventional?” he asked with a smile.
“I believe I suggested something of the sort to my wife the other day.”
“Ah,” said Duane blandly, “does she agree with you, Dysart?”
“No doubt she does, because your tendencies toward the unconventional have been the subject of unpleasant comment recently.”
“By some of your débutante conquests? You mustn’t believe all they tell you.”
“My own eyes and ears are competent witnesses. Do you understand me now?”
