Out of the Dark

by Robert W. Chambers

  Science and man’s cunning and the wisdom of the world!

  ‘O God,’ he groaned, ‘for Him who cured by laying on His hands!’ Now that he had learned her name, and that her father was alive, he stood mutely beside her, staring steadily at the chimneys and stately dormered roof almost hidden behind the crimson maple foliage across the valley – her home.

  She had seated herself once more upon the moss, hands clasped upon one knee, looking out into the west with dreamy eyes.

  ‘I shall not be long,’ he said gently. ‘Will you wait here for me? I will bring your father with me.’

  ‘I will wait for you. But you must come before the new moon. Will you? I must go when the new moon lies in the west.’

  ‘Go, dearest? Where?’

  ‘I may not tell you,’ she sighed, ‘but you will know very soon – very soon now. And there will be no more sorrow, I think,’ she added timidly.

  ‘There will be no more sorrow,’ he repeated quietly.

  ‘For the former things are passing away,’ she said.

  He broke a heavy spray of golden-rod and laid it across her knees; she held out a blossom to him – a blind gentian, blue as her eyes. He kissed it.

  ‘Be with me when the new moon comes,’ she whispered. ‘It will be so sweet. I will teach you how divine is death, if you will come.’

  ‘You shall teach me the sweetness of life,’ he said tremulously.

  ‘Yes – life. I did not know you called it by its truest name.’

  So he went away, trudging sturdily down the lane, gun glistening on his shoulder.

  Where the lane joins the shadowy village street his dog skulked up to him, sniffing at his heels.

  A mill whistle was sounding; through the red rays of the setting sun people were passing. Along the row of village shops loungers followed him with vacant eyes. He saw nothing, heard nothing, though a kindly voice called after him, and a young girl smiled at him on her short journey through the world.

  The landlord of the Wildwood Inn sat sunning himself in the red evening glow.

  ‘Well, doctor,’ he said, ‘you look tired to death. Eh? What’s that you say?’

  The young man repeated his question in a low voice. The landlord shook his head.

  ‘No, sir. The big house on the hill is empty – been empty these three years. No, sir, there ain’t no family there now. The old gentleman moved away three years ago.’

  ‘You are mistaken,’ said the doctor; ‘his daughter tells me he lives there.’

  ‘His – his daughter?’ repeated the landlord. ‘Why, doctor, she’s dead.’ He turned to his wife, who sat sewing by the open window: ‘Ain’t it three years, Marthy?’

  ‘Three years today,’ said the woman, biting off her thread. ‘She’s buried in the family vault over the hill. She was a right pretty little thing, too.’

  ‘Turned nineteen,’ mused the landlord, folding his newspaper reflectively.

  The great gray house on the hill was closed, windows and door boarded over, lawn, shrubbery, and hedges tangled with weeds. A few scarlet poppies glimmered above the brown grass. Save for these, and clumps of tall phlox, there were no blossoms among the weeds.

  His dog, which had sneaked after him, cowered as he turned northward across the fields. Swifter and swifter he strode; and as he stumbled on, the long sