“It’s rather dark,” she said.
They walked for a few minutes in silence; and, at first, she could not understand why he insisted on leading, because the path was wide enough for both.
“I will not proceed in this absurd manner,” she said at last— “like an Indian and his faithful squaw. Why on earth do you—”
And it flashed across her at the same instant.
“Is that why?” — imperiously abrupt.
“What?” he asked, halting.
She passed her arm through his, not gently, but her laughing voice was very friendly:
“If we jump a snake in the dark, my friend, we jump him together! It’s like you, but your friend Shiela won’t permit it.”
“Oh, it’s only a conventional precaution—”
“Yes? Well, we’ll take chances together.... Suppose — by the wildest and weirdest stretch of a highly coloured imagination you jumped a rattler?”
“Nonsense—”
“Suppose you did?”
He said, sobered: “It would be horribly awkward for you to explain. I forgot about—”
“She walked a few paces toward the house, halted, and looked back audaciously.”
“Do you think I meant that! Do you think I’d care what people might say about our being here together? I — I’d want them to know it! What would I care — about — anything — then!”
Through the scorn in her voice he detected the awakened emotion; and, responsive, his pulse quickened, beating hard and heavy in throat and breast.
“I had almost forgotten,” he said, “that we might dare look at things that way.... It all has been so — hopeless — lately—”
“What?... Yes, I understand.”
“Do you? — my trying to let you alone — trying to think differently — to ignore all that has been said?”
“Yes.... This is no time to bring up such things.” Her uneven breathing was perceptible to him as she moved by his side through the darkness, her arm resting on his.
No, this was no time to bring up such things. They knew it. And she, who in the confidence of her youth had dared to trust her unknown self, listened now to the startled beating of her heart at the first hint of peril.
“I wish I had not come,” she said.
He did not ask her why.
“You are very silent — you have been so for days,” she added; then, too late, knew that once more her tongue had betrayed her. “Don’t answer me,” she whispered.
“Why not?”
“Because what I say is folly.... I — I must ask you to release my hands.... You know it is only because I think it safer for — us; don’t you?”
“What threatens you. Calypso?”
“Nothing.... I told you once that I am afraid — even in daylight. Ask yourself what I fear here under the stars with you.”
“You fear me?” — managing to laugh.
“No; I dread your ally — my unknown self — in arms eternally to fight for you,” she answered with forced gaiety. “Shall we kill her to-night? She deserves no consideration at our hands.”
“Dear—”
“Hush! That is not the countersign on the firing line. Besides it is treachery, because to say that word is aiding, abetting, and giving information and comfort to our enemies. Our enemies, remember, are our other and stealthy selves.” Her voice broke unsteadily. “I am trying so hard,” she breathed, “but I cannot think clearly unless you help me. There is mutiny threatening somewhere.”
“I have tried, too,” he said.
“I know you have. Do you suppose I have been untouched by your consideration for me all these long days — your quiet cheerfulness — your dear unselfishness — the forbidden word! — but what synonym am I to use?... Oh, I know, I know what you are doing, thinking, feeling — believe me — believe me, I know! And — it is what you must do, of course. But — if you only did not show it so plainly — the effort — the strain — the hurt—”
“Do I show it?” he asked, chagrined. “I did not know that.”
“Only to me — because I know. And I remember how young you were — that first day. Your whole expression has changed.... And I know why.... At times it scarcely seems that I can bear it — when I see your mouth laughing at the world and your eyes without mirth — dead — and the youth in you so altered, so quenched, so — forgive me! — so useless—”
“To what better use could I devote it, Shiela?”
“Oh, you don’t know! — you don’t know! — You are free; there are other women, other hopes — try to understand what freedom means!”
“It means — you,, Shiela.”
She fell silent; then:
“Wherever I turn, whatever I say — all paths and words lead back again to you and me. I should not have come.”
