Complete weird tales of.., p.473
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 473
There was nothing to look at in the studio; all the canvases lay roped in piles ready for the crates; but Sylvia’s gaze remained on them as though even the rough backs of the stretchers fascinated her.
“My father was an artist. After he married he did not paint. My mother was very wealthy, you know.... It seems a pity.”
“What? Wealth?” he asked, smiling.
“N-no. I mean it seems a little tragic to me that father never continued to paint.”
Miller’s granddaughter came in with the tea. She was a very little girl with yellow hair and big violet eyes. After she had deposited everything, she went over to Duane and held up her mouth to be kissed. He laughed and saluted her. It was a reward for service which she had suggested when he first came to Roya-Neh; and she trotted away in great content.
Sylvia’s indifferent gaze followed her; then she sipped the tea Duane offered.
“Do you remember your father?” he asked pleasantly.
“Why, yes. I was fourteen when he died. I remember mother, too. I was seven.”
Duane said, not looking at her: “It’s about the toughest thing that can happen to a girl. It’s tough enough on a boy.”
“It was very hard,” she said simply.
“Haven’t you any relatives except your brother Stuyvesant—” he began, and checked himself, remembering that a youthful aunt of hers had eloped under scandalous circumstances, and at least one uncle was too notorious even for the stomachs of the society that whelped him.
She let it pass in silence, as though she had not heard. Later she declined more tea and sat deep in her chair, fingers linked under her chin, lids lowered.
After a while, as she did not move or speak, he ventured to busy himself with collecting his brushes, odds and ends of studio equipment. He scraped several palettes, scrubbed up some palette-knives, screwed the tops on a dozen tubes of colour, and fussed and messed about until there seemed to be nothing further to do. So he came back and seated himself, and, looking up, saw the big tears stealing from under her closed lids.
He endured it as long as he could. Nothing was said. He leaned nearer and laid his hand over hers; and at the contact she slipped from the chair, slid to her knees, and laid her head on the couch beside him, both hands covering her face, which had turned dead white.
Minute after minute passed with no sound, no movement except as he passed his hand over her forehead and hair. He knew what to do when those who were adrift floated into Port Mallett. And sometimes he did more than was strictly required, but never less. Toward sundown she began to feel blindly for her handkerchief. He happened to possess a fresh one and put it into her groping hand.
When she was ready to rise she did so, keeping her back toward him and standing for a while busy with her swollen eyes and disordered hair.
“Before we go we must have tea together again,” he said with perfectly matter-of-fact cordiality.
“Y-yes.” The voice was very, very small.
“And in town, too, Sylvia. I had no idea what a companionable girl you are — how much we have in common. You know silence is the great test of mutual confidence and understanding. You’ll let me see you in town, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
“That will be jolly. I suppose now that you and I ought to be thinking about dressing for dinner.”
She assented, moved away a step or two, halted, and, still with her back turned, held out her hand behind her. He took it, bent and kissed it.
“See you at dinner,” he said cheerfully.
And she went out very quietly, his handkerchief pressed against her eyes.
He came back into the studio, swung nervously toward the couch, turned and began to pace the floor.
“Oh, Lord,” he said; “the rottenness of it all — the utter rottenness.”
Dinner that night was not a very gay function; after coffee had been served, the small group seemed to disintegrate as though by some prearrangement, Rosalie and Grandcourt finding a place for themselves in the extreme western shadow of the terrace parapet, Kathleen returning to the living-room, where she had left her embroidery.
Scott, talking to Sylvia and Duane, continued to cast restless glances toward the living-room until he could find the proper moment to get away. And in a few minutes Duane saw him seated, one leg crossed over the other, a huge volume on “Scientific Conservation of Natural Resources” open on his knees, seated as close to Kathleen as he could conveniently edge, perfectly contented, apparently, to be in her vicinity.
