Works of Robert W Chambers
Page 803
A fire had been lighted in the ancient stove; and they went out to the sun-parlour, — once the bar — and sat in the same old arm-chairs exactly as they had been seated that night so long ago; and there they ate their peach turnovers, their enchanted eyes meeting, striving to realise it all, and the intricate ways of Destiny and Chance and Fate.
February was a month of heavy snows that year; great drifts buried the fences and remained until well into March. April was April, — and very much so; but they saw the blue waters of the bay sometimes; and dogwood and willow stems were already aglow with colour; and a premature blue-bird sang near Athalie’s garden. Crocuses appeared everywhere with grape hyacinths and snow-drops. Then jonquil and narcissus opened in all their loveliness, and soft winds stirred the waters of the fountain.
May found the garden uncovered, with tender amber-tinted shoots and exquisite fronds of green wherever the lifted mulch disclosed the earth. Also peonies were up and larkspur, and the ambitious promise of the hollyhocks delighted Athalie.
Pink peach buds bloomed; cherry, pear, and apple covered the trees with rosy snow; birds sang everywhere; and the waters of the pool mirrored a sky of purest blue. But Athalie now walked no further than the garden seat, — and walked slowly, leaning always on Clive’s arm.
In those days throughout May her mother was with her in her room almost every night. But Athalie did not speak of this to Clive.
CHAPTER XXIX
SPRING ploughing had been proceeding for some time now, but Athalie did not feel equal to walking cross-lots over ploughed ground, so she let Clive go alone on tours of inspection.
But these absences were brief; he did not care to remain away from Athalie for more than an hour at a time. So, T. Phelan ploughed on, practically unmolested and untormented by questions, suggestions, and advice. Which liberty was to his liking. And he loafed much.
In these latter days of May Athalie spent a great deal of her time among her cushions and wraps on the garden seat near the fountain. On his return from prowling about the farm Clive was sure to find her there, reading or sewing, or curled up among her cushions in the sun with Hafiz purring on her lap.
And she would look up at Clive out of sleepy, humorous eyes in which glimmered a smile of greeting, or she would pretend surprise and disapproval at his long absence of half an hour with: “Well, C. Bailey, Junior! Where do you come from now?”
The phases of awakening spring in the garden seemed to be an endless source of pleasure to the girl; she would sit for hours looking at the pale lilac-tinted wistaria clusters hanging over the naked wall and watching plundering bumble-bees scrambling from blossom to blossom.
And when at the base of the wall, the spiked buds of silvery-grey iris unfolded, and their delicate fragrance filled the air, the exquisite mingling of the two odours and the two shades of mauve thrilled her as no perfume, no colour had ever affected her.
The little colonies of lily-of-the-valley came into delicate bloom under the fringing shrubbery; golden bell flower, pink and vermilion cydonia, roses, all bloomed and had their day; lilac bushes were weighted with their heavy, dewy clusters; the sweet-brier’s green tracery grew into tender leaf and its matchless perfume became apparent when the sun fell hot.
In the warm air there seemed to brood the exquisite hesitation of happy suspense, — a delicious and breathless sense of waiting for something still more wonderful to come.
And when Athalie felt it stealing over her she looked at Clive and knew that he also felt it. Then her slim hand would steal into his and nestle there, content, fearless, blissfully confident of what was to be.
But it was subtly otherwise with Clive. Once or twice she felt his hand tremble slightly as though a slight shiver had passed over him; and when again she noticed it she asked him why.
“Nothing,” he said in a strained voice; “I am very, very happy.”
“I know it.... There is no fear mingling with your happiness; is there, Clive?”
But before he replied she knew that it was so.
“Dearest,” she murmured, “dearest! You must not be afraid for me.”
And suddenly the long pent fears strangled him; he could not speak; and she felt his lips, hot and tremulous against her hand.
“My heart!” she whispered, “all will go well. There is absolutely no reason for you to be afraid.”
“Do you know it?”
“Yes, I know it. I am certain of it, darling. Everything will turn out as it should.... I can’t bear to have the most beautiful moments of our lives made sad for you by apprehension. Won’t you believe me that all will go well?”
“Yes.”
“Then smile at me, Clive.”
His under lip was still unsteady as he drew nearer and took her into his arms.
“God wouldn’t do such harm,” he said. “He couldn’t! All must go well.”
She smiled gaily and framed his head with her hands:
“You’re just a boy, aren’t you, C. Bailey, Junior? — just a big boy, yet. As though the God we understand — you and I — could deal otherwise than tenderly with us. He knows how rare love really is. He will not disturb it. The world needs it for seed.”
The smile gradually faded from Clive’s face; he shook his head, slightly:
“If I had known — if I had understood—”
“What, darling?”
