Complete weird tales of.., p.842
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 842
“Where will you live?” she asked.
He said: “You know I have sold our old house.... I don’t know—” He looked at her gravely and ashamed: “I think I will take your old apartment.”
She blushed to her hair: “Were you annoyed with me because I left it?”
“It hurt.”
“But Clive! — I couldn’t remain, — after you had become engaged to marry.”
“Did you need to leave everything you owned?”
“They were not mine,” she said in a low, embarrassed voice.
“Whose then?”
“Yours. I never considered them mine.... As though I were a girl of little consideration ... who paid herself, philosophically, for what she had lost.... Like a man’s mistress after the inevitable break has come—”
“Don’t say that!”
She shrugged her pretty shoulders: “I am a woman old enough to know what the world is, and what women do in it sometimes; and what men do.... And I am this sort of woman, Clive: I can give, I can receive, too, but only because of the happiness it bestows on the giver. And when the sympathy which must exist between giver and receiver ends, then also possession ends, for me.... Why do you look at me so seriously?”
But he dared not say. And presently she went on, happily, and at random: “Of course I kept Hafiz and the first thing you ever gave me — the gun-metal wrist-watch. Here it is—” leaning across him and pulling out a drawer in her dresser. “I wear it every day when I am out. It keeps excellent time. Isn’t it a darling, Clive?”
He examined it in silence, nodded, and returned it to her. And she laid it away again, saying:
“So you think of taking my old apartment? How odd! And how very sentimental of you, Clive.”
He said, forcing a light tone: “Nothing has ever been disturbed there. It’s all as it was when you left. Even your gowns are hanging in the closets—”
“Clive!”
“We’ll go around if you like. Would you care to see it again?”
“Y — yes.”
“Then we’ll go together, and you can investigate closets and bureaus and dressers—”
“Clive! Why did you let those things remain?”
“I didn’t care to have anybody else take that place.”
“Do you know that what you have done is absurdly and frightfully sentimental?”
“Is it?” he said, trying to laugh. “Well that snivelling and false sort of sentiment is about the best that such men as I know how to comfort themselves with — when it’s too late for the real thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I am saying. Cheap minds are fed with false sentiment; and are comforted.... I made out of that place a smug little monument to you — while you were living alone and almost penniless in a shabby rooming house on—”
“Oh, Clive! You didn’t know that! And anyway it would not have altered things for me.”
“I suppose not.... Well, Athalie; you are very wonderful to me — merciful, forgiving, nobly blind — God!” he muttered under his breath, “I don’t understand how you can be so generous and gentle with me, — I don’t, indeed.”
“If you only knew how easy it is to care for you,” she said with that sweet fearlessness so characteristic of her.
He bit his lips in silence.
Presently she said: “I suppose there’ll be gossip in the other room. Rosalie and Cecil will be cynical and they also will try to be witty at our expense. But I don’t care. Do you?”
“Shall we go in?”
“No.... I haven’t had you for four years. If you don’t care what is said about us, I don’t.” And she looked up at him with the most engaging candour.
“I’m only thinking about you, Athalie—”
“Don’t bother to, Clive. Pretty nearly everything has been said about me, I fancy. And, unless it might damage you I’ll go anywhere with you, do anything with you. I know that I’m all right; and I care no longer what others say or think.”
“But you know,” he said, “that is a theory which will not work—”
“You are wrong, Clive. Nobody cares what sort of character a popular actress may have. Her friends are not disturbed by her reputation; the public crowds to see her. And it’s about that way with me, I imagine. Because I don’t suppose many people believe me to be respectable. Only — there is no man alive who can say of his own knowledge that I am not, — whatever he and his brothers and sisters may imagine.”
“So why should I care? — as long as the public affords me an honest living! I know what I am, and have been. And the knowledge, so far, does not keep me awake at night.”
She laughed — the sweet, fresh, unembarrassed laugh of innocence, — not that ignorance and stupidity which is called innocence, but innocence based on a worldly wisdom which neither her intelligence nor her experience permitted her to escape.
After a short silence he bent forward and laid one hand on a crystal which stood clasped by a tiny silver tripod on the table beside her bed.
“So you did develop your — qualities — after all, Athalie.”
“Yes.... It happened accidentally.” And she told him about the old gentleman who had come to her rooms when she stood absolutely penniless and at bay before the world.
After she had ended he asked her whether she had ever again seen his father. She told him. She told him also about seeing his mother.
“Have they anything to say to me, Athalie?” he asked wistfully.
“I don’t know, Clive. Some day — when you feel like it — if you will come to me—”
“Thank you, dear ... you are wonderful — wonderfully good—”
“Oh, Clive, I’m not! I’m careless, pleasure-loving, inclined to laziness — and even to dissipation—”
“You!”
“Within certain limits,” she added demurely. “I dance a lot: I know I smoke too much and drink too much champagne. I’m no angel, Clive. I won altogether too much at auction last night; ask Jim Allys. And really, if I didn’t have a mind and feel a desire to cultivate it, I’d be the limit I suppose.” She laughed and tossed her chin; and the pure loveliness of her child-like throat was suddenly and exquisitely revealed.
