Complete weird tales of.., p.593
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 593
She was there, very fluffy, very brilliant, and flustered and adorable, the light from the sconces playing over her bare arms and shoulders and spinning all sorts of aureoles around her bright hair. Hah! She had him alone now. She was safe; she could breathe again. And he might harp on the Austins all he chose. Let him!
“No, I can’t have cigarettes,” she explained, “because it isn’t good for my voice. I’m supposed to possess a voice, you know.”
“It’s about the sweetest voice I ever heard,” he said so sincerely that the bright tint in her cheeks deepened.
“That is nicer than a compliment,” she said, looking at him with a little laugh of pleasure. He nodded, watching the smoke rings drifting through the hall.
“Do you know something?” he said.
“Not very much. What?”
“If I were a great matrimonial prize — —”
“You are, aren’t you?”
“If I was,” he continued, ignoring her, “like a king or a grand duke — —”
“Exactly.”
“I’d invite a grand competition for my hand and heart — —”
“We’d all go, Mr. Seabury — —”
“ —— And then I’d stroll about among them all — —”
“Certainly — among the competing millions.”
“Among the millions — blindfolded — —”
“Blinfo — —”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“ —— Blindfolded!” he repeated with emphasis. “I would choose a voice! — before everything else in the world.”
“Oh,” she said, rather faintly.
“A voice,” he mused, looking hard at the end of his cigarette which had gone out: and the odd smile began to flicker in his eyes again.
Mischief prompting, she began: “I wonder what chance I should have in your competition? First prize I couldn’t aspire to, but — there would be a sort of booby prize — wouldn’t there, Mr. Seabury?”
“There would be only one prize — —”
“Oh!”
“And that would be the booby prize; the prize booby.” And he smiled his odd smile and laid his hand rather gracefully over his heart. “You have won him, Miss Gay.”
She looked at him prepared to laugh, but, curiously enough, there was less of the booby about him as she saw him there than she had expected — a tall, clean-cut, attractive young fellow, with a well-shaped head and nice ears — a man, not a boy, after all — pleasant, amiably self-possessed, and of her own sort, as far as breeding showed.
Gone was the indescribably indefinite suggestion of too good looks, of latent self-sufficiency. He no longer struck her as being pleased with himself, of being a shade — just a shade — too sure of himself. A change, certainly; and to his advantage. Kindness, sympathy, recognition make wonderful changes in some people.
“I’ll tell you what I’d do if I were queen, and” — she glanced at him— “a matrimonial prize.... Shall I?”
“Why be both?” he asked.
“That rings hollow, Mr. Seabury, after your tribute to my voice!... Suppose I were queen. I’d hold a caucus, too. Please say you’d come.”
“Oh, I am already there!”
“That won’t help you; it isn’t first come, first served at my caucus!... So, suppose millions of suitors were all sitting around twisting their fingers in abashed hopeful silence.”
“Exactly.”
“What do you think I’d do, Mr. Seabury?”
“Run. I should.”
“No; I should make them a speech — a long one — oh, dreadfully long and wearisome. I should talk and talk and talk, and repeat myself, and pile platitude on platitude, and maunder on and on and on. And about luncheon-time I should have a delicious repast served me, and I’d continue my speech as I ate. And after that I’d ramble on and on until dinner-time. And I should dine magnificently up there on the dais, and, between courses, I’d continue my speech — —”
“You’d choose the last man to go to sleep,” he said simply.
“How did you guess it!” she exclaimed, vexed. “I — it’s too bad for you to know everything, Mr. Seabury.”
“I thought you were convinced that I didn’t know anything?” he said, looking up at her. His voice was quiet — too quiet; his face grave, unsmiling, firm.
“I? Mr. Seabury, I don’t understand you.”
He folded his hands and rested his chin on the knuckles. “But I understand you, Miss Gay. Tell me” — the odd smile flickered and went out— “Tell me, in whose house am I?”
