Delphi complete works of.., p.46
Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 46
Preoccupied with my thoughts, I walked over to the table and sat down. A piece of flimsy cloth was lying on the dusty surface. For some minutes I regarded the thing idly, then something vaguely reminiscent made me pick it up. As I did so I caught a sudden picture of MacKellar standing by the fireplace. In one hand he was holding his brushes and in the other a piece of cloth. The picture faded, but the impression remained. I bent over the cloth and examined it closely. It was smeared with streaks of faded color. Had I discovered some rare object of antiquity hidden for centuries amid the ruins of a tomb, I could not have been more impressed than I was as I sat there gazing at this dust-covered bit of stuff. Hugh had held it in his hands. It had tasted the paint of his brushes.
In the dusk of the room he stood before me as he had stood so often in the past, a square, untidy figure, his eyes snapping with animation and his hands making swift little motions in the air.
“Hugh,” I whispered, extending my arms to the shadows, “why am I so terribly alone? You were once a living part of this place. Are things over with you? Is there no word you can speak to me now?”
The room grew dark and I felt the presence of some one at my back. Mastering my first impulse to spring to my feet, I waited, every muscle in my body painfully taut. Then, as though only a day had passed since we had last met, John Elliott’s voice prosaically broke the silence.
“Good afternoon, Landor,” he said. “This comes under the heading of a pleasant surprise.”
He had aged, but in spite of his burnt-out appearance there clung to him a sense of power as though his spirit were stubbornly defying extinction. With some malicious intent it was making use of a dead body — inhabiting a mummy. Even his actions seemed automatic, and for that reason more weird to observe. He gave the impression of being a sort of manufactured thing endowed with a sly tenacity of purpose. The flesh had fallen away from his gaunt frame, and his Hair, now thin and listless, had turned completely white. There were deep lines in his face, and round his drooping mouth a look of defeat had settled. But in spite of these ravages of time his eyes blazed as fiercely as ever beneath his heavy brows. In his general bearing there remained a suggestion of the suave and debonair character of former days. His crazy eyes were fairly sparkling with cordiality.
“Why pleasant?” I asked at last. “And why particularly a surprise? Did you think I had died?”
“I was afraid,” he began, then hesitated, correcting himself with a smile. “I have often wondered about it.”
“Why were you afraid?” I continued, delving behind his words.
“It wasn’t fear so much,” he said. “I just didn’t want you to die. Why should I, Landor?”
“You always hated me,” I answered. “Your solicitude did not spring from friendship nor does your pleasure now on seeing me again. What is it? Do you still feel jealous of a dream? Do you still fear it?”
He turned from the table and walked across the room, then wheeled about and faced me.
“Haven’t you outgrown that?” he demanded. “Are you still harping on your dream? Are you so mad as to believe that there was any relation between that dream of yours and her — her going?”
“I do,” I answered quietly. “And so do you.”
“Is that why you’ve come back?” he asked. “Are you looking for your dream?”
“I am,” I replied, smiling at him. “I’ve come back to find it. And you’re about the only person in the world who can understand why.”
He walked over to the fireplace and stood with his back to me. I remained seated at the table, waiting for his reply. The conversation had taken a revealing turn. I was interested to see how far he would commit himself.
“Your dream will never return,” he said in a low voice.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because it’s too impossible.”
“That’s hardly a reason.”
He looked back at me with a questioning light in his eyes.
“Elliott,” I continued, “in your heart you know it will return.”
“No, by God!” he flung back, his face growing dark, then as if struck by a new thought, he smiled and added, “If you are so sure yourself, Landor, let me put this cottage at your disposal. Would you consider the offer? It was here that you found your precious dream. The old surroundings might help. What do you say?”
Although I well realized that he had some unpleasant motive behind his invitation, I was tempted to accept. The cottage drew me.
“You’re very kind,” I replied after a moment’s thought. “I should like to live here again.”
“Good!” he exclaimed, coming over to me and extending his hand. “I’m glad you have the courage of your convictions. Will you dine with me to-night?”
“Why not?” I said, disregarding his hand. “In a way there is a bond between us. Perhaps it will be severed soon. I hope so, at any rate.”
As he looked at me, the smile froze on his lips. It was a remarkable thing to witness. His dead cheeks sagged, and his body, which a moment before had been tense from some inner excitement, gradually became flabby. The man seemed to be decomposing before my eyes. It was as though some piece of clockwork concealed within him had suddenly run down. Even his eyes burned dim. Several times he looked about him helplessly, his long, nervous fingers plucking at his mouth, then with difficulty he cleared his throat. It was plain to see that he was craving something, craving it desperately.
“Do you want water?” I asked, motioning to the kitchen. His behavior was beginning to alarm me.
“Water,” he repeated, licking his dry lips. “No, that’s not it. Not water.”
With an effort he crossed the room, his legs moving clumsily and his body swaying forward. His arms had a mechanical and uncoordinated appearance. Something in his bearing reminded me of the night when he had dragged himself from the Ark. At the door he stopped and twisted his face round until his lost eyes met mine.