From moment to moment, as her pretty hands performed miracles in tinted silks, she lifted her eyes and silently inspected the boy who sat absorbed in his book. Perhaps old memories of a child seated in the schoolroom made tender the curve of her lips as she turned again to her embroidery; perhaps a sentiment more recent made grave the beautiful lowered eyes.
Sylvia, seated at the piano, idly improvising, had unconsciously drifted into the “Menuet d’Exaudet,” and Duane’s heart began to quicken as he stood listening and looking out through the open windows at the stars.
How long he stood there he did not know; but when, at length, missing the sound of the piano, he looked around, Sylvia was already on the stairs, looking back at him as she moved upward.
“Good-night,” she called softly; “I am very tired,” and paused as he came forward and mounted to the step below where she waited.
“Good-night, Miss Quest,” he said, with that nice informality that women always found so engaging. “If you have nothing better on hand in the morning, let’s go for a climb. I’ve discovered a wild-boar’s nest under the Golden Dome, and if you’d like to get a glimpse of the little, furry, striped piglings, I think we can manage it.”
She thanked him with her eyes, held out her thin, graceful hand of a schoolgirl, then turned slowly and continued her ascent.
As he descended, Kathleen, looking up from her embroidery, made him a sign, and he stood still.
“Where are you going?” asked Scott, as she rose and passed him.
“I’m coming back in a moment.”
Scott restlessly resumed his book, raising his head from time to time as though listening for her return, fidgeting about, now examining the embroidery she had left on the lamp-lit table, now listlessly running over the pages that had claimed his close attention while she had been near him.
Across the hall, in the library, Duane stood absently twisting an unlighted cigar, and Kathleen, her hand on his shoulder, eyes lifted in sweet distress, was searching for words that seemed to evade her.
He cut the knot without any emotion:
“I know what you are trying to say, Kathleen. It is true that there has been a wretched misunderstanding, but if I know Geraldine at all I know that a mere misunderstanding will not do any permanent harm. It is something else that — worries me.”
“Oh, Duane, I know! I know! She cannot marry you — in honour — until that — that terrible danger is eliminated. She will not, either. But — don’t give her up! Be with her — with us in this crisis — during it! See us through it, Duane; she is well worth what she costs us both — and costs herself.”
“She must marry me now,” he said. “I want to fight this thing with all there is in me and in her, and in my love for her and hers for me. I can’t fight it in this blind, aloof way — this thing that is my rival — that stands with its claw embedded in her body warning me back! The horror of it is in the blind, intangible, abstract force that is against me. I can’t fight it aloof from her; I can’t take her away from it unless I have her in my arms to guard, to inspire, to comfort, to watch. Can’t you see, Kathleen, that I must have her every second of the time?”
“She will not let you run the risk,” murmured Kathleen. “Duane, she had a dreadful night — she broke down so utterly that it scared me. She is horribly frightened; her nervous demoralisation is complete. For the first time, I think, she is really terrified. She says it is hopeless, that her will and nerve are undermined, her courage contaminated.... Hour after hour I sat with her; she made me tell her about her grandfather — about what I knew of the — the taint in her family.”
“Those things are merely predispositions,” he said. “Self-command makes them harmless.”
“I told her that. She says that they are living sparks that will smoulder while life endures.”
“Suppose they are,” he said; “they can never flame unless nursed.... Kathleen, I want to see her — —”
“She will not.”
“Has she spoken at all of me?”
“Yes.”
“Bitterly?”
“Y-yes. I don’t know what you did. She is very morbid just now, anyway; very desperate. But I know that, unconsciously, she counts on an adjustment of any minor personal difficulty with you.... She loves you dearly, Duane.”
He passed an unsteady hand across his eyes.
“She must marry me. I can’t stand aloof from this battle any longer.”
“Duane, she will not. I — she said some things — she is morbid, I tell you — and curiously innocent — in her thoughts — concerning herself and you. She says she can never marry.”
“Exactly what did she say to you?”