“The hazard — the chances you are to take—”
But she laughed deliciously, and sealed his mouth with her fragrant hand, bidding him hunt for other sources of worry if he really was bent on scaring himself.
Later she asked him for a calendar, and he brought it, and together they looked over it where several of the last days of May had been marked with a pencil.
As she sat beside him, studying the printed sequence of the days, a smile hovering on her lips, he thought he had never seen her so beautiful.
A soft wind blew the bright tendrils of her hair across her cheeks; her skin was like a little girl’s, rose and snow, smooth as a child’s; her eyes clearly, darkly blue — the hue and tint called azure — like the colour of the zenith on some still June day.
And through the glow of her superb and youthful symmetry, ever, it seemed to him, some inward radiance pulsated, burning in her golden burnished hair, in scarlet on her lips, making lovely the soft splendour of her eyes. Hers was the fresh, sweet beauty of ardent youth and spring incarnate, — neither frail and colourlessly spiritual, nor tainted with the stain of clay.
Sometimes Athalie lunched there in the garden with him, Hafiz, seated on the bench beside them, politely observant, condescending to receive a morsel now and then.
It was on such a day, at noon-tide, that Athalie bent over toward him, touched his hair with her lips, then whispered something very low.
“Sometimes Athalie lunched there in the garden with him.”
His face went white, but he smiled and rose, — came back swiftly to kiss her hands — then entered the house and telephoned to New York.
When he came back to her she was ready to rise, lean on his arm, and walk leisurely to the house.
On the way she called his attention to a pale blue sheet of forget-me-nots spreading under the shrubbery. She noticed other new blossoms in the garden, lingered before the bed of white pansies. “Like little faces,” she said with a faint smile.
One silvery-grey iris he broke from its sheathed stem and gave her; she moved slowly on with the scented blossom lifted to her lips.
In the hall a starched and immaculate nurse met her with a significant nod of understanding. And so, between Clive and the trained nurse she mounted the stairs to her room.
Later Clive came in to sit beside her where she lay on her dainty bed. She turned her flushed face on the pillow, smiled at him, and lifted her neck a little; and he slipped one arm under it.
“Such a wonderful pillow your shoulder makes,” she murmured.... “I am thinking of the first time I ever knew it.... So quiet I lay, — such infinite cauti
on I used whenever I moved.... That night the air was musical with children’s voices — everywhere under the stars — softly garrulous, laughing, lisping, calling from the hills and meadows.... That night of miracles and of stars — my dear — my dearest!—”
Close to her cheek he breathed: “Are you in pain?”
“Oh, Clive! I am so happy. I love you so — I love you so.”
Then nurse and physician came in and the latter took him by the arm and walked out of the room with him. For a long while they paced the passage-way together in whispered conversation before the nurse came to the door and nodded.
Both went in: Athalie laughed and put up her arms as Clive bent over her.
“All will be well,” she whispered, kissed him, then turned her head sharply to the right.
When he found himself in the garden, walking at random, the sun hung a hand’s breadth over the woods. Later it seemed to become entangled amid new leaves and half-naked branches, hanging there motionless, blinding, glittering through an eternity of time.
And yet he did not notice when twilight came, nor when the dusk’s purple turned to night until he saw lights turned up on both floors.
Nobody summoned him to dinner but he did not notice that. Connor came to him there in the darkness and said that two other physicians had arrived with another nurse. He went into the library where they were just leaving to mount the stairs. They looked at him as they passed but merely bowed and said nothing.
A steady, persistent clangour vibrated in his brain, dulling it, so that senses like sight and hearing seemed slow as though drugged.
Suddenly like a sword the most terrible fear he ever knew passed through him.... And after a while the dull, ringing clangour came back, dinning, stupefying, interminable. Yet he was conscious of every sound, every movement on the floor above.
One of the physicians came halfway down the stairs, looked at him; and he rose mechanically and went up.
He saw nothing clearly in the room until he bent over Athalie.
Her eyes unclosed. She whispered: “It is all right, beloved.”
Somebody led him out. He kept on, conscious of the grasp on his arm, but seeing nothing.
He had been walking for a long while, somewhere between light and darkness, — perhaps for hours, perhaps minutes. Then somebody came who laid an arm about his shoulder and spoke of courage.
Other people were in the room, now. One said:
“Don’t go up yet.”... Once he noticed a woman, Mrs. Connor, crying. Connor led her away.
Others moved about or stood silent; and some one was always drawing near him, speaking of courage. It was odd that so much darkness should invade a lighted room.
Then somebody came down the stairs, noiselessly. The house was very still.
And at last they let him go upstairs.
CHAPTER XXX
LIGHTS yet burned on the lower floors and behind the drawn blinds of Athalie’s room. The night was quiet and soft and lovely; the moon still young in its first quarter.
