Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Athalie smiled to herself as at some amusing memory evoked.

  “If Mrs. Connor ever knew how she is followed about by so many purring pussies and little wagging dogs — I mean dogs and pussies who are no longer what we call ‘alive,’ — I don’t know what she’d think. Sometimes the place is full of them, Clive — such darling little creatures. Hafiz sees them; and watches and watches, but never moves.”

  Clive was staring a trifle hard; Athalie, lazily stretching her arms, glanced at him with that humorous expression which hinted of gentlest mockery.

  “Don’t worry; nothing follows you, Clive, except an idle girl who finds no time for anything else, so busy are her thoughts with you.”

  He bent forward and kissed her; and she clasped both hands behind his head, drawing it nearer.

  “Have you missed me, Athalie?”

  “You could never understand how much.”

  “Did you find me in your crystal?”

  “No; I saw only the sea and on the horizon a stain of smoke, and a gull flying.”

  He drew her closely into his arms: “God,” he breathed, “if anything ever should happen to you! — and I — alone on earth — and blind—”

  “Yes. That is the only anxiety I ever knew ... because you are blind.”

  “If you came to me I could not see you. If you spoke to me I could not hear. Could anything more awful happen?”

  “Do you care for me so much?”

  In his eyes she read her answer, and thrilled to it, closer in his arms; and rested so, her cheek against his, gazing at the sunset out of dreamy eyes.

  They had been slowly pacing the garden paths, arm within arm, when Mrs. Connor came to summon them to dinner. The small dining-room was flooded with sunset light; rosy bars of it lay across cloth and fruit and flowers, and striped the wall and ceiling.

  And when dinner was ended the pale fire still burned on the thin silk curtains and struck across the garden, gilding the coping of the wall where clustering peaches hung all turned to gold like fabled fruit that ripens in Hesperides.

  Hafiz followed them out under the evening sky and seated himself upon the grass. And he seemed mildly to enjoy the robins’ evening carolling, blinking benevolently up at the little vesper choristers, high singing in the sunset’s lingering glow.

  Whenever light puffs of wind set blossoms swaying, the jet from the fountain basin swerved, and a mellow raining sound of drops swept the still pool. The lilac twilight deepened to mauve; upon the surface of the pool a primrose tint grew duller. Then the first bat zig-zagged across the sky; and every clove-pink border became misty with the wings of dusk-moths.

  On Athalie’s frail white gown one alighted, — a little grey thing wearing a pair of peacock-tinted diamonds on its forewings; and as it sat there, quivering, the iridescent incrustations changed from burnished gold to green.

  “Wonders, wonders, under the moon,” murmured the girl— “thronging miracles that fill the day and night, always, everywhere. And so few to see them.... Sometimes, to me the blindness of the world to all the loveliness that I ‘see clearly’ is like my own blindness to the hidden wonders of the night — where uncounted myriads of little rainbow spirits fly. And nobody sees and knows the living splendour of them except when some grey-winged phantom strays indoors from the outer shadows. And it astonishes us to see, under the drab forewings, a blaze of scarlet, gold, or orange.”

  “I suppose,” he said, “that the unseen night world all around us is no more wonderful than what, in the day-world, the vast majority of us never see, never suspect.”

  “I think it must be so, Clive. Being accustomed to a more densely populated world than are many people, I believe that if I could see only what they see, — merely that small portion of activity and life which the world calls ‘living things,’ I should find the sunlit world rather empty, and the night but a silent desolation under the stars.”

  After a few minutes’ thought he asked in a low voice whether at that moment there was anybody in the garden except themselves.

  “Some people were here a little while ago, looking at the flowers. I think they must have lived here many, many years ago; perhaps when this old house was new.”

  “Could you not ask them who they were?”

  “No, dear.”

  “Why?”

  “If they were what you would call ‘alive’ I could not intrude upon them, could I? The laws of reticence, the respect for privacy, remain the same. I am conscious of no more impertinent curiosity concerning them than I am concerning any passer in the city streets.”

  “Have they gone?”

  “Yes. But all the evening I have been hearing children at play just beyond the garden wall.... And, when I was a child, somebody killed a little dog down by the causeway. He is here in the garden, now, trotting gaily about the lawn — such a happy little dog! — and Hafiz has folded his forepaws under his ruff and has settled down to watch him. Don’t you see how Hafiz watches, how his head turns following every movement of the little visitor?”

  He nodded; then: “Do you still hear the children outside the wall?”

  She sat listening, the smile brooding in her eyes.

  “Can you still hear them?” he repeated, wistfully.

  “Yes, dear.”

  “What are they saying?”

  “I can’t make out. They are having a happy time somewhere on the outer lawns.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Their voices make a sweet, confused sound like bird music before dawn. I couldn’t even guess how many children are playing there.”

  “Are any among them those children you once saw here? — the children who pleaded with you—”

  She did not answer. He tightened his arm around her waist, drawing her nearer; and she laid her cheek against his shoulder.

  “Yes,” she said, “they are there.”

  “You know their voices?”

  “Yes, dearest.”

  “Will they come again into the garden?”