The hard, hammering pulse in his throat made it difficult for him to speak; but he managed to force an unsteady laugh; “Shiela, there is only one way for me, now — to fire and fall back. I’ve got to go up to Portlaw’s camp anyhow—”
“And after that?”
“Mrs. Ascott wants a miniature Versailles. I’ll show you the rough sketches—”
“And after that?”
“I’ve one or two promises—”
“And afterward?”
“Nothing.”
“You will never — see me — again. Is that what ‘nothing’ means?”
They walked on in silence. The path had now become palely illumined; the sound of the surf was very near. Another step or two and they stood on the forest’s edge.
A spectral ocean stretched away under the stars; ghostly rollers thundered along the sands. North and south dunes glimmered; and the hot fragrance of sweet-bay mingled with the mounting savour of the sea.
She looked at the sea, the stars, blindly, lips apart, teeth closed, her arm still resting on his.
“Nothing,” she repeated under her breath; “that was the best answer.... Don’t touch my hand!... I was mad to come here.... How close and hot it is! What is that new odour — so fresh and sweet—”
“China-berry in bloom—”
“Is it?”
“I’m not sure; once I thought it was — you; the fragrance of your hair and breath — Calypso.”
“When did you think that?”
“Our first night together.”
She said: “I think this is our last.”
He stood for a while, motionless; slowly raised his head and looked straight into her eyes; took her in his arms; holding her loosely.
White of cheek and lip, rigid, her eyes met his in breathless suspense. Fear widened them; her hands tightened on his wrists behind her.
“Will you love me?”
“No!” she gasped.
“Is there no chance?”
“No!”
Her heart was running riot; every pulse in rebellion. A cloud possessed her senses, through which her eyes fought desperately for sight.
“Give me a memory — to carry through the years,” he said unsteadily.
“No.”
“Not one?”
“No!”
“To help us endure?”
Suddenly she turned in his arms, covering her eyes with both hands.
“Take — what — you wish—” she panted.
He touched one slim rigid finger after another, but they clung fast to the pallid face. Time and space reeled through silence. Then slowly, lids still sealed with desperate white hands, her head sank backward.
Untaught, her lips yielded coldly; but the body, stunned, swayed toward him as he released her; and, his arm supporting her, they turned blindly toward the path. Without power, without will, passive, dependent on his strength, her trembling knees almost failed her. She seemed unconscious of his lips on her cheek, on her hair — of her cold hands crushed in his, of the words he uttered — senseless, broken phrases, questions to which her silence answered and her closed lids acquiesced. If love was what he was asking for, why did he ask? He h
ad his will of her lips, her hair, her slim fragrant hands; and now of her tears — for the lashes were wet and the mouth trembled. Her mind was slowly awaking to pain.
With it, far within her in unknown depths, something else stirred, stilling her swelling heart. Then every vein in her grew warm; and the quick tears sprang to her eyes.
“Dearest — dearest—” he whispered. Through the dim star-pallor she turned toward him, halted, passing her finger-tips across her lashes.
“After all,” she said, “it was too late. If there is any sin in loving you it happened long ago — not to-night.... It began from the — the beginning. Does the touch of your lips make me any worse?... But I am not afraid — if you wish it — now that I know I always loved you.”
“Shiela! Shiela, little sweetheart—”
“I love you so — I love you so,” she said. “I cannot help it any more than I could in dreams — any more than I could when we met in the sea and the fog.... Should I lie to myself and you? I know I can never have you for mine; I know — I know. But if you will be near me when you can — if you will only be near — sometimes—”
She pressed both his hands close between hers.
“Dear — can you give up your freedom for a girl you cannot have?”
“I did so long since.”
She bent and laid her lips on his hands, gravely.
“I must say something — that disturbs me a little. May I? Then, there are perils — warnings — veiled hints.... They mean nothing definite to me.... Should I be wiser?... It is difficult to say — senseless — showing my ignorance, but I thought if there were perils that I should know about — that could possibly concern me, now, you would tell me, somehow — in time—”
For a moment the revelation of her faith and innocence — the disclosure of how strange and lost she felt in the overwhelming catastrophe of forbidden love — how ignorant, how alone, left him without a word to utter.