There was no wind to blow the fountain jet, so that every drop fell straight back where the slim column of water broke against a strip of stars above the garden wall. Somewhere in distant darkness the little owl trilled.
If he were walking or motionless he no longer knew it; nor did he seem to be aware of anything around.
Hafiz came up to him through the dusk with a little mew of recognition or of loneliness. Afterward the cat followed him for a while and then settled down upon the grass intent on the invisible stirring stealthily in obscurity.
The fragrance of the iris grew sweeter, fresher. Many new buds had unfolded since high noon. One stalk had fallen across the path and Clive’s dragging feet passed over it where he moved blindly, at hazard, with stumbling steps along the path — errant, senseless, and always blind.
For on the garden bench a young girl sat, slender, exquisite, smiling as he approached. But he could not see her, nor could he see in her arms the little flower-like face, and the tiny hands against her breast.
“Clive!” she said. But he could not hear her.
“Clive,” she whispered; “my beloved!”
But he could neither see nor hear. His knees, too, were failing; he put out one hand, blindly, and sank down upon the garden bench.
All night long she sat beside him, her head against his shoulder, sometimes touching his drawn face with warm, sweet lips, sometimes looking down at the little face pressed to her quiet breast.
And all night long the light burned behind the closed blinds of her room; and the little silvery dusk-moths floated in and out of the rays. And Hafiz, sitting on the grass, watched them sometimes; sometimes he gazed at his young mistress out of wide, unblinking eyes.
“Hafiz,” she murmured lazily in her sweetly humorous way.
The cat uttered a soft little mew but did not move. And when she laid her cheek close to Clive’s whispering,— “I love you — I love you so!” — he never stirred.
Her blue eyes, brooding, grew patient, calm, and tender; she looked down silently into the little face close cradled in her arms.
Then the child’s eyes opened like two blue stars; and she bent over in a swift ecstasy of bliss, covering the flower-like face with kisses.
THE END
THE DARK STAR
CONTENTS
PREFACE: CHILDREN OF THE STAR
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
“My darling Rue — my little Rue Carew––”
TO MY FRIEND
EDGAR SISSON
Dans c’métier-là, faut
rien chercher à comprendre.
René Benjamin
ALAK’S SONG
Where are you going,
Naïa?
Through the still noon —
Where are you going?
To hear the thunder of the sea
And the wind blowing! —
To find a stormy moon to comfort me
Across the dune!
Why are you weeping,
Naïa?
Through the still noon —
Why are you weeping?
Because I found no wind, no sea,
No white surf leaping,
Nor any flying moon to comfort me
Upon the dune.
What did you see there,
Naïa?
In the still noon —
What did you see there?
Only the parched world drowsed in drought,
And a fat bee, there,
Prying and probing at a poppy’s mouth
That drooped a-swoon.
What did you hear there,
Naïa?
In the still noon —
What did you hear there?
Only a kestrel’s lonely cry
From the wood near there —
A rustle in the wheat as I passed by —
A cricket’s rune.
Who led you homeward,
Naïa?
Through the still noon —
Who led you homeward?
My soul wit
hin me sought the sea,
Leading me foam-ward:
But the lost moon’s ghost returned with me
Through the high noon.
Where is your soul then,
Naïa?
Lost at high noon —
Where is your soul then?
It wanders East — or West — I think —
Or near the Pole, then —
Or died — perhaps there on the dune’s dry brink
Seeking the moon.
THE DARK STAR
“The dying star grew dark; the last light faded from it; went out. Prince Erlik laughed.
“And suddenly the old order of things began to pass away more swiftly.
“Between earth and outer space — between Creator and created, confusing and confounding their identities, — a rushing darkness grew — the hurrying wrack of immemorial storms heralding whirlwinds through which Truth alone survives.
“Awaiting the inevitable reëstablishment of such temporary conventions as render the incident of human existence possible, the brooding Demon which men call Truth stares steadily at Tengri under the high stars which are passing too, and which at last shall pass away and leave the Demon watching all alone amid the ruins of eternity.”
The Prophet of the Kiot Bordjiguen
PREFACE: CHILDREN OF THE STAR
Not the dark companion of Sirius, brightest of all stars — not our own chill and spectral planet rushing toward Vega in the constellation of Lyra — presided at the birth of millions born to corroborate a bloody horoscope.
But a Dark Star, speeding unseen through space, known to the ancients, by them called Erlik, after the Prince of Darkness, ruled at the birth of those myriad souls destined to be engulfed in the earthquake of the ages, or flung by it out of the ordered pathway of their lives into strange byways, stranger highways — into deeps and deserts never dreamed of.
Also one of the dozen odd temporary stars on record blazed up on that day, flared for a month or two, dwindled to a cinder, and went out.