Book o' Nine Tales

Arlo Bates

Description

Looking for a sophisticated and entertaining collection of short stories to add to your must-read list? The unique volume A Book o' Nine Tales from American writer Arlo Bates will definitely fit the bill. This collection of tales is interwoven with an imaginative series of "interludes" that enhance and expand on the stories' themes.

Sujets

• Short story

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 juin 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776537815
• Langue: English

Extrait

A BOOK O' NINE TALES
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ARLO BATES
 
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A Book o' Nine Tales First published in 1891 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-781-5 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-782-2 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Tale the First - A Strange Idyl Interlude First - An Episode in Mask Tale the Second - The Tuberose Interlude Second - An Evening at Whist Tale the Third - Saucy Betty Mork Interlude Third - Mrs. Fruffles is at Home Tale the Fourth - John Vantine Interlude Fourth - The Radiator Tale the Fifth - Mère Marchette Interlude Fifth - "Such Sweet Sorrow" Tale the Sixth - Barum West's Extravaganza Interlude Sixth - A Business Meeting Tale the Seventh - A Sketch in Umber Interlude Seventh - Thirteen Tale the Eighth - April's Lady Interlude Eighth - A Cuban Morning Tale the Ninth - Delia Grimwet
Tale the First - A Strange Idyl
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I
He lay upon an old-fashioned bedstead whose carved quaintness would oncehave pleased him, but to which he was now indifferent. He rested uponhis back, staring at the ceiling, on whose white surface were twinklinggolden dots and lines in a network which even his broken mind knew mustbe the sunlight reflected from off the water somewhere. The windows ofthe chamber were open, and the sweet summer air came in laden with theperfume of flowers piquantly mingled with pungent sea odors. Now andthen a bee buzzed by the casement, or a butterfly seemed tempted toenter the sick-room—apparently thought better of it, and went on itscareless way.
Of all these things the sick man who lay there was unconscious, and thesweet young girl sitting by his bed was too deeply buried in her bookto notice them. For some time there was no movement in the chamber,until, the close of a chapter releasing for an instant the reader'sattention, she looked to discover that the patient's eyes were open.Seeing him awake, she rose and came a step nearer, thereby making thesecond discovery, more startling than the first, that the light ofreason had replaced in those eyes the stare of delirium.
"Ah," she said, softly, "you are awake!"
The invalid turned his gaze toward her, far too feeble to make any othermovement; but he made no attempt to speak.
"No," she continued, with that little purring intonation which betraysthe feminine satisfaction at having a man helpless and unable to resistcoddling; "don't speak. Take your medicine, and go to sleep again."
She put a firm, round arm beneath his head, and bestowed upon him aspoonful of a colorless liquid, afterward smoothing his pillows withdeft, swift touches. He submitted with utter passiveness of mind andbody, ignorant who this maiden might be, where he was, or, indeed, whohe was. Painfully he endeavored to think, to remember, to understand;but with no result save confusing himself and bringing on an ache inhis head. His nurse, at the convenient end of another chapter, observeda look of pain and trouble upon the thin face, scarcely less white thanthe pillow against which it rested.
"You are worrying," she observed with authority. "Go to sleep. You arenot to think yet."
And, staying himself upon the resolution and confidence in her tone, heabandoned himself again to the current of circumstances, and driftedaway into dreams.
The girl, watching closely now, with mind distracted from her story tothe more tangible mystery involved in the presence of the sick man, gavea little sigh of relief when his even breathing indicated that he hadfallen asleep. She removed softly to a seat near the window, and lookedout upon the tranquil beauty of the afternoon. Long Island Sound laybefore her, dimpling and twinkling in the sunshine, while nearer asloping lawn stretched from the house to the shore. Glancing backwardand forward between the sunny landscape and the bed where her patientslept, the maiden fell to wondering about him, recalling the little sheknew, and straining her fancy to construct the story of his life.