She said, still looking down at his hands held between her own:
“A girl who has done what I have done, loses her bearings.... I don’t know yet how desperately bad I am. However, one thing remains clear — only one — that no harm could come to — my family — even if I have given myself to you. And when I did it, only the cowardly idea that I was wronging myself persisted. If that is my only sin — you are worth it. And if I committed worse — I am not repentant. But — dear, what you have done to me has so utterly changed me that — things that I never before heeded or comprehended trouble me. Yesterday I could not have understood what to-night I have done. So, if there lies any unknown peril in to-morrow, or the days to come — if you love me you will tell me.... Yet I cannot believe in it. Dearly as I love you I would not raise one finger to comfort you at their expense. I would not go away with you; I would not seek my freedom for your sake. If there is in my love anything base or selfish I am not conscious of it. I cannot marry you; I can only live on, loving you. What danger can there be in that for you and me?”
“None,” he said.
She sighed happily, lifted her eyes, yielded to his arms, sighing her heart out, lips against his.
Somewhere in the forest a bird awoke singing like a soul in Paradise.
CHAPTER XVI
AN ULTIMATUM
With the beginning of March the end of the so-called social season, south of Jupiter Light, is close at hand. First, the great winter hotels close; then, one by one, doors and gates of villa and cottage are locked, bright awnings and lawn shades furled and laid away, blinds bolted, flags lowered. All summer long villa and caravansary alike stand sealed and silent amid their gardens, blazing under the pale fierce splendour of an unclouded sky; tenantless, save where, beside opened doors of quarters, black recumbent figures sprawl asleep, shiny faces fairly sizzling in the rays of a vertical sun.
The row of shops facing the gardens, the white streets, quay, pier, wharf are deserted and silent. Rarely a human being passes; the sands are abandoned except by some stray beach-comber; only at the station remains any sign of life where trains are being loaded for the North, or roll in across the long draw-bridge, steaming south to that magic port from which the white P. and O. steamers sail away into regions of eternal sunshine.
So passes Palm Beach into its long summer sleep; and the haunts of men are desolate. But it is otherwise with the Wild.
Night and the March moon awake the winter-dormant wilderness from the white man’s deadening spell. Now, unrestrained, the sound of negro singing floats inland on the sea-wind from inlet, bar, and glassy-still lagoon; great, cumbersome, shadowy things lumber down to tidewater — huge turtles on egg-laying intent. In the dune-hammock the black bear, crab-hungry, awakes from his December sleep and claws the palmetto fruit; the bay lynx steals beachward; a dozen little deaths hatch from the diamond-back, alive; and the mean gray fox uncurls and scratches ticks, grinning, red-gummed, at the moon.
Edging the Everglades, flat-flanked panthers prowl, ears and tail-tips twitching; doe and buck listen from the cypress shades; the razor-back clatters his tusks, and his dull and furry ears stand forward and his dull eyes redden. Then the silver mullet leap in the moonlight, and the tiger-owl floats soundlessly to his plunging perch, and his daring yellow glare flashes even when an otter splashes or a tiny fawn stirs.
And very, very far away, under the stars, rolls the dull bull-bellow of the ‘gator, labouring, lumbering, clawing across the saw-grass seas; and all the little striped pigs run, bucking madly, to their dangerous and silent dam who listens, rigid, horny nose aquiver in the wind.
So wakes the Wild when the white men turn northward under the March moon; and, as though released from the same occult restraint, tree and shrub break out at last into riotous florescence: swamp maple sets the cypress shade afire; the cassava lights its orange elf-lamps; dogwood snows in the woods; every magnolia is set with great white chalices divinely scented, and the Royal Poinciana crowns itself with cardinal magnificence.