Sheer shame paralyzed her; wave on wave of it crimsoned her to the hair. She sat there in deathly silence; he coolly lighted another cigarette, dropped one elbow on his knee, propping his chin in his open palm.
“I’m curious to know — if you don’t mind,” he added pleasantly.
“Oh — h!” she breathed, covering her eyes suddenly with both hands. She pressed the lids for a moment steadily, then her hands fell to her lap, and she faced him, cheeks aflame.
“I — I have no excuse,” she stammered— “nothing to say for myself ... except I did not understand what a — a common — dreadful — insulting thing I was doing — —”
He waited; then: “I am not angry, Miss Gay.”
“N-not angry? You are! You must be! It was too mean — too contemptible — —”
“Please don’t. Besides, I took possession of your sleigh. Bailey did the business for me. I didn’t know he had left the Austins, of course.”
She looked up quickly; there was a dimness in her eyes, partly from earnestness; “I did not know you had made a mistake until you spoke of the Austins,” she said. “And then something whispered to me not to tell you — to let you go on — something possessed me to commit this folly — —”
“Oh, no; I committed it. Besides, we were more than half-way here, were we not?”
“Ye-yes.”
“And there’s only one more train for Beverly, and I couldn’t possibly have made that, even if we had turned back!”
“Y-yes. Mr. Seabury, are you trying to defend me?”
“You need no defense. You were involved through no fault of your own in a rather ridiculous situation. And you simply, and like a philosopher, extracted what amusement there was in it.”
“Mr. Seabury! You shall not be so — so generous. I have cut a wretchedly undignified figure — —”
“You couldn’t!”
“I could — I have — I’m doing it!”
“You are doing something else, Miss Gay.”
“W-what?”
“Making it very, very hard for me to go.”
“But you can’t go! You mustn’t! Do you think I’d let you go — now? Not if the Austins lived next door! I mean it, Mr. Seabury. I — I simply must make amends — all I can — —”
“Amends? You have.”
“I? How?”
“By being here with me.”
“Th-that is — is very sweet of you, Mr. Seabury, but I — but they — but you — Oh! I don’t know what I’m trying to say, except that I like you — they will like you — and everybody knows Lily Seabury. Please, please forgive — —”
“I’m going to telephone to Beverly.... Will you wait — here?”
“Ye-yes. Wh-what are you going to telephone? You can’t go, you know. Please don’t try — will you?”
“No,” he said, looking down at her.
Things were happening swiftly — everything was happening in an instant — life, youth, time, all were whirling and spinning around her in bewildering rapidity; and her pulses, too, leaping responsive, drummed cadence to her throbbing brain.
She saw him mount the stairs and disappear — no doubt to his room, for there was a telephone there. Then, before she realized the lapse of time, he was back again, seating himself quietly beside her on the broad stair.
“Shall I tell you what I am going to do?” he said after a silence through which the confused sense of rushing unreality had held her mute.
“Wh-what are you going to do?”
“Walk to Beverly.”
“Mr. Seabury! You promised — —”
“Did I?”
“You did! It is snowing terribly.... It is miles and miles and the snow is already too deep. Besides, do you think I — we would let you walk! But you shall not go — and there are horses enough, too! No, no, no! I — I wish you would let me try to make up something to you — if I — all that I can possibly make up.”
“At the end of the hall above there’s a window,” he said slowly. “Prove to me that the snow is too deep.”
“Prove it?” She sprang up, gathering her silken skirts and was on the landing above before he could rise.
“‘Only one person in the world can ever matter to me — now.’”
He found her, smiling, triumphant, beside the big casement at the end of the hallway.
“Now are you convinced?” she said. “Just look at the snowdrifts. Are you satisfied?”
“No,” he said, quietly — too quietly by far. She looked up at him, a quick protest framed on her red lips. Something — perhaps the odd glimmer in his eyes — committed her to silence. From silence the stillness grew into tension; and again the rushing sense of unreality surged over them both, leaving their senses swimming.
