Complete weird tales of.., p.510
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 510
“Honey-bud,” she said, “you must be ve’y polite to this young man.”
“I expect to be. Only I don’t quite understand why he came so unceremoniously — —”
“It would have been ruder to neglect us, little Puritan! I want to see Connie Berkley’s boy. I’m glad he came.”
Celia Craig, once Celia Marye Ormond Paige, stood watching her taller sister-in-law twisting up her hair and winding the thick braid around the crown of her head a la coronal. Little wonder that these two were so often mistaken for own sisters — the matron not quite as tall as the young widow, but as slender, and fair, and cast in the same girlish mould.
Both inherited from their Ormond ancestry slightly arched and dainty noses and brows, delicate hands and feet, and the same splendid dull-gold hair — features apparently characteristic of the line, all the women of which had been toasts of a hundred years ago, before Harry Lee hunted men and the Shadow of the Swamp Fox flitted through the cypress to a great king’s undoing.
Ailsa laid a pink bow against her hair and glanced at her sister-in-law for approval.
“I declare. Honey-bud, you are all rose colour to-day,” said Celia Craig, smiling; and, on impulse, unpinned the pink-and-white cameo from her own throat and fastened it to Ailsa’s breast.
“I reckon I’ll slip on a gay gown myse’f,” she added mischievously. “I certainly am becoming ve’y tired of leaving the field to my sister-in-law, and my schoolgirl daughters.”
“Does anybody ever look at us after you come into a room?” asked Ailsa, laughing; and, turning impulsively, she pressed Celia’s pretty hands flat together and kissed them. “You darling,” she said. An unaccountable sense of expectancy — almost of exhilaration was taking possession of her. She looked into the mirror and stood content with what she saw reflected there.
“How much of a relation is he, Celia?” balancing the rosy bow with a little cluster of pink hyacinth on the other side.
Celia Craig, forefinger crooked across her lips, considered aloud.
“His mother was bo’n Constance Berkley; her mother was bo’n Betty Ormond; her mother was bo’n Felicity Paige; her mother — —”
“Oh please! I don’t care to know any more!” protested Ailsa, drawing her sister-in-law before the mirror; and, standing behind her, rested her soft, round chin on her shoulder, regarding the two reflected faces.
“That,” observed the pretty Southern matron, “is conside’d ve’y bad luck. When I was a young girl I once peeped into the glass over my ole mammy’s shoulder, and she said I’d sho’ly be punished befo’ the year was done.”
“And were you?”
“I don’t exactly remember,” said Mrs. Craig demurely, “but I think
I first met my husband the ve’y next day.”
They both laughed softly, looking at each other in the mirror.
So, in her gown of rosy muslin, bouffant and billowy, a pink flower in her hair, and Celia’s pink-and-white cameo at her whiter throat Ailsa Paige descended the carpeted stairs and came into the mellow dimness of the front parlour, where there was much rosewood, and a French carpet, and glinting prisms on the chandeliers, — and a young man, standing, dark against a bar of sunshine in which golden motes swam.
“How do you do,” she said, offering her narrow hand, and: “Mrs. Craig is dressing to receive you. . . . It is warm for April, I think. How amiable of you to come all the way over from New York. Mr. Craig and his son Stephen are at business, my cousins, Paige and Marye, are at school. Won’t you sit down?”
She had backed away a little distance from him, looking at him under brows bent slightly inward, and thinking that she had made no mistake in her memory of this man. Certainly his features were altogether too regular, his head and body too perfectly moulded into that dark and graceful symmetry which she had hitherto vaguely associated with things purely and mythologically Olympian.
Upright against the doorway, she suddenly recollected with a blush that she was staring like a schoolgirl, and sat down. And he drew up a chair before her and seated himself; and then under the billowy rose crinoline she set her pretty feet close together, folded her hands, and looked at him with a smiling composure which she no longer really felt.
“The weather,” she repeated, “is unusually warm. Do you think that Major Anderson will hold out at Sumter? Do you think the fleet is going to relieve him? Dear me,” she sighed, “where will it all end, Mr. Berkley?”
“In war,” he said, also smiling; but neither of them believed it, or, at the moment, cared. There were other matters impending — since their first encounter.
“I have thought about you a good deal since Camilla’s theatre party,” he said pleasantly.
“Have you?” She scarcely knew what else to say — and regretted saying anything.
“Indeed I have. I dare not believe you have wasted as much as one thought on the man you danced with once — and refused ever after.”
She felt, suddenly, a sense of uneasiness in being near him.
“Of course I have remembered you, Mr. Berkley,” she said with composure. “Few men dance as well. It has been an agreeable memory to me.”
“But you would not dance with me again.”
“I — there were — you seemed perfectly contented to sit out — the rest — with me.”
He considered the carpet attentively. Then looking up with quick, engaging smile:
“I want to ask you something. May I?”
She did not answer. As it had been from the first time she had ever seen him, so it was now with her; a confused sense of the necessity for caution in dealing with a man who had inspired in her such an unaccountable inclination to listen to what he chose to say.
“What is it you wish to ask?” she inquired pleasantly.