Kathleen hesitated; the intimacy of the subject left her undecided; then very seriously her pure, clear gaze met his:
“She will not marry, for your own sake, and for the sake of any — children. She has evidently thought it all out.... I must tell you how it is. There is no use in asking her; she will never consent, Duane, as long as she is afraid of herself. And how to quiet that fear by exterminating the reason for it I don’t know—” Her voice broke pitifully. “Only stand by us, Duane. Don’t go away just now. You were packing to go; but please don’t leave me just yet. Could you arrange to remain for a while?”
“Yes, I’ll arrange it.... I’m a little troubled about my father—” He checked himself. “I could run down to town for a day or two and return — —”
“Is Colonel Mallett ill?” she asked.
“N-no.... These are rather strenuous times — or threaten to be. Of course the Half-Moon is as solid as a rock. But even the very, very great are beginning to fuss.... And my father is not young, Kathleen. So I thought I’d like to run down and take him out to dinner once or twice — to a roof-garden or something, you know. It’s rather pathetic that men of his age, grown gray in service, should feel obliged to remain in the stifling city this summer.”
“Of course you must go,” she said; “you couldn’t even hesitate. Is your mother worried?”
“I don’t suppose she has the slightest notion that there is anything to worry over. And there isn’t, I think. She and Naïda will be in the Berkshires; I’ll go up and stay with them later — when Geraldine is all right again,” he added cheerfully.
Scott, fidgeting like a neglected pup, came wandering into the hall, book in hand.
“For the love of Mike,” he said impatiently, “what have you two got to talk about all night?”
“My son,” observed Duane, “there are a few subjects for conversation which do not include the centipede and the polka-dotted dickey-bird. These subjects Kathleen and I furtively indulge in when we can arrange to elude you.”
Scott covered a yawn and glanced at Kathleen.
“Is Geraldine all right?” he asked with all the healthy indifference of a young man who had never been ill, and was, therefore, incapable of understanding illness in others.
“Certainly, she’s all right,” said Duane. And to Kathleen: “I believe I’ll venture to knock at her door — —”
“Oh, no, Duane. She isn’t ready to see anybody — —”
“Well, I’ll try — —”
“Please, don’t!”
But he had her at a disadvantage, and he only laughed and mounted the stairs, saying:
“I’ll just exchange a word with her or with her maid, anyway.”
When he turned into the corridor Geraldine’s maid, seated in the window-seat sewing, rose and came forward to take his message. In a few moments she returned, saying:
“Miss Seagrave asks to be excused, as she is ready to retire.”
“Ask Miss Seagrave if I can say good-night to her through the door.”
The maid disappeared and returned in a moment.
“Miss Seagrave wishes you good-night, sir.”
So he thanked the maid pleasantly and walked to his own room, now once more prepared for him after the departure of those who had temporarily required it.
Starlight made the leaded windows brilliant; he opened them wide and leaned out on the sill, arms folded. The pale astral light illuminated a fairy world of meadow and garden and spectral trees, and two figures moving like ghosts down by the fountain among the roses — Rosalie and Grandcourt pacing the gravel paths shoulder to shoulder under the stars.
Below him, on the terrace, he saw Kathleen and Scott — the latter carrying a butterfly net — examining the borders of white pinks with a lantern. In and out of the yellow rays swam multitudes of night moths, glittering like flakes of tinsel as the lantern light flashed on their wings; and Scott was evidently doing satisfactory execution, for every moment or two Kathleen uncorked the cyanide jar and he dumped into it from the folds of the net a fluttering victim.
“That last one is a Pandorus Sphinx!” he said in great excitement to Kathleen, who had lifted the big glass jar into the lantern light and was trying to get a glimpse of the exquisite moth, whose wings of olive green, rose, and bronze velvet were already beating a hazy death tattoo in the lethal fumes.
“A Pandorus! Scott, you’ve wanted one so much!” she exclaimed, enchanted.
“You bet I have. Pholus pandorus is pretty rare around here. And I say, Kathleen, that wasn’t a bad net-stroke, was it? You see I had only a second, and I took a desperate chance.”