  Her face flushed deeply:

  “Not unless we call them.”

  “Call them,” he said. And, after a silence: “Dearest, will you not call them to us?”

  “Oh, Clive! I have been calling. Now it remains with you.”

  “I did not hear you call them.”

  “They heard.”

  “Will they come?”

  “I — think so.”

  “When?”

  “Very soon — if you truly desire them,” she whispered against his shoulder.

  Somewhere within the house the hour struck. After a long while they rose, moving slowly, her head still lying on his shoulder. Hafiz watched them until the door closed, then settled down again to gaze on things invisible to men.

  Hours of the night in dim processional passed the old house unlighted save by the stars. Toward dawn a sea-wind stirred the trees; the fountain jet rained on the surface of the pool or, caught by a sudden breeze, drifted in whispering spray across the grass. Everywhere the darkness grew murmurous with sounds, vague as wind-blown voices; sweet as the call of children from some hill-top where the stars are very near, and the new moon’s sickle flashes through the grass.

  Athalie stirred where she lay, turned her head sideways with infinite precaution, and lay listening.

  Through the open window beside her she saw a dark sky set with stars; heard the sea-wind in the leaves and the falling water of the fountain. And very far away a sweet confused murmuring grew upon her ears.

  Silently her soul answered the far hail; her heart, responding, echoed a voiceless welcome till she became fearful lest it beat too loudly.

  Then, with infinite precaution, noiselessly, and scarcely stirring, she turned and laid her lips again where they had rested all night long and, lying so, dreamed of miracles ineffable.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  CLIVE’S enforced idleness had secretly humiliated him and made him restless. Athalie in her tender wisdom understoo
d how it was with him before he did himself, and she was already deftly guiding his balked energy into a brand new channel, the same being a bucolic one.

  At first he had demurred, alleging total ignorance of husbandry; and, seated on the sill of an open window and looking down at him in the garden, she tormented him to her heart’s content:

  “Ignorant of husbandry!” she mimicked,— “when any husband I ever heard of could go to school to you and learn what a real husband ought to be! Why will you pretend to be so painfully modest, Clive, when you are really secretly pleased with yourself and entirely convinced that, in you, the world might discover a living pattern of model domesticity!”

  “I’m glad you think so—”

  “Think! If I were only as certain of anything else! Never had I dreamed that any man could become so cowed, so spiritless, so perfectly house and yard broken—”

  “If I come upstairs,” he said, “I’ll settle you!”

  Leaning from the window overlooking the garden she lazily defied him; turned up her dainty nose at him; mocked at him until he flung aside the morning paper and rose, bent on her punishment.

  “Oh, Clive, don’t!” she pleaded, leaning low from the sill. “I won’t tease you any more, — and this gown is fresh—”

  “I’ll come up and freshen it!” he threatened.

  “Please don’t rumple me. I’ll come down if you like. Shall I?”

  “All right, darling,” he said, resuming his newspaper and cigarette.

  She came, seated herself demurely beside him, twitched his newspaper until he cast an ominous glance at his tormentor.

  “Dear,” she said, “I simply can’t let you alone; you are so bland and self-satisfied—”

  “Athalie — if you persist in tormenting me—”

  “I torment you? I? An humble accessory in the scenery set for you? I? — a stage property fashioned merely for the hero of the drama to sit upon—”

  “All right! I’ll do that now!—”

  But she nestled close to him, warding off wrath with both arms clasping his, and looking up at him out of winning eyes in which but a tormenting glint remained.

  “You wouldn’t rumple this very beautiful and brand new gown, would you, darling? It was so frightfully expensive—”

  “I don’t care—”

  “Oh, but you must care. You must become thrifty and shrewd and devious and close, or you’ll never make a successful farmer—”

  “Dearest, that’s nonsense. What do I know about farming?”

  “Nothing yet. But you know what a wonderful man you are. Never forget that, Clive—”

  “If you don’t stop laughing at me, you little wretch—”

  “Don’t you want me to remain young?” she asked reproachfully, while two tiny demons of gaiety danced in her eyes. “If I can’t laugh I’ll grow old. And there’s nothing very funny here except you and Hafiz — Oh, Clive! You have rumpled me! Please don’t do it again! Yes — yes — yes! I do surrender! I am sorry — that you are so funny — Clive! You’ll ruin this gown!... I promise not to say another disrespectful word.... I don’t know whether I’ll kiss you or not — Yes! Yes I will, dear. Yes, I’ll do it tenderly — you heartless wretch! — I tell you I’ll do it tenderly.... Oh wait, Clive! Is Mrs. Connor looking out of any window? Where’s Connor? Are you sure he’s not in sight?... And I shouldn’t care to have Hafiz see us. He’s a moral kitty—”

  She pretended to look fearfully around, then, with adorable tenderness, she paid her forfeit and sat silent for a while with her slim white fingers linked in his, in that breathless little revery which always stilled her under the magic of his embrace.

  He said at last: “Do you really suppose I could make this farm-land pay?”

  And that was really the beginning of it all.

  Once decided he seemed to go rather mad about it, buying agricultural paraphernalia recklessly and indiscriminately for a meditated assault upon fields long fallow.

