Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 31
“Don’t look at me like that!” she exclaimed, her face flaming. “Go home and put some clothes on your wolfish body.”
I departed, supremely happy.
* * * * *
THE evening before John Elliott returned I brought Hilda to this pavilion by the salt marshes, and when I introduced her to it, I invested the ceremony with an air of elaborate mystery. This I did partly from fear lest the scene might fail to impress her as deeply as it had me, and partly to lessen the feeling of restraint which had fallen like a shadow between us.
When we arrived at the border of the bush-fringed declivity I bade her turn her back to me and to remain motionless with closed eyes. Then I slipped quietly down the hidden ledge and called to her in a muffled voice.
“David,” she answered, bewildered, “where have you gone? Where are you?”
“Far away from everything,” I replied. “You’ll never find me now.”
In the intervening silence I could hear her moving about on the bank above my head. Then she called to me again and this time I detected a frightened note in her voice.
“David, David, where are you?” she cried.
“At your feet,” I answered reassuringly, but even as I spoke she stepped over the ledge and with a startled cry came tumbling down into my arms. Her warm little body was all crumpled and confused and her face was buried in my neck. I could feel her breath coming in short, surprised gasps as her heart throbbed excitedly against mine. Her arms clung to my shoulders and her hair lay round me in a fragrant maze.
“David,” she said, “put me down.”
Without answering I carried her through the reeds and deposited her on the mat. For an instant she regarded me with frightened eyes, then she smiled and drew a deep breath. I watched her expression as her gaze moved to the marshes and rested there. Slowly her face lighted up with wonder, her eyes seemed to grow deeper and bluer and presently her lips parted in a puzzled smile.
“Why, David,” she said in a low voice, “I feel as if I’d been here before. It’s all so natural and familiar and yet it’s strange... like a half-remembered dream.”
“Then you like it?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Your lost chapel by the marshes has become a part of me already. I shall never forget it. See how fresh and green the island lies with the tall trees waving on it. How peaceful it seems over there.”
“Hardly a part of this world,” I suggested.
“No,” she murmured. “It’s like another one — a fairer place.”
“Cut off from life by quicksand and hidden streams,” I continued. “Acres of false ground protected by an army of reeds separate us from the island.”
“Somehow it’s like life, isn’t it?” she replied. “We have to wade through the mire to reach the beautiful things we want.”
The silence of the place settled round us. I looked at Hilda and my heart went out to her. She was so near and desirable, so vitally necessary to me. I could not bring myself to face the thought that perhaps this would be the last evening we would spend together. It made me feel rebellious, unfitting me for the role I was supposed to play.
“Hilda,” I said, taking her hand and raising it to my lips, “don’t you wish we could reach the island together? It’s impossible to believe that we’ll never be like this again. I can’t go on.”
“David,” she warned in a strained voice, “even now our feet are on false ground.”
I dropped my eyes to the small hand lying so confidingly in mine. It’s trustfulness disarmed me.
“I shall need your friendship more than ever now,” she continued, looking at me with unnaturally bright eyes. “Keep giving it.”
The sun dipped down behind the island and lay glowing through the trees like a beautiful Japanese screen. I watched the colors spill out over the shadow-filled plain of the marshes, where they were gathered up by the currents and carried away to the sea.
“Friend,” she whispered, lightly pressing my hand, “continue to be my friend — only that.”
* * * * *
WHEN I returned to the cottage I stood for a long time on the lawn, striving to reconcile myself to the fact that Hilda had gone back to a house in which she would no longer be alone. A feeling of unutterable loss crept into my heart and settled there for a long sojourn. Silken rugs of moonlight were strewn across the grass, the lilac bushes were sprayed with yellow mist. Against the black trees of the grove the little white cottage stood sharply silhouetted. The quiet beauty of the scene hurt me. Now that I was separated from Hilda its loveliness served only to remind me of her absence. For the first time since I had left the city I felt a desire to return to it.... New York, its streets and its women... one could lose oneself there very easily and destroy beauty in a few short hours, but the memory of it would always linger like a secret betrayal.
A pool of light falling at my feet made me to raise my head. Scarlet was leaning down to me from one of the upper windows of the cottage. In the clear flood of the moon her face had taken on a deathly pallor in which her eyes burned like those of a wild thing in a thicket. Her lips were parted in a half smile and her arms cradled to her breast the heavy waves of her dull thick hair. I experienced then the same sensation that, had come to me when I had first looked on the marshes. Resolution left me, and the beauty of the night no longer hurt my eyes. The promise that lay revealed in hers offered a means of escape from the chill depression surrounding me. Thoroughly abominating myself for the thoughts that were forming in my mind I furtively entertained the idea of acceptance. Why not? Hilda could never be mine. Friends, always friends, a false and insipid relationship. I had my own life to live, my own cravings to satisfy.
I took a step forward and held up my hand to Scarlet. With a supple twist of her body, she snatched the scarf from her shoulders and tossed it from her. Down through the light night air it floated gracefully and coiled itself like a serpent at my feet. For a moment she stood revealed, a soft radiance glowing over her white form. Then with a low laugh she sprang from view and the light went out.