Three weeks before a Sound steamer had been wrecked so near this spotthat through the stormy night she had seen the glare of the fire whichbroke out before the hull sank, and the next morning's tide had broughtto shore this man, a floating waif, saved by a life-preserver and somepropitious current. A terrible wound upon his head showed where he hadexperienced some blow, and left him hesitating with distraught brainbetween life and death. In his delirium he had muttered of variedscenes. He must, the watcher reflected, have travelled extensively. Nowthere were words which showed that he was sharing in wild escapades;cries of defiance or of encouragement to comrades whose shadowy formshis disordered brain summoned from the mysterious past; strange names,and words in unknown tongues mingled themselves with incoherent appealsor bitter reproaches.
To the girl who had been scarcely less at his bedside than the oldwoman who nominally nursed him, these broken fragments of wild talk hadbeen like bits of jewels from which her mind had fashioned a fantasticmosaic. The mystery surrounding the stranger would, in any case, haveappealed strongly to her quick fancy, but when to this was added thebrilliancy of his delirious ravings, it is small wonder that herimagination took fire, and she wove endless romances, in all of whichthe unconscious sick man figured as the hero. Scraps of talk in anunknown tongue, a few sonorous foreign words, a little ignoranceconcerning matters in reality commonplace enough, have, in many a casebefore, been the sufficient foundations for a gorgeous fata morgana of fancy.
The stranger had been thrown ashore only partially dressed, and withnothing upon him which bore a name. A belt around his waist containedabout fifteen hundred dollars in bills and a small quantity ofgold-dust. From the presence of this latter they had speculated that thewounded man might be a returning Californian, yet his clothing was oftoo fine texture and manufacture for this supposition. Several persons,seeking for friends lost in the disaster from which he came, had vainlyendeavored to identify him, and his description had been given in theNew York papers; but without result. There seemed, upon the whole, to beno especial hope of obtaining any satisfactory information regarding thesick man until he was able to furnish it himself; and to-day for thefirst time the watcher found in his eyes the light of returning reason.She felt as if upon the threshold of a great discovery. She smiledsoftly to herself to think how eager she had become over this mystery;to recognize how large a place the stranger occupied in her thoughts;yet she could but acknowledge to herself that this was an inevitableconsequence of the existence which surrounded her.
The life into which the wounded man had been driven by the currents ofthe sea and those stronger currents of the universe which we call Fatewas a sufficiently monotonous one. The household into which he had beenreceived consisted of an old gentleman, broken alike in health andfortune, so that while the establishment over which presided his onlychild was not one of absolute want, it was often straitened by thenecessity of uncomfortable economies. Alone with an old family servant,the father and daughter lived on in the homestead which the wealth oftheir ancestors had improved, but which their present revenues wereinadequate to preserve in proper state. One day with them was so likeevery other day that the differences of the calendar seemed purelyempirical, even when assisted by such diversity as old Sarah, thefaithful retainer, was able to compass in the matter of the viandswhich, at stated periods in the week, appeared upon their frugal table.
Old Mr. Dysart would have failed to perceive the justice of the epithet"selfish" as applied to himself; yet no word so perfectly described him.He was absorbed in the compilation of a complete genealogy of the entireDysart family, with all its ramifications and allied branches. Whatbecame of his daughter while he delved among musty parchments in hisstately old library; how the burdens of the household were borne; andhow a narrow income was made to cover expenses, were plainly mattersupon which he could not be expected to waste his valuable time. Themaiden could scarcely have been more alone upon a desert island, or ina magic tower. Her days followed each other with slow, monotonous flow,like the sands in an hour-glass,—each like the one before, and each,too, like the one to follow.
Amid such a colorless waste of existence the rich mystery of the woundedstranger appeared doubly brilliant by contrast; and it is small wonderthat to the watcher the first gleam of returning intelligence in thesick man's eyes was as the promise of the opening of a door behind whichlay an enchanted palace.
II
It was yet a day or two before the sick man spoke. He was very weak, andlay for the most part in a deathlike but health-giving sleep. At lengththe day came when he said feebly:—
"Where am I?"
"Here," his nurse answered, with truly feminine irrelevancy.
"Where?"
"At Glencarleon."
He lay silent for some moments, evidently struggling to attach somemeaning to the name, and to collect his strength for further inquiries.
His eyes expressed his mental confusion.
"You were hurt in the steamer accident," she explained. "You came ashorehere, and are with friends. Don't try to talk. It is all right."
He was too feeble to remonstrate,—too feeble even to reason, and heobeyed her injun