“I’m too intelligent to go wrong I suppose,” she said. “I adore cultivating my mental faculties even more than I like to misbehave.” She added a trifle shyly. “I speak French and Italian and German very nicely. And I sing a little and play acceptably. Please compliment me, Clive.”
But her quick smile died out as she looked into his eyes — eyes haunted by the vision of all that he had denied his manhood and this girl’s young womanhood — all that he had lost, irretrievably and forever on that day he married another woman.
“What is the matter, Clive?” she asked with sweet concern.
He answered: “Nothing, I guess ... except — you are very — wonderful — to me.”
* * *
CHAPTER XX
A MAY AFTERNOON was drawing to a close; the last appointment had been made for the morrow, and the last client for the day still lingered with Athalie where she sat with her head propped thoughtfully on one slim hand, her gaze concentrated on the depths of the crystal sphere.
After a long silence she said: “You need not be anxious. Her wireless apparatus is out of order. They are repairing it.... It was a bad storm.”
“Is there any ice near her?”
After a pause: “I can see none.”
“Any ships?”
“One of her own line, hull down. They have been exchanging signals.... There seems to be no necessity for her to stand by. The worst is over.... Yes, the Empress of Borneo proceeds. The Empress of Formosa will be reported this evening. You need not be anxious: she’ll dock on Monday.”
“Are you sure?” said the man as Athalie lifted her eyes from the crystal and smiled reassuringly at him. He was a stocky, red-faced, trim, middle-aged man; but his sanguine visage bore the haggard imprint of sleepless nights, and the edges of his teeth had bitten his under lip raw.
Athalie glanced carelessly at the crystal, then nodded.
“Yes,” she said patiently. “I am sure of it, Mr. Clements. The Empress of Formosa will dock on Monday — about — nine in the morning. She will be reported by wireless from the Empress of Borneo this evening.... They have been relaying it from the Delaware Capes.... There will be an extra edition of the evening papers. You may dismiss all anxiety.”
The man rose, stood a moment, his features working with emotion.
“I’m not a praying man,” he said. “But if this is so — I’ll pray for you.... It can’t hurt you anyway—” he checked himself, stammering, and the deep colour stained him from his brow to his thick, powerful neck as he stood fumbling with his portfolio.
But Athalie smilingly put aside the recompense he offered: “It is too much, Mr. Clements.”
“It is worth it to the Company — if the news is true—”
“Then wait until your steamer docks.”
“But you say you are certain—”
“Yes, I am: but you are not. My refusal of payment will encourage you to confidence in me. You have been ill with anxiety, Mr. Clements. I know what that means. And now your bruised mind cannot realise that the trouble is ended — that there is no reason now for the deadly fear that has racked you. But everything will help you now — what I have told you — and my refusal of payment until your own eyes corroborate everything I have said.”
“I believe you now,” he said, staring at her. “I wish to offer you in behalf of the Company—”
A swift gesture conjured him to silence. She rose, listening intently. Presently his ears too caught the faint sound, and he turned and walked swiftly and silently to the open window.
“There is your extra,” she said pleasantly. “The Empress of Borneo has been reported.”
* * *
She was still lying on the couch beside the crystal, idly watching what scenes were drifting, mist-like, through its depths — scenes vague, and faded in colour, and of indefinite outline; for, like the monotone of a half-heard conversation which does not concern a listener these passing phantoms concerned not her.
Under her indifferent eyes they moved; pale-tinted scenes grew, waxed, and waned, and a ghostly processional flowed through them without end under her dark blue dreaming eyes.
She had turned and dropped her head back upon the silken pillows when his signal sounded in telegraphic sequence on the tiny concealed bell.
The still air of the room was yet tremulous with the silvery vibration when he entered, looked around, caught sight of her, and came swiftly toward her.
She looked up at him in her sweet, idly humorous way, unstirring.
“This is becoming a habit with you, Clive.”
“Didn’t you care to see me this afternoon?” he asked so seriously that the girl laughed outright and stretched out one hand to him.
“Clive, you’re becoming ponderous! Do you know it? Suppose I didn’t care to see you this particular afternoon. Is there any reason why you should take it so seriously?”
“Plenty of reasons,” he said, saluting her smooth, cool hand,— “with all these people at your heels every minute—”
“Please don’t pretend—”
“I’m not jealous. But all these men — Cecil and Jimmy Allys — they’re beginning to be a trifle annoying to me.”
She laughed in unfeigned and malicious delight:
“They don’t annoy me! No girl ever was annoyed by overattention from her suitors — except Penelope — and I don’t believe she had such a horrid time of it either, until her husband came home and shot up the whole thé dansant.”
He was still standing beside her couch without offering to seat himself; and she let him remain standing a few minutes longer before she condescended to move aside on her pillows and nod a tardy invitation.
“Has it been an interesting day, Clive?”
“Rather.”
“And you have really gone back into business again?”
“Yes.”
“And will the real estate market rally at the news of your august reappearance?” she inquired mischievously.