I picked the scarf from the grass and buried my face in its folds. Hilda seemed far away.
* * * * *
THAT night I dreamed that I stood with Hilda on the edge of the marshes. She had taken my hand in hers and was pointing to the island. As though repelled by the message in her eyes, I drew back and muttered, “No, Hilda. No. That way is death.”
“But, David,” she replied, “with confidence and courage even quicksand can be crossed.”
She looked at me appealingly, then turned her eyes to the island. Quiet and peaceful it lay, bathed in a peculiar half light that seemed to partake of the qualities of both night and day, a pale, unearthly glow weirdly beautiful in its deathlike calm and perfection. As I gazed at the island the realization came to me that death itself was waiting for us behind the trees, and with this knowledge, fear like a cold spring chilled my heart.
“Won’t you follow me if I lead the way?” she pleaded.
With a supreme effort to master the dread that had taken possession of me, I stepped with her into that other world half-light lying across the marshes. Through the noiselessly waving reeds I followed her reluctantly, fearing at every step that we should sink into the quicksand. The soggy ground felt cold and unpleasant to my feet. Yet the island, which repelled me most of all, strangely drew me onward. The sharp terror of extinction struggled against my desire for eternal freedom with Hilda. I sought her eyes for encouragement and she smiled back at me. At last when we had drawn near to the island I could control my fear no longer. I stopped and drew her back.
“Don’t you understand?” she whispered. “It’s the only way out for us, the only escape from all that’s waiting back there.”
As she spoke these words I seemed to recall even in the dream a remark she had once made to me. The night came back again and I could hear the waves rustling along the beach. “Anyway,” she had said, “the only thing in life that’s real to me is the leaving of it and what follows after.” I realized now what she had meant and though I longed with all my being to follow her to the island, the uncertainty of death rather than the love of life restrained me.
“I can’t do it!” I cried. “I haven’t the strength to go!”
Filled with misery and self-loathing, I knelt at her feet and kissed the hem of her skirt. Then I rose and fled from her over the marshes. Once I turned and looked back. She was standing with an arm extended in a gesture of supplication. An expression of desolation filled her eyes and the smile had died on her lips. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks and I awoke.
* * * * *
IMMEDIATELY after breakfast I returned to my room to consider the strange dream that had come to me. Its significance was unavoidable, and although I was attracted by it I still felt in broad daylight a tremor of the same dread that had caused me to desert Hilda and seek safety on solid ground. As I sat tormented by the thought of having failed the woman I loved, Scarlet entered the room and came up behind me. She leaned down over the back of my chair and, taking my head in her hands, pressed it against her bosom. At first I resisted, then relaxed and let my head sink back. For some reason I thought of a large house with bay windows and scented curtains. Then I thought of a garden heavy with perfume and hidden by streaming vapors. And as I thought the memory of my betrayal of Hilda on the marshes gradually faded away. Leaning far back in the chair, I reached up and clasping Scarlet round the neck, attempted to draw her face down to mine. She gave a short, disagreeable laugh, and flinging my arms aside walked across the room to the window, where she stood leaning out and humming a soft air under her breath. She seemed to have forgotten my presence. The room grew still, save for the low, irritating humming and the sound of the wind outside. Then she turned and faced me, her lips parted in an irritating smile.
“Well, my dear, David,” she remarked, “aren’t you unusually hospitable this morning?”
I raised my eyes to hers and tried to answer her smile, but failed in the attempt.
“Come here,” I said in a low voice. “Scarlet, I want you now. Damn it, do you hear?”
“I prefer to remain where I am,” she answered and began to hum again.
“Stop that noise!” I exclaimed, springing from the chair.
She laughed, and as I approached her she continued to watch me with an indulgent smile behind which I seemed to detect a hint of anger. But when I ran my hands up over her arms she made no effort to resist, only standing there looking at me out of her deep, glowing eyes with her lips slightly parted as if awaiting my kiss.
“You beast,” I muttered, taking her by the shoulders, “come here!”
With a lithe movement she dropped to one knee and passed under my outstretched arms. Still humming softly to herself she moved over to the bed and sat down. Like a befuddled man I followed her, my hands fluttering crazily before me.
“You beast!” I kept muttering under my breath. “You beast.”
I found satisfaction in the word.
When I stood over her she looked up at me and critically studied my face.
“Stop making a fool of yourself,” she commanded in a level voice, “and save your caresses for those who want them. I don’t. They bore me.”
Angered by her indifference, I seized the scarf from the table and tossed it in her face.
“You get out of here!” I said. “Quick! Go!”
“How changeable you are,” she said, throwing her head back and showing her white teeth in an unpleasant smile.
With an effort I collected myself and grinned back at her, my hands gripping the edge of the table.
“And you?” I asked.
“I’m enjoying the situation hugely,” she replied. “Your actions are quite revealing. How surprised some people would be!”
Then, moved by an impulse to torment myself as well as this creature who was forever challenging me with her beauty, I deliberately recounted to her in detail, omitting Hilda’s name, however, the dream that had so distracted me. When I had finished I added, almost gloatingly, “You, too, would have been afraid.”