“There is only one thing in the world I care for now,” he said.
“Ye-yes.”
“And that is to have you think well of me.”
“I — I do.”
“ — And each day — think better of me.”
“I — will — probably — —”
“And in the end — —”
She neither stirred nor turned her eyes.
“ — In the end — Listen to me.”
“I am wi-willing to.”
“Because it will be then as it is now; as it was when even I didn’t know it — as it must be always, for me. Only one person in the world can ever matter to me — now.... There’s no escape from it for me.”
“Do — do you wish to — escape?”
“Cecil!” he said under his breath.
* * *
“They’re dancing, below,” she said leaning over the gallery, one soft white hand on the polished rail, the other abandoned to him — carelessly — as though she were quite unconscious where it lay.
“They are dancing,” she repeated, turning toward him — which brought them face to face, both her hands resting listlessly in his.
A silence, then:
“Do you know,” she said, “that this is a very serious matter?”
“I know.”
“And that it’s probably one of those dreadful, terrible and sudden strokes of Fate?”
“I know.”
“And that — that it serves me right?”
He was smiling; and she smiled back at him, the starry beauty of her eyes dimming a trifle.
“You say that you have chosen a ‘Voice,’” she said; “and — do you think that you would be the last man to go to sleep?”
“The very last.”
“Then — I suppose I must make my choice.... I will ... some day.... And, are you going to dance with me?”
He raised her hands, joining them together between his; and she watched him gravely, a tremor touching her lips. In silence their hands fell apart; he stepped nearer; she lifted her head a little — a very little — closing her lids; he bent and kissed her lips, very lightly.
That was all; they opened their eyes upon one another, somewhat dazed. A bell, very far off, was sounding faintly through the falling snow — faintly, persistently, the first bell for Christmas morning.
Then she took the edges of her silken gown between thumb and forefinger, and slowly, very slowly, sank low with flushed cheeks, sweeping him an old-time curtsey.
“I — I wish you a Merry Christmas,” she said.... “And thank you for your wish.... And you may take me down, now” — rising to her slim and lovely height— “and I think we had better dance as hard as we can and try to forget what our families are likely to think of what we’ve done.... Don’t you?”
“Yes,” he said seriously, “I do.”
* * *
“And that’s what comes of running after trains, and talking to fat conductors, and wearing chinchilla furs, and flouting the Mystic Three!” added Williams throwing away his cigar.
* * *
CHAPTER XII
IN WHICH A MODEST MAN MAUNDERS
“IN MY OPINION,” said I, “a man who comes to see Paris in three months is a fool, and kin to that celebrated ass who circum-perambulated the globe in eighty days. See all, see nothing. A man might camp a lifetime in the Louvre and learn little about it before he left for Père Lachaise. Yet here comes the United States in a gigantic “mônome” to see the city in three weeks, when three years is too short a time in which to appreciate the Carnavalet Museum alone! I’m going home.”
“Oh, papa!” said Alida.
“Yes, I am,” I snapped. “I’d rather be tried and convicted in Oyster Bay on the charge of stealing my own pig than confess I had ‘seen Paris’ in three months.”
We had driven out to the Trocadero that day, and were now comfortably seated in the tower of that somewhat shabby “palace,” for the purpose of obtaining a bird’s eye view of the “Rive Droite” or right bank of the Seine.
Elegant, modern, spotless, the Rive Droite spread out at our feet, silver-gray squares of Renaissance architecture inlaid with the delicate green of parks, circles, squares, and those endless double and quadruple lines of trees which make Paris slums more attractive than Fifth Avenue. Far as the eye could see stretched the exquisite monotony of the Rive Droite, discreetly and artistically broken by domes and spires of uncatalogued “monuments,” in virgin territory, unknown and unsuspected to those spiritual vandals whose hordes raged through the boulevards, waving ten thousand blood-red Baedekers at the paralyzed Parisians.