“I haven’t a doubt of it,” he said with gravity.
“‘There is your extra,’ she said pleasantly”
“Wonderful, Clive! And I think I’d better get in on the ground floor before values go sky-rocketing. Do you want a commission from me?”
“Of course.”
“Very well. Buy me the old Hotel Greensleeve.”
He smiled; but she said with pretty seriousness: “I really have been thinking about it. Do you suppose it could be bought reasonably? It’s really a pretty place. And there’s a hundred acres — or there was.... I would like to have a modest house somewhere in the country.”
“Are you in earnest, Athalie?”
“Really I am.... Couldn’t that old house be fixed over inexpensively? You know it’s nearly two hundred years old, and the lines are good if the gingerbread verandas and modern bay windows are done away with.”
He nodded; and she went on with shy enthusiasm: “I don’t really know anything about gardens, except I know that I should adore them.... I thought of a garden — just a simple one.... And some cows and chickens. And one nice old horse.... It is really very pretty there in spring and summer. And the bay is so blue, and the salt meadows are so sweet.... And the cemetery is near.... I should not wish to alter mother’s room very much.... I’d turn the bar into a sun parlour.... But I’d keep the stove ... where you and I sat that evening and ate peach turnovers.... About how much do you suppose the place could be bought for?”
“I haven’t the least idea, Athalie. But I’ll see what can be done to-morrow.... It ought to be a good purchase. You can scarcely go wrong on Long Island property if you buy it right.”
“Will you see about it, Clive?”
“Of course I will, you dear girl!” he said, dropping his hand over hers where it lay between them.
She smiled up at him. Then, distrait, turned her blue eyes toward the window, and remained gazing out at the late afternoon sky where a few white clouds were sailing.
“‘Clouds and ships on sky, and sea,’” she murmured to herself.... “‘And God always at the helm.’ Why do men worry? All sail into the same port at last.”
He bent over her: “What are you murmuring all to yourself down there?” he asked, smilingly.
“Nothing much, — I’m just watching the driftsam and flotsam borne on the currents flowing through my mind — flowing through it and out again — away, somewhere — back to the source of thought, perhaps.”
He was still bending above her, and she looked up dreamily into his eyes.
“Do you think I shall ever have my garden?” she asked.
“All things good must come to you, Athalie.”
She laughed, looking up into his eyes: “You meant that, didn’t you? ‘All things good’ — yes — and other things, too.... They come to all I suppose.... Tell me, do you think my profession disreputable?”
“You have made it otherwise, haven’t you?”
“I don’t know. I’m eternally tempted. My intelligence bothers me. And where to draw the line between what I really see and what I divine by deduction — or by intuition — I scarcely know sometimes.... I try to be honest.... When you came in just now, were they calling an extra?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear what they were calling?”
“Something about the Empress of Borneo being reported safe.”
She nodded. Then: “That is the hopeless part of it. I can sometimes help others; never myself.... I suppose you have no idea how many, many hours I have spent looking for you.... I never could find you. I have never found you in my crystal, or in my clearer vision, or in my dreams; ... never heard your voice, never had news of you except by common report in everyday life.... Why is it, I wonder?”
His expression was inscrutable. She said, her eyes still lingering on his: “You know it makes me indignant to see so much that neither concerns nor interests me — so much that passes — in this!—” laying one hand on the crystal beside the couch ... “and never, never in the dull monotony of the drifting multitude to catch a glimpse of you.... I wonder, were I lost somewhere in the world, if you could find me, Clive?”
“I’d die, trying,” he said unsmilingly.
“Oh! How romantic! I wasn’t fishing for a pretty speech, dear. I meant, could you find me in the crystal. Look into it, Clive.”
He turned and went over to the clear, transparent sphere, and she, resting her chin on both arms, lay gazing into it, too.
After a silence he shook his head: “I see nothing, Athalie.”
“Can you not see that great yellow river, Clive? And the snow peaks on the horizon?... Palms, tall reeds, endless forests — everything so still — except birds flying — and a broad river rolling between forests.... And a mud-bar, swarming with crocodiles.... And a dead tree stranded there, on which large birds are sitting.... There is a big cat-shaped animal on the bank; but the forest is dark and sunless, — too dusky to see into.... I think the animal is a jaguar.... He’s drinking now.... Yes, he’s a jaguar — a heavy, squarely built, spotted creature with a broad, blunt head.... He’s been eating a pheasant; there are feathers everywhere — bright feathers, brilliant as jewels.... Hark! You didn’t hear that, did you, Clive? Somebody has shot the jaguar. They’ve shot him again. He’s whirling ‘round and ‘round — and now he’s down, biting at sticks and leaves.... There goes another shot. The jaguar lies very still. His jaws are partly open. He has big, yellow cat-teeth.... I can’t seem to see who shot him.... There are some black men coming. One has a small American flag furled around the shaft of his spear. He’s waving it over the dead jaguar. They’re all dancing now.... But I can’t see the man who shot him.”
“I shot him,” said Clive.
“I thought so.” She turned and dropped back among her pillows.