“Then I’ll be going now,” he said, in a flat voice, “but I’ll look for you this evening.”
I followed him to the door and stood looking after him as he shambled across the lawn. With a feeling of growing uneasiness I wondered what could have come over him. Before he disappeared from view, he stopped and looked back at the cottage, his fingers still plucking at his pouch-like cheeks.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE GRAVEL CRUNCHING beneath my feet sent an unpleasant sensation along my spine. Almost automatically my thoughts reverted to the evening when Scarlet and I had walked up this same driveway together. Even now as it had then, the light was failing and on either side of the drive the ragged lawn drifted away into deepening shadows. Above my head the wind sifted wakefully through the trees. In its thin, whispering voice there was an ominous note. It was not a part of the wind that stirred in the woods or that came in from the sea. It seemed as if it had escaped from some unhappy place and taken refuge in Elliott’s trees, where for years it had lain like a soul in pain writhing among the leaves. It gave me a feeling of far-off things silently yet surely approaching... events that could afford to bide their time.
Like a man treading a maze of memories I climbed the steps to the veranda. No one was there to meet me. The place seemed even older than my awakened memories, more remote, more chilling, more cut off from the past. But when I stepped into the great hall the past was there indeed. Here as at the cottage, little seemed to have changed. If possible there was more disorder and a greater littering of furniture — a low divan or so and a table heaped with jars and bottles. In other days the smell of the hall had been moldy, now it had become vicious with some heavy perfume.
Something almost personal in this incense-like atmosphere made me uneasy. A new fear crept into my heart. Through a distant doorway at the other end of the hall I caught a glimpse of the marshes — a vivid sector of green slashed with the gray coils of the waterways. The island was out there somewhere, the island we had watched together. A curtain stirred and I saw a woman standing behind it in an attitude of fear. She appeared to be a servant.
“Good evening,” I said, and the figure withdrew into the darkness of the room. “So would the island withdraw,” I thought, “into the darkness of the night.”
A woman was slowly descending the stairs, her eyes fixed curiously on my face as her hand slipped caressingly over the bannister.
It was an odd thing that when I saw Scarlet again I scarcely realized her. At that moment she was a nebulous association in a chain of thoughts. As a living, tangible person, an actual part of the present, she had no meaning. I seemed to be looking far beyond her down a vista peopled with unrelated incidents, things I had known and felt, but which I had left behind in some other land — in another world. Once more I saw Hugh MacKellar, once more I caught a picture of Hilda running through the fields, and oddly enough, I saw my old Aird sitting alone like a lost gull on the rocks. It was not until Scarlet had drawn near me and subjected me to a close scrutiny that I felt as I had so often felt before, the physical influence of her presence. I became aware of my own body and distrustful of my mind. Something of the old antagonism flamed up in me anew.
When she spoke I was arrested by the familiar sound of her voice, its deep, hateful quality. For some reason I had expected it to be changed, coarser if anything, and more arrogant, but her voice was the voice I had never forgotten, and when she called my name I felt that in truth the years had been standing still behind the curtains of the hall. Neither had she changed greatly physically. Her face had grown a trifle grosser, her lips less firm and more sensual, and shadows had settled permanently beneath her dark eyes. The youthful spring I had once secretly admired had now almost left her body, giving to her movements a slow but compelling force. Although her figure was fuller now, it was more dominating, more primitively appealing. Beneath the folds of a yellow robe it seemed to spurn concealment.
“What on earth are you doing here after such an unsociable absence?” she asked in an easy tone.
“Looking for something,” I answered. “Following old tracks.”
“You’ve waited too long, David,” she said. “The scent has grown cold. Only the living can give you dreams. I offered to do so once. Do you remember that?”
“It’s one of the memories I’ve always tried to forget.”
“Thanks so much,” she remarked, dropping to one of the divans and arranging the pillows behind her with studied preoccupation. “It pleases me to know that I made at least a lasting impression.”
“It would hardly please you to know what kind of an impression it was.”
“Come, David. That’s not sporting. I refuse to quarrel with you at this moment. You haven’t even been thoughtful enough to touch my hand, and you know I’m really dying to discover if you’re real. You were once, but you’ve changed a lot.”
“The years have shown scant discrimination. I’m old now and you’re still young, in a sense. Time has been generous with you, given you what you wanted. Me it has ridden heavily.”
“Not quite,” she interrupted. “I never made a complete conquest. Is there still a chance... any sparks?”
Her hot palm pressed against mine as she suddenly twisted on the divan and pulled at a tasseled cord hanging from the wall. Two curtains parted, disclosing the picture Hugh MacKellar had painted of her many years before. The incident occurred so quickly that she seemed to have disrobed before me.
“Look,” she commanded in a low voice. “Look, David. Is not that better than a dream?”
“Very dramatic,” I replied, “but you were always a bit stagy. That thing destroys dreams. You’ve never understood.”
Her eyes sought mine, and her fingers clutching round my hand, drew me toward her.
“Is this the answer?” she asked, looking at our clasped hands. “Is this all, David, you whom I have watched for days?”