She rose slowly from the bed and confronted me. Her eyes had grown hard and two vivid spots were flaming in her dead white cheeks.
“Do you think I don’t know who she is?” she said, her voice coarse with anger. “This woman in your dream? She’s that poor, bloodless thing you’ve been mooning around with like a silly fool for the last few weeks. Why, she’s afraid of life — doesn’t even know what it is.” And she threw her shoulders back as though taunting me with her body.
“And you’re afraid of death,” I replied, “and so am I. Of the three she’s the bravest.”
Scarlet laughed unnaturally.
“But let’s see who’s the wisest,” she said and lounged across the room to the door, where she stopped and looked mockingly over her shoulder.
“By the way,” she added, “her husband has just returned. He’ll put an end to your dreams.”
CHAPTER X
SCARLET WAS WRONG. John Elliott did not put an end to my dreams. A fortnight elapsed before I saw Hilda again, but during every night of our separation she came to me in the same intangible, yet realistic, form. And the dream was always the same. In the calm, unearthly half- light flooding the marshes, we met each night and reenacted the same unfinished drama. At dawn when I awoke, it was always with a poignant feeling of loss that I returned to face another day.
* * * * *
WITH each new day Scarlet would be there to greet me, to taunt me with her body, and to cast confusion across my mind. Her window opened on the grove. At certain times of the day she would lean on the ledge like an idol and quietly follow my movements as I wandered round the cottage or sat writing futile things at my table on the lawn. So aware was I of her presence I could tell without even glancing up that her eyes were on me. Sitting with my back toward her I imagined that I could feel them glowing behind me.
At other times I would come upon her lying silhouetted on the black divan. With sleepy hostility she would watch Hugh as he daubed at the canvas or stood squinting at it in heavy contemplation.
Sometimes I would stop to study her smooth white figure so gentle in its curves. I would wonder then about her beauty and the secret of her strength. Quite deliberately I would endeavor to analyze her out of my thoughts as I had tried to do with the dream; but in this I was no more successful. Scarlet existed and the dream existed. Scarlet was real and the dream was real. Both appealed to me, yet both repelled. I was unable to strike a happy balance with my environment.
And the more I thought of Scarlet the more I came to realize that if I wanted to remain at least intellectually honest I should have to admit my inability to judge whose influence governed me the more, hers or Hilda’s. Both were so utterly different; yet, in a way, both were subtly blended.
In spite of her apparent indifference I could sense that Scarlet was deeply interested in my conduct, more so than she had ever been before. There was something in her very quietness, some half concealed light in her eyes that made me think of a beautiful vulture lazily treading the air until the time was fitting to strike, to spiral swiftly down the sky and to smother her victim beneath the shadow of her wings. There were moments when I almost longed for the time to arrive. In my hazy scheme of things there was a joyous place for physical desire, but Scarlet’s attraction for me was not joyous. It was of an altogether different nature. In it there was something base and degrading, something tainted in my blood or else as old as the first dark love. I was interested in this. My curiosity was aroused by the prowling nature of my emotions. They made me feel as if I were plumbing the last degradation of the soul before it sprang to freedom. I pictured this place of freedom and there would pass before my eyes a valley dancing with sunlight in which dwelt people who had been bruised and spotted by their contacts with life, people who had stumbled and hurt themselves, but who now knew hurt no longer. Through shameful things they had suffered their way to laughter and had learned to know its worth. I longed to be among these people and to join them there in the sunlit valley. I longed to be a rational creature again and to seek sanity in laughter, but the situation controlled me. I was able neither to meet it nor to escape it.
Scarlet was watching me and Hugh was watching Scarlet, watching her in a way that was unlike him. It was almost as if he were trying to study her moods to reach for me. Powerless to change the situation, I realized nevertheless that my attitude of growing detachment was sorely perplexing this essentially human old creature. I was beginning to learn how poignantly one could abominate oneself. However, he made no effort to encroach upon my thoughts, but let me go freely about my business as he effaced himself in his paint.
“Going out?” he would grunt, peering at his canvas with gloomy concentration.
“Going out,” I would answer as I left the room with a feeling of guilt and reluctance.
Once when I was writing Scarlet came to me across the lawn and placed her hand on my arm.
“The old ogre has let me off,” she said. “Stroll with me while I stretch.”
I rose from the table and walked with her down the grove. Slowly and without purpose we moved beneath the trees. And as we walked she leaned against me as though she needed support. Her head was close to mine and her hair, a nest of fragrant coils, seemed to twine itself round my senses.
“What has come over you, David?” she asked presently. “You’ve been so different lately. Does that silly dream still trouble you?”
“I’m troubled by many dreams,” I answered evasively. “You see I’m one of those unfortunate people whose lives are made wretched by dreams — they come to nothing.”
“How can you say that,” she replied, “when you’ve never dreamed of me?”
“What makes you so sure?” I asked.
“Why, David, you don’t even talk to me any more,” she said. “You used to fight with me and call me a beast. That was something.”
