Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 40
“I hope you’re a willing messenger,” she said, with a trace of arrogance in her voice. “Otherwise, I might not come.”
“More than willing,” he replied, walking over to her, “an eager messenger.”
“How eager?” she asked.
“You must know already,” he said.
Laughing softly, Scarlet moved out to the lawn.
“I know nothing,” she flung back at him, “until the proof is in my hands. Men toss away worlds with their lips.”
“Only come and I’ll show you,” he urged.
“It will be very amusing,” she replied.
“Good!” he exclaimed, turning briskly back to me as though just remembering my presence. “That’s settled. Two birds with one stone. Where’s the third? Where’s MacKellar? He must come along.”
“Here’s MacKellar,” announced Hugh, as he emerged from the cottage. “What’s this about dinner? I’ve had my dinner.”
“Mr. Elliott means this evening,” I explained.
“Won’t do it,” he said fretfully. “Until I’ve forgotten one meal I never eat the next. My stomach has a lingering memory. As I grow older it becomes more retentive. Ask me to breakfast, Elliott. I can always eat breakfast.”
“Come for my sake, Hugh,” I pleaded in a low voice.
“No, no, I won’t do it,” he whispered furiously, nudging me with his elbow and looking wildly about.
“He’ll hear you,” I warned.
But if Elliott heard he gave no indication.
“We must all bow to the master,” he said with a deprecating smile, and once more joined Scarlet, who was standing a little apart from the group.
Together they moved through the grove and disappeared among the trees. I noticed that she was leaning on his arm, her body swaying against his. And once more I felt a stab of unexpected jealousy.
“What’s his game, Hugh?” I asked, turning back to MacKellar.
“You mean there?” he said, pointing down the grove.
“No, about the dinner.”
“It isn’t his game. He just thinks it is. Hilda planned the dinner and made him believe it was his idea. It tickles his devilish sense of irony and he hopes it will torment her.”
“Why won’t you go, Hugh?”
He regarded me darkly, then turned and made off to the cottage.
“I don’t want to go, that’s all,” he said. “Don’t keep after me. You go, and keep your wits about you.”
At the door he paused and sourly surveyed me, then added as though delivering a telling thrust, “That is, if you have any left.”
* * * * *
THE wide lawn, strewn with weeds, fanned out from the driveway and ran neglected into the hemming darkness. Here and there the ragged grass was stained with shabby patches of yellow, burned out and dead. In the ebbing light the place gave the appearance of being drowned beneath a sea of shadows, a vast plain submerged in the gloom, cheerless and abandoned. The sound of our feet, grating harshly against the gravel of the driveway, cut a jagged discord across the still evening. Like a proclaiming voice refusing to be stilled it tormentingly followed our progress. On either side of us the great, dark trees formed a grim and unfriendly avenue. Above our heads their limbs locked themselves into a canopy of furtively rustling leaves. They had witnessed the passage of the unhappy years, these old, dark trees, and now, like disinterested spectators safely removed from the conflict, they seemed to be gloating in the dusk over the prospect of approaching sorrow.
During the course of our uncommunicative walk from the cottage, I had known that Scarlet was studying my face with her cynically amused eyes. As we drew near the house, which in the curtaining night loomed up like a forbidding fortress at the end of the driveway, I noticed that her expression of assurance was gradually giving way to one of fear. When we were about to ascend the steps leading up to the high porch, she hesitated, and with a little shiver, laid a restraining hand on my arm.
“It’s gloomy here, isn’t it?” she said in a hushed voice. “If ever I were forced to live in this place I know I’d do something desperate.”
Up to this time I had been too absorbed in the thoughts coursing through my mind to be greatly influenced by my surroundings. The mere fact that Hilda had conspired to arrange this dinner in order to have me at it was enough to subordinate all other emotions in me to a warm feeling of happiness, but at Scarlet’s words I paused with my foot on the first step and looked up at the house.