She praised his skill warmly; then, as he stood admiring his prize in the jar which she held up, she suddenly caught him by the arm and pointed:
“Oh, quick! There is a hawk-moth over the pinks which resembles nothing we have seen yet!”
Scott very cautiously laid his net level, stole forward, shining the lantern light full on the darting, hazy-winged creature, which was now poised, hovering over a white blossom and probing the honeyed depths with a long, slim proboscis.
“I thought it might be only a Lineata, but it isn’t,” he said excitedly. “Did you ever see such a timid moth? The slightest step scares the creature.”
“Can’t you try a quick net-stroke sideways?”
Her voice was as anxious and unsteady as his own.
“I’m afraid I’ll miss. Lord but it’s a lightning flier! Where is it now?”
“Behind you. Do be careful! Turn very slowly.”
He pivoted; the slim moth darted past, circled, and hung before a blossom, wings vibrating so fast that the creature was merely a gray blur in the lantern light. The next instant Gray’s net swung; a furious fluttering came from the green silk folds; Kathleen whipped off the cover of the jar, and Duane deftly imprisoned the moth.
“Upon my word,” he said shakily, “I believe I’ve got a Tersa Sphinx! — a sub-tropical fellow whose presence here is mere accident!”
“Oh, if you have!” she breathed softly. She didn’t know what a Tersa Sphinx might be, but if its capture gave him pleasure, that was all she cared for in the world.
“It is a Tersa!” he almost shouted. “By George! it’s a wonder.”
Radiant, she bent eagerly above the jar where the strange, slender, gray-and-brown hawk-moth lay dying. Its recoiling proboscis and its slim, fawn-coloured legs quivered. The eyes glowed like tiny jewels.
“If we could only keep these little things alive,” she sighed; then, fearful of taking the least iota from his pleasure, added: “but of course we can’t, and for scientific purposes it’s all right to let the lovely little creatures sink into their death-sleep.”
A slight haze had appeared over the lake; a sudden cool streak grew in the air, which very quickly cleared the flower-beds of moths; and the pretty sub-tropical sphinx was the last specimen of the evening.
In the library Scott pulled out a card-table and Kathleen brought forceps, strips of oiled paper, pins, setting-blocks, needles, and oblong glass weights; and together, seated opposite each other, they removed the delicate-winged contents of the collecting jar.
Kathleen’s dainty fingers were very swift and deft with the forceps. Scott watched her. She picked up the green-and-rose Pandorus, laid it on its back on a setting-block, affixed and pinned the oiled-paper strips, drew out the four wings with the setting-needle until they were symmetrical and the inner margin of the anterior pair was at right angles with the body.
Then she arranged the legs, uncoiled and set the proboscis, and weighted the wings with heavy glass strips.
They worked rapidly, happily there together, exchanging views and opinions; and after a while the brilliant spoils of the evening were all stretched and ready to dry, ultimately to be placed in plaster-of-Paris mounts and hermetically sealed under glass covers.
Kathleen went away to cleanse her hands of any taint of cyanide; Scott, returning from his own ablutions, met her in the hall, and so miraculously youthful, so fresh and sweet and dainty did she appear that, in some inexplicable manner, his awkward, self-conscious fear of touching her suddenly vanished, and the next instant she was in his arms and he had kissed her.
“Scott!” she faltered, pushing him from her, too limp and dazed to use the strength she possessed.
Surprised at what he had done, amazed that he was not afraid of her, he held her tightly, thrilled dumb at the exquisite trembling contact.
“Oh, what are you doing,” she stammered, in dire consternation; “what have you done? We — you cannot — you must let me go, Scott — —”
“You’re only a girl, after all — you darling!” he said, inspecting her in an ecstacy of curiosity. “I wonder why I’ve been afraid of you for so long? — just because I love you!”
“You don’t — you can’t care for me that way — —”