  Connor already had as much as he could attend to in the garden; but, like all Irishmen, he had a cousin, and the cousin possessed agricultural lore and a pair of plough-horses.

  So early fall ploughing developed into a mania with Clive and Athalie; and they formed a habit of sitting side by side like a pair of birds on fences in the early October sunshine, their fascinated eyes following the brown furrows turning where one T. Phelan was breaking up pasture and meadow too long sod-bound.

  In intervals between tenderer and more intimate exchange of sentiments they discussed such subjects as lime, nitrogen, phosphoric acid, and the rotation of crops.

  Also Athalie had accumulated much literature concerning incubators, brooders, and the several breeds of domestic fowl; and on paper they had figured out overwhelming profits.

  The insidious land-hunger which attacks all who contemplate making two dozen blades of grass grow where none grew before, now seized upon Clive and gnawed him. And he extended the acreage, taking in woods and uplands as far as the headwaters of Spring Pond Brook, vastly to Athalie’s delight.

  So the October days burned like a procession of golden flames passing in magic sequence amid yellowing woods and over the brown and spongy gold of salt meadows which had been sheared for stable bedding. And everywhere over their land lay the dun-coloured velvet squares of freshly ploughed fields awaiting unfragrant fertilizer and the autumn rains.

  The rains came heavily toward the end of October; and November was grey and wet and rather warm. But open fires became necessary in the house, and now they regularly reddened the twilight in library and living-room when the early November dusk brought Athalie and Clive indoors.

  Hither they came, the fire-lit hearth their trysting place after they had exchanged their rain-drenched clothes for something dry; and there they curled up on the wide sofas and watched the swift darkness fall, and the walls and ceiling redden.

  It was an hour which Athalie had once read of as the “Children’s Hour” and now she understood better its charming significance. And she kept it religiously, permitting herself to do nothing, and making Clive defer anything he had to do, until after dinner. Then he might read his paper or book, and she could take up her sewing if she chose, or study, or play, or write the few letters that she cared to write.

  Clive wrote no more, now. In this first year together they desired each other only, indifferent to all else outside.

  It was to her the magic year of fulfilment; to him an enchanted interlude wherein only the girl beside him mattered.

  Athalie sewed a great deal on odd, delicate, sheer materials where narrowness and length ruled proportions, and where there seemed to be required much lace and many little ribbons. Also she hummed to herself as she sewed, singing under her breath endless airs which had slipped into her head she scarce knew when or how.

  An odd and fragrant freshness seemed to cling to her making her almost absurdly youthful, as though she had suddenly dropped back to her girlhood. Clive noticed it.

  “You look about sixteen,” he said.

  “My heart is younger, dear.”

  “How young?”

  “You know when it was born, don’t you? Very well, it is as many days old as I have been in love with you. Before that it was a muscle capable merely of sturdy friendship.”

  One day a packet came from New York for her. It contained two rings, one magnificent, the other a plain circlet. She kissed him rather shyly, wore both that evening, but not again.

  “I am not ashamed,” she explained serenely. “Folkways are now a matter of indifference to me. Civilisation must offer me a better argument than it has offered hitherto before I resign to it my right in you, or deny your right to me.”

  He knew that civilisation would lock them out and remain unconcerned as to what became of them. Doubtless she knew it too, as she sat there sewing on the frail garment which lay across her knee and singing blithely under her breath some air with cadence like a berceuse.

  During the “Children’s Hour” she sat bes
ide him, always quiet; or if stirred from her revery to a brief exchange of low-voiced words, she soon relapsed once more into that happy, brooding silence by the firelight.

  Then came dinner, and the awakened gaiety of unquenched spirits; then the blessed evening hours with him.

  But the last hour of these she called her hour; and always laid aside her book or sewing, and slipped from the couch to the floor at his feet, laying her head against his knees.

  Snow came in December; and Christmas followed. They kept the mystic festival alone together; and Athalie had a tiny tree lighted in the room between hers and Clive’s, and hung it with toys and picture books.

  It was very pretty in its tinsel and tinted globes; and its faint light glimmered on the walls and dainty furniture of the dim pink room.

  Afterward Athalie laid away tinsel and toy, wrapping all safely in tissue, as though to be kept secure and fresh for another Christmas — the most wonderful that any girl could dream of. And perhaps it was to be even more wonderful than Athalie had dreamed.

  December turned very cold. The ice thickened; and she skated with Clive on Spring Pond. The ice also remained through January and February that winter; but after December had ended Athalie skated no more.

  Clive, unknown to her, had sent for a Shaker cloak and hood of scarlet; and when it arrived Athalie threw back her lovely head and laughed till the tears dimmed her eyes.

  “All the same,” he said, “you don’t look much older in it than you looked in your red hood and cloak the first day I ever set eyes on you.”

  “You poor darling! — as though even you could push back the hands of Time! It’s the funniest and sweetest thing you ever did — to send for this red, hooded cloak.”

  However she wore it whenever she ventured out with him on foot or in the sleigh which he had bought. Once, coming home, she was still wearing it when Mrs. Connor brought to them two peach turnovers.