“It is this: are you really surprised that I came? Are you, in your heart?”
“Did I appear to be very much agitated? Or my heart, either, Mr. Berkley?” she asked with a careless laugh, conscious now of her quickening pulses. Outwardly calm, inwardly Irresolute, she faced him with a quiet smile of confidence.
“Then you were not surprised that I came?” he insisted.
“You did not wait to be asked. That surprised me a little.”
“I did wait. But you didn’t ask me.”
“That seems to have made no difference to you,” she retorted, laughing.
“It made this difference. I seized upon the only excuse I had and came to pay my respects as a kinsman. Do you know that I am a relation?”
“That is a very pretty compliment to us all, I think.”
“It is you who are kind in accepting me.”
“As a relative, I am very glad to — —”
“I came,” he said, “to see you. And you know it.”
“But you couldn’t do that, uninvited! I had not asked you.”
“But — it’s done,” he said.
She sat very still, considering him. Within her, subtle currents seemed to be contending once more, disturbing her equanimity. She said, sweetly:
“I am not as offended as I ought to be. But I do not see why you should disregard convention with me.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, leaning forward. “I couldn’t stand not seeing you. That was all. Convention is a pitiful thing — sometimes—” He hesitated, then fell to studying the carpet.
She looked at him, silent in her uncertainty. His expression was grave, almost absent-minded. And again her troubled eyes rested on the disturbing symmetry of feature and figure in all the unconscious grace of repose; and in his immobility there seemed something even of nobility about him which she had not before noticed.
She stole another glance at him. He remained very still, leaning forward, apparently quite oblivious of her. Then he came to himself with a quick smile, which she recognised as characteristic of all that disturbed her about this man — a smile in which there was humour, a little malice and self-sufficiency and — many, many things she did not try to analyse.
“Don’t you really want an unreliable servant?” he asked.
His perverse humour perplexed her, but she smiled.
“Don’t you remember that I once asked you if you needed an able-bodied man?” he insisted.
She nodded.
“Well, I’m that man.”
She assented, smiling conventionally, not at all understanding. He laughed, too, thoroughly enjoying something.
“It isn’t really very funny,” he said, “Ask your brother-in-law. I had an interview with him before I came here. And I think there’s a chance that he may give me a desk and a small salary in his office.”
“How absurd!” she said.
“It is rather absurd. I’m so absolutely useless. It’s only because of the relationship that Mr. Craig is doing this.”
She said uneasily: “You are not really serious, are you?”
“Grimly serious.”
“About a — a desk and a salary — in my brother-in-law’s office?”
“Unless you’ll hire me as a useful man. Otherwise, I hope for a big desk and a small salary. I went to Mr. Craig this morning, and the minute I saw him I knew he was fine enough to be your brother-in-law. And I said, ‘I am Philip Ormond Berkley; how do you do!’ And he said, ‘How do you do!’ And I said, ‘I’m a relation,’ and he said, ‘I believe so.’ And I said, ‘I was educated at Harvard and in Leipsic; I am full of useless accomplishments, harmless erudition, and insolvent amiability, and I am otherwise perfectly worthless. Can you give me a position?’”
“And he said: ‘What else is the matter?’ And I said, ‘The stock market.’ And that is how it remains, I am to call on him to-morrow.”
She said in consternation: “Forgive me. I did not think you meant it. I did not know that you were — were — —”
“Ruined!” he nodded laughingly. “I am, practically. I have a little left — badly invested — which I’m trying to get at. Otherwise matters are gay enough.”
She said wonderingly: “Had this happened when — I saw you that first time?”
“It had just happened. I looked the part, didn’t I?”
“No. How could you be so — interesting and — and be — what you were — knowing this all the while?”
“I went to that party absolutely stunned. I saw you in a corner of the box — I had just been hearing about you — and — I don’t know now what I said to you. Afterward” — he glanced at her— “the world was spinning, Mrs. Paige. You only remained real—” His face altered subtly. “And when I touched you — —”
“I gave you a waltz, I believe,” she said, striving to speak naturally; but her pulses had begun to stir again; the same inexplicable sense of exhilaration and insecurity was creeping over her.
With a movement partly nervous she turned toward the door, but there sounded no rustle of her sister’s skirts from the stairs, and her reluctant eyes slowly reverted to him, then fell in silence, out of which she presently strove to extract them both with some casual commonplace.
He said in a low voice, almost to himself:
“I want you to think well of me.”
She gathered all her composure, steadied her senses to choose a reply, and made a blunder:
“Do you really care what I think?” she asked lightly, and bit her lip too late.
“Do you believe I care about anything else in the world — now?”
She went on bravely, blindly:
“And do you expect me to believe in — in such an exaggerated and romantic expression to a staid and matter-of-fact widow whom you never saw more than once in your life?”
“You do believe it.”
Confused, scarcely knowing what she was saying, she still attempted to make light of his words, holding her own against herself for the moment, making even some headway. And all the while she was aware of mounting emotion — a swift inexplicable charm falling over them both.