Like its owner it was tall and rather loosely constructed and, fittingly enough, it seemed to give off the same atmosphere of smothered hostility. Built entirely of brick and stone in the general shape of a cross, this bleak abode looked less like a private dwelling than a public institution. It had the same uninviting personality as have many of those grim establishments in which charity moves through gloomy corridors. Long rows of black windows looked down on us, and I imagined that behind them generations of vanished Elliotts were standing in hushed attention, their mad eyes fiercely resenting our intrusion. When I thought of Hilda’s years of captivity within the damp walls of this dismal mass of stone, I was better able to understand why laughter had been crushed on her lips. Surrounded as she was by all the bitter traditions and repressions of the place, there was little room for wonder if at times her eyes grew haunted as she searched for some means of escape.
Scarlet was breathing softly beside me, her hand still resting lightly on my arm. Her perfume drifting to me spoke of another world. Something of her own disquiet was communicated to my spirit. I thought of streets and women, luxurious places of abandon, whispers thrilling through the dark, intimate laughter stilled by a sigh. As though I were standing in a pool of decadence I absorbed like some parasitical growth the animalism of her body. The chill, revengeful atmosphere washing about the house urged me to seize her in my arms and to flee with her through the trees back to comfort and warmth. Under the pressure of her hand my arm seemed to swell in my sleeve. I longed to cover her body with mad caresses, to consume in a flame of passion the promptings of hope and memory, the obligations of loyalty. And beneath it all there was a feeling in my heart of death, and that feeling alone seemed real. In its grim presence, as if to delay its approach, I was desperately trying to sully all the beautiful values of life. Beneath a flood of obscene thoughts, beastly, slinking things, I strove to smother a voice that was crying out within me for expression. Were it to gain utterance I knew that it would confound me with the sting of its reproach. Closer to me, and more persuasive, another voice was whispering, “Why cling to the old idealism, the empty dream of the weak? Why not live a little with the rest? There’s nothing exquisite in life, all joy’s hot and coarse... it’s all the same.”
And as though aware of the nature of my thoughts Scarlet swayed against me, holding my eyes with hers. For a moment her thighs froze to mine. I felt the flooding of the breath within her and the supple vigor of her hips. My hands slipped beneath her cloak and smoothed the silk of her dress.
“David,” she whispered, a light of gratification brightening her eyes. “David, dear, are you mad?”
As she spoke the voice within me was released and found expression. It cried out to me to trample and destroy the tainted thoughts clinging to my mind.
“There’s light at the end!” it cried. “Light and exquisite beauty.”
Abruptly I withdrew from her and hastened up the stairs, a feeling of pity and protest cutting sharply across the confusion of my mind. Somewhere close at hand Hilda was sitting in the dark, waiting like a prisoner for a friendly voice from the outside world. A low laugh followed me up the stairs. Scarlet had misunderstood the meaning of my sudden flight.
“Wait for me, David,” she called.
A pursuing wind was running through the trees. It sounded like the wind in a dream, swift and ominous. In its hidden approach there was something terrifying, something of the clutching panic of childhood. With a shrinking dread of being overtaken by some unseen danger I glanced back at the lawn. Scarlet caught up with me and pressed my arm.
“Come, dear,” she whispered.
At the touch of her hand I turned quickly away to the door where a subdued youth with an air of unassurance was waiting to let us in. A maid, materializing from the shadows, whisked Scarlet away, up a broad flight of stairs mounting into darkness. I was left alone in the twilight of a wide hall with a door at the far end. Through the door I caught a glimpse of the day dying on the green floor of the marshes. Many doors opened into the hallway, and as I stood there looking nervously about me, I heard my name spoken softly. It was Hilda’s voice, but in the eerie darkness of the place it seemed to drift to me from another world. I started and faced about.
“Hilda,” I called, unable to check my eagerness, “where are you?”
“Follow your nose,” she replied. “Can’t you see?”