“Well,” said I, “now that we have ‘seen’ the Rive Droite, let’s cast a bird’s-eye glance over Europe and Asia and go back to the hotel for luncheon.”
My sarcasm was lost on my daughters because they had moved out of earshot. Alida was looking through a telescope held for her by a friend of Captain de Barsac, an officer of artillery named Captain Vicômte Torchon de Cluny. He was all over scarlet and black and gold; when he walked his sabre made noises, and his ringing spurs reminded me of the sound of sleigh-bells in Oyster Bay.
My daughter Dulcima was observing the fortress of Mont-Valerien through a tiny pair of jewelled opera-glasses, held for her by Captain de Barsac. It was astonishing to see how tirelessly De Barsac held those opera-glasses, which must have weighed at least an ounce. But French officers are inured to hardships and fatigue.
“Is that a fortress?” asked Dulcima ironically. “I see nothing but some low stone houses.”
“Next to Gibraltar,” said De Barsac, “it is the most powerful fortress in the world, mademoiselle. It garrisons thousands of men; its stores are enormous; it dominates not only Paris, but all France.”
“But where are the cannon?” asked Dulcima.
“Ah — exactly — where? That is what other nations pay millions to find out — and cannot. Will you take my word for it that there are one or two cannon there — and permit me to avoid particulars?”
“You might tell me where just one little unimportant cannon is?” said my daughter, with the naïve curiosity which amuses the opposite and still more curious sex.
“And endanger France?” asked De Barsac, with owl-like solemnity.
“Thank you,” pouted Dulcima, perfectly aware that he was laughing.
Their voices became low, and relapsed into that buzzing murmur which always defeats its own ends by arousing parental vigilance.
“Let us visit the aquarium,” said I in a distinct and disagreeable voice. Doubtless the “voice from the wilderness” was gratuitously unwelcome to Messieurs De Barsac and Torchon de Cluny, but they appeared to welcome the idea with a conciliatory alacrity noticeable in young men when intruded upon by the parent of pretty daughters. Dear me, how fond they appeared to be of me; what delightful information they volunteered concerning the Trocadero, the Alexander Bridge, the Champ de Mars.
* * *
The aquarium of the Trocadero is underground. To reach it you simply walk down a hole in France and find yourself under the earth, listening to the silvery prattle of a little brook which runs over its bed of pebbles above your head, pouring down little waterfalls into endless basins of glass which line the damp arcades as far as you can see. The arcades themselves are dim, the tanks, set in the solid rock, are illuminated from above by holes in the ground, through which pours the yellow sunshine of France.
Looking upward through the glass faces of the tanks you can see the surface of the water with bubbles afloat, you can see the waterfall tumbling in; you can catch glimpses of green grass and bushes, and a bit of blue sky.
Into the tanks fall insects from the world above, and the fish sail up to the surface and lazily suck in the hapless fly or spider that tumbles onto the surface of the water.
It is a fresh-water aquarium. All the fresh-water fish of France are represented here by fine specimens — pike, barbels, tench, dace, perch, gudgeons, sea-trout, salmon, brown-trout, and that lovely delicate trout-like fish called l’Ombre de Chevallier. What it is I do not know, but it resembles our beautiful American brook-trout in shape and marking; and is probably a hybrid, cultivated by these clever French specialists in fish-propagation.
Coming to a long crystal-clear tank, I touched the glass with my finger-tip, and a slender, delicate fish, colored like mother-of-pearl, slowly turned to stare at me.
“This,” said I, “is that aristocrat of the waters called the ‘Grayling.’ Notice its huge dorsal fin, its tender and diminutive mouth. It takes a fly like a trout, but the angler who would bring it to net must work gently and patiently, else the tender mouth tears and the fish is lost. Is it not the most beautiful of all fishes?