He had become silent again, and she was saying she knew not what — fortifying her common-sense with gay inconsequences, when he looked up straight into her eyes.
“I have distressed you. I should not have spoken as I did.”
“No, you should not — —”
“Have I offended you?”
“I — don’t know.”
Matters were running too swiftly for her; she strove to remain cool, collected, but confusion was steadily threatening her, and neither resentment nor indifference appeared as allies.
“Mrs. Paige, can you account for — that night? The moment I touched you — —”
She half rose, sank back into her seat, her startled eyes meeting his.
“I — don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes — you know.”
Flushed, voices unsteady, they no longer recognised themselves.
“You have never seen me but once,” she said. “You cannot believe — —”
“I have not known a moment’s peace since I first saw you.”
She caught her breath. “It is your business worries that torment you — —”
“It is desire to be near you.”
“I don’t think you had better say such a thing — —”
“I know I had better not. But it is said, and it is true. I’m not trying to explain it to you or to myself. It’s just true. There has not been one moment, since I saw you, which has been free from memory of you — —”
“Please — —”
“I scarcely know what I am saying — but it’s true!” He checked himself. “I’m losing my head now, which isn’t like me!” He choked and stood up; she could not move; every nerve in her had become tense with emotions so bewildering that mind and body remained fettered.
He was walking to and fro, silent and white under his self-control. She, seated, gazed at him as though stunned, but every pulse was riotously unsteady.
“I suppose you think me crazy,” he said hoarsely, “but I’ve not known a moment’s peace of mind since that night — not one! I couldn’t keep away any longer. I can’t even hold my tongue now, though I suppose it’s ruining me every time I move it. It’s a crazy thing to come here and say what I’m saying.”
He went over and sat down again, and bent his dark gaze on the floor. Then:
“Can you forgive what I have done to you?”
She tried to answer, and only made a sign of faint assent. She no longer comprehended herself or the emotions menacing her. A curious tranquillity quieted her at moments — intervals in which she seemed to sit apart watching the development of another woman, listening to her own speech, patient with her own silences. There was a droop to her shoulders now; his own were sagging as he leaned slightly forward in his chair, arms resting on his knees, while around them the magic ebbed, eddied, ebbed; and lassitude succeeded tension; and she stirred, looked up at him with eyes that seemed dazed at first, then widened slowly into waking; and he saw in them the first clear dawn of alarm. Suddenly she flushed and sprang to her feet, the bright colour surging to her hair.
“Don’t!” he said. “Don’t reason! There will be nothing left of me if you do — or of, these moments. You will hate them — and me, if you reason. Don’t think — until we see each other again!”
She dropped her eyes slowly, and slowly shook her head.
“You ask too much,” she said. “You should not have said that.” All the glamour was fading. Her senses were seeking their balance after the incredible storm that had whirled them into chaos.
Fear stirred sharply, then consternation — flashes of panic pierced her with darts of shame, as though she had been in physical contact with this man.
All her outraged soul leaped to arms, quivering now under the reaction; the man’s mere presence was becoming unendurable; the room stifled her. She turned, scarce knowing what she was doing; and at the same moment her sister-in-law entered.
Berkley, already on his feet, turned short: and when she offered him a hand as slim and white as Ailsa’s, he glanced inquiringly at the latter, not at all certain who this charming woman might be.
“Mrs. Craig,” said Ailsa.
“I don’t believe it,” he said. “You haven’t grown-up children!”
“Don’t you really believe it, Mr. Berkley? Or is it just the flattering Irish in you that natters us poor women to our destruction?”
He had sense and wit enough to pay her a quick and really graceful compliment; to which she responded, still laughing:
“Oh, it is the Ormond in you! I am truly ve’y glad you came. You are Constance Berkley’s son — Connie Berkley! The sweetest girl that ever lived.”
There was a silence. Then Mrs. Craig said gently:
“I was her maid of honour, Mr. Berkley.”
Ailsa raised her eyes to his altered face, startled at the change in it. He looked at her absently, then his gaze reverted to Ailsa Paige.
“I loved her dearly,” said Mrs. Craig, dropping a light, impulsive hand on his. “I want her son to know it.”
Her eyes were soft and compassionate; her hand still lingered lightly on his, and she let it rest so.
“Mrs. Craig,” he said, “you are the most real person I have known in many years among the phantoms. I thought your sister-in-law was. But you are still more real.”
“Am I?” she laid her other hand over his, considering him earnestly. Ailsa looking on, astonished, noticed a singular radiance on his face — the pale transfiguration from some quick inward illumination.
Then Celia Craig’s voice sounded almost caressingly:
“I think you should have come to see us long ago.” A pause. “You are as welcome in this house as your mother would be if she were living. I love and honour her memory.”
“I have honoured little else in the world,” he said. They looked at one another for a moment; then her quick smile broke out. “I have an album. There are some Paiges, Ormonds, and Berkleys in it — —”
Ailsa came forward slowly.
“Shall I look for it, Celia?”
“No, Honey-bell.” She turned lightly and went into the back parlour, smiling mysteriously to herself, her vast, pale-blue crinoline rustling against the furniture.