Directly in front of me heavy portières were swaying gently in the light air. They were only partly drawn, and through the opening I could see a large room at the end of which, near a window looking out on the lawn, Hilda was reclining on a couch. In a corner of the room a large lamp cast a restricted glow over the faded red carpet. From where I had first stood this darkened room had been cut off from my vision, but Hilda from the shadows round her couch had been able to observe me. Through the open window I could trace the dim outline of the trees. Like an invisible snake the wind writhed through them, leaving a wistful stir in the air, and filling it now with the scent of dust and dead flowers.
For one still moment I gazed at Hilda’s indistinct form, then running noiselessly over the carpet, I dropped to my knees beside her couch and took her hands in mine. Neither of us spoke, and out on the lawn the soughing of the wind washed like a sorrowful voice against my ears. Hilda was the first to break the silence. She laughed unsteadily and drew her hands away.
“You were nervous out there in the hall, weren’t you?” she said.
I nodded and looked closely at her, but in the dim light I was unable to make out her features. Round her face her hair floated in a shadowy mass. Only her eyes seemed to be alive. They were filled with a glad light and, as I looked into them, all of the fears and repressions that had been troubling me were forgotten, and for the first time in many days a feeling of peace took their place.
“But I don’t blame you,” she went on in a low voice. “This place would make any one nervous. It’s old and dead and damp... drenched with stagnant dreams. I shall be glad to get away from it.”
“Are you going away?” I asked eagerly.
“No, David, I meant when I did go... some day.”
“Hilda?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you go away now, quickly, out of this nightmare life?”
“Wouldn’t you miss me, my ally?”
“I miss you enough as it is.”
“My friendship has brought you less happiness than sorrow, I’m afraid.”
“Perhaps it has. I haven’t thought.”
“But you regret it now?”
“I can’t regret it, Hilda, any more than I can regret my eyes and lungs because they let me see and breathe. My eyes may stream with tears and my lungs burn with pain, but still I don’t regret them — they’re a part of me, and so are you, at least your friendship is. Perhaps we are not the happiest of friends. That can’t be helped. I wish to God I were a better person, though, a bit more worthy... different.”
“Don’t, David.”
“Why not? There’s little good in pretending. Away from you my heart is as stagnant as the dreams in this house. Only with you do I touch beauty, only with you do I see the light.”
“It’s in yourself. You have it.”
“No, it’s not there. There’s nothing in me, nothing that I’d care to have come out. What I’ve seen is disgusting. I hate it. When I’m alone I walk through jungle thoughts, the victim of jungle desires. It’s you who have shown me the open country and given me a taste of freedom, but my instincts still hold me to the jungle where the voices are whispering always. I’m different when I’m with you.”
She made no reply and the room grew still. With one hand pressed to her eyes she lay among the cushions. I could hear her quietly breathing. In the trees the murmur of the wind rose like a distant threat. The silence lasted until I spoke again.
“Hilda,” I asked with a feeling of dread, “do you think that you are ill, seriously?”
“I think I’m dying,” she said quietly.
A flood of unreasonable anger immediately followed the sharp stab of pain that shot through me. I felt as though I were being trapped and betrayed, that the cards were stacked against me. Hardly realizing what I was doing I seized her roughly by the arms and thrust my face close to hers.
“What are you saying?” I cried. “Are you, too, trying to torment me?”
“Who has been trying to torment you?” she asked in a little whisper of alarm. “What is it, David? You’re strange.”
The dream had given me the warning, now Hilda herself had confirmed it. I could no longer delude myself into believing that I was the victim of a mental phase, the passing of which would readmit me to a normal and carefree world. In the light of her words it would be impossible for me to excuse my cowardice in abandoning her on the marshes. Now I should be leaving her to her death in the full knowledge of what I was doing. Unable to answer, I rested my head on the edge of the couch and pressed my cheek to her arm.
“You mustn’t take it like that, David,” she said. “It’s only a feeling of mine — a foolish one, perhaps. I’m ever so much better already, now that I’ve had a chance to speak with you.”