All day long brilliant butterflies hover on great curved wings over the jungle edge; all day long the cock-quail whistles from wall and hedge, and the crestless jays, sapphire winged, flit across the dunes. Red-bellied woodpeckers gossip in live-oak, sweet-gum, and ancient palm; gray squirrels chatter from pine to bitter-nut; the iridescent little ground-doves, mated for life, run fearlessly under foot or leap up into snapping flight with a flash of saffron-tinted wings. Under the mangroves the pink ajajas preen and wade; and the white ibis walks the woods like a little absent-minded ghost buried in unearthly reverie.
Truly when madam closes her Villa Tillandsia, and when Coquina Court is bereft of mistress and household — butler, footman, maid, and flunky; and when Tsa-na Lah-ni is abandoned by its handsome chatelaine, and the corridors of the vast hotels are dark, it is fashion, not common sense that stirs the flock of gaily gregarious immigrants into premature northern flight; for they go, alas! just as the southland clothes itself in beauty, and are already gone when the Poinciana opens, leaving Paradise to blossom for the lesser brothers of the woodland and the dark-skinned children of the sun.
The toddling Moses of the Exodus, as usual, was Courtlandt Classon; the ornamental Miriam, Mrs. O’Hara; and the children of the preferred stock started North with cymbals and with dances, making a joyful noise, and camping en route at Ormond — vastly more beautiful than the fashion-infested coral reef from which they started — at Saint Augustine, on corporate compulsion, at the great inns of Hampton, Hot Springs, and Old Point, for fashion’s sake — taking their falling temperature by degrees — as though any tropic could compare with the scorching suffocation of Manhattan town.
Before the Beach Club closed certain species of humanity left in a body, including a number of the unfledged, and one or two pretty opportunists. Portlaw went, also Malcourt.
It required impudence, optimism, and executive ability for Malcourt to make his separate adieux and render impartial justice on each occasion.
There was a girl at “The Breakers” who was ra
ther apt to slop over, so that interview was timed for noon, when the sun dries up everything very quickly, including such by-products as tears.
Then there was Miss Suydani to ride with at five o’clock on the beach, where the chain of destruction linked mullet and osprey and ended with the robber eagle — and Malcourt — if he chose.
But here there were no tears for the westering sun to dry, only strangely quenched eyes, more green than blue, for Malcourt to study, furtively; only the pale oval of a face to examine, curiously, and not too cynically; and a mouth, somewhat colourless, to reassure without conviction — also without self-conviction. This was all — except a pair of slim, clinging hands to release when the time came, using discretion — and some amiable firmness if required.
They were discussing the passing of the old régime, for lack of a safer theme; and he had spoken flippantly of the decadence of the old families — his arm around her and her pale cheek against his shoulder.
She listened rather absently; her heart was very full and she was thinking of other matters. But as he continued she answered at length, hesitating, using phrases as trite and quaintly stilted as the theme itself, gently defending the old names he sneered at. And in her words he savoured a certain old-time flavour of primness and pride — a vaguely delicate hint of resentment, which it amused him to excite. Pacing the dunes with her waist enlaced, he said, to incite retort:
“The old families are done for. Decadent in morals, in physique, mean mentally and spiritually, they are even worse off than respectfully cherished ruins, because they are out of fashion; they and their dingy dwellings. Our house is on the market; I’d be glad to see it sold only Tressilvain will get half.”
“In you,” she said, “there seems to be other things, besides reverence, which are out of fashion.”
He continued, smilingly: “As the old mansions disappear, Virginia, so disintegrate those families whose ancestors gave names to the old lanes of New Amsterdam. I reverence neither the one nor the other. Good riddance! The fit alone survive.”
“I still survive, if you please.”
“Proving the rule, dear. But, yourself excepted, look at the few of us who chance to be here in the South. Look at Courtlandt Classon, intellectually destitute! Cuyp, a mental brother to the ox; and Vetchen to the ass; and Mrs. Van Dieman to somebody’s maidservant — that old harridan with all the patrician distinction of a Dame des Halles—”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 387