“Quite,” I said abruptly. “More than I ever thought I could bring myself to bear. Cover that picture up. You’re silly to draw the comparison.”
“Then at least we can take a drink together,” she cried with unexpected friendliness as she rose from the divan. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, David, but some day I’ll break your heart.”
From the table she took a bottle and poured a golden, translucent fluid into two glasses, offering me one of them.
“I drink to your return,” she said, “and may you never depart.”
As I looked at the glass in my hand the old desire for excitement and forgetfulness once more stirred in me. I recalled the night at the Ark and my futile years abroad. Even the words she had spoken added to my fear. In my own soul I realized that I was far weaker than either she or her husband knew. Nevertheless a spirit of bravado compelled me to respond to her toast. As I raised the glass to my lips I was again aware that a servant girl was watching me from the curtains. She seemed to be trying to communicate with me in an inarticulate way.
At this moment Elliott joined us, and when he too had taken a drink, we sat down near Scarlet and talked about the many changes that had taken place in our lives since last we had been together. Elliott spoke easily and interestingly about various countries that he and Scarlet had visited. In India, he told me with real animation, he had made a study of Eastern occultism, and had become deeply interested in it. Amateurish, of course, but he had learned some things, gained an insight, a mere divination.
The remarkable change that had taken place in the man since the afternoon surprised me. He was no longer now the crumpled creature I had watched shamble across the lawn. His eyes had regained their luster, his voice was firm and self- possessed, his whole bearing bespoke confidence and vigor. Still there was an air about him which gave me the impression that beneath his easy manner he was laboring with some form of repressed excitement.
Elliott drank less frequently than either Scarlet or myself. Once when the conversation flagged he left the hall for a short time. Scarlet poured me a drink just before he returned. Without taking any apparent effect on my mind, the wine was gradually filling me with a sort of contented excitement. All fear and distrust had left me, and with their leaving I was surprised to discover that I no longer disliked my companions. In fact it seemed only natural for the three of us to be sitting there again... the remaining participants in a remote tragedy. The pale hands of the past had reached out and gathered us together again.
The furtive servant brought us food which we ate in our chairs, Scarlet on her divan. I merely pretended to eat as the wine warmed through my body.
It was no longer necessary to try to be entertaining. The only thing that worried me was the face of the servant. It was always in the shadow, yet always turned to me. The air in the hall, had become heavy with smoke. Waves of perfume drifted through it.
“Quite a party,” remarked Scarlet as she regarded her husband slouched with closed eyes in his chair. I was puzzled to see him in this attitude. He had scarcely taken anything.
“Do you like it?” I asked, sitting down by her divan and throwing my head back. “I haven’t been this way for years.”
From a far-off black sky her eyes looked down into mine. A white arm uncoiled and wound itself round my neck. I touched her wrist with the tips of my fingers.
Floating figures filled the darkness, the graceful forms of women writhing through garlands of smoke. While I was studiously intent on following the movements of these figures Scarlet’s face approached mine. I could see it slowly descending from the sky, a pallid face with sharp eyes. The situation awoke a memory... the memory of a dream....
I was standing again by the salt marshes and a woman’s arms covered with yellow fur were twisted round my neck And the woman who looked at me had the face of a beast — no it was more the face of an obscene carving with thick, sucking lips. The woman leaned against me and as she did so I felt myself being drawn down into the marshes. The mud rose over us and the woman’s body clung to mine.
I flung off this memory of a dream and rose from the floor. Scarlet’s arms were still extended to me as though thrust from the mud.
“Don’t be a fool,” she whispered. “It’s too late for heroics now — too late for anything but this. He’ll stay asleep.”
The dream-like cadence of the surf drifted up from the beach. I turned away and listened. Then as if in answer to a familiar voice I walked down the hall and out of the house. The chant of the surf rose up to meet me.
* * * * *
FROM where I am sitting I catch a glimpse of the ocean. A phantom boat is scudding there and a voice in my heart cries, “Head in! Head in!” But the boat holds to its course, then fades from the floor of the sea. Like a sailor cast on a hostile shore I try to trace its whereabouts.
CHAPTER XXIV
DOWN BY THE remains of the Ark, where we had first met, I found him again. He was sitting on a shelving rock as though he had never moved. A forlorn figure, he was, looking patiently out to sea for vanished wings.
When Aird held up his hand to me and smiled, the swift transition of his expression immediately dispelled whatever doubt I had previously entertained. In his quiet way he was delighted, and an answering spark of warmth sprang up amid the ruck and litter of my heart, making it feel a little lighter for the friendship of this man. His ability to contain his emotions aroused in me both envy and admiration. And once more, the thought came to me that I had been going through life stamped with the mortifying brand of the emotionalist. I even doubted if I were capable of feeling anything sincerely. For twenty years I had been cherishing an ideal merely to satisfy a false mood.
About Hunter Aird there was no disconcerting overflow of greeting, no hung explanations or forced summaries. He merely shook my hand and turned back to his everlasting sea. When I had seated myself beside him, he asked in a quiet voice, “Well, Landor, how has it worked out for you?”