Before I could reply I heard the portières rustle as some one stepped into the room.
“That you, Landor?” Elliott asked.
“Yes,” I answered, without raising my head.
“Is my wife with you?”
“She is.”
“Pardon me. It’s dark as hell in this room. Would you mind telling her that Scarlet — that Miss MacKellar and I are going down to dinner?”
“She can hear you.”
Once more the portières rustled and there was the sound of low voices in the hall. Then I heard Scarlet laughing softly as the footsteps died away.
“Help me to get up,” said Hilda. “I can feel that this is going to be a merry little feast.”
She threw an arm across my shoulder, and rose quickly from the couch. She swayed dizzily against me and clung to my arm, then steadied herself and led me across the room.
“Hurry,” she commanded in a brisk voice. “Let’s go to the light and see what we look like. Prepare your smile in advance.”
We passed down the long hall, now lighted by hanging lamps, and descended a narrow flight of stairs twisting to the basement.
“The ancient Elliotts frankly enjoyed devouring their food in a cave,” she explained. “Now we call the place the ‘Grill,’ but the spirit remains unchanged.”
As she drew me along the winding passage to the meeting place of the ancient Elliotts, the damp, age-old walls seemed to be pressing in on me. In the moist air there was the odor of decaying vegetation, potatoes rotting in the dark.
“It whetted their appetites to swim through this,” she continued. “I can see them sniffing it now as a pleasant prelude to the soup. Great noses. Greedy sniffs.”
She laughed and turned back to me.
“If you don’t help me out a little, David, I’ll become hysterical,” she said. “My laughter would sound positively maniacal in these narrow walls.”
I smiled reassuringly and pressed her hand, but across my eyes there flashed a sudden picture of what Hunter Aird had told me about the wives of many of the Elliotts. In that chill, draughty passageway I caught a swift mental vision of a demented woman beating her hands against the walls while the air was filled with her terrible laughter. With this picture in my eyes I stepped into the light of the “Grill.”
As we entered the room Elliott, glass in hand, was standing opposite Scarlet at a ponderous sideboard, but on seeing us he hastily set aside his drink and greeted me with faultless cordiality. Hilda moved over to Scarlet and said a few friendly words, which were received with a punctiliously correct, but unresponsive, smile. A large and unhealthy looking servant, wearing the expression of one who for years had unsuccessfully combated a secret malady, stood in attendance. In his shadow hovered the same unassured youth who had previously ushered us into the house.
The room was long and low. Its brick walls, calcimined at one time to a harsh white, were now dingy. Streaked in places by the trickling moisture, they had a mildewed and leprous look. Clammy walls. Along one side of the room, set close to the ceiling, were several small windows, their lower edges level with the lawn, now invisible in the night. Two brass lamps suspended from the ceiling, served as illumination, and their soft, yellow glow, falling in two interesting arcs of light on the white tablecloth, cast a shower of tiny sparkles among the chinaware and silver. At one end of the room was the sideboard where Elliott had been standing and at the other end, crouching in the shadows like some huge mythical monster, was a great stove.
The room was cheerless and inhospitable. Probably in the old days there had been some practical reason for its existence. It had filled a logical need. When the ancient Elliotts had tilled the land and dwelt in more restricted quarters, the room had in all likelihood been a place of comfort and warmth. Now, like the rest of the house, it was damp, and depressing, more like the tomb of appetites than their sanctuary.
When we were seated at the table, Elliott immediately seized his glass and brandished it aloft.
“May all our dreams come true,” he cried, looking directly at me, and by that token I knew that the issue was joined.
He threw back his head and drank deeply, then regarded us with a smile.
“Well, Landor,” he asked jovially, “what do you think of that? Was it a good toast?”
“It was obviously in order,” I replied. “Do you happen to be interested in dreams?”
“Hugely,” he said. “Not my own, though. I enjoy interpreting others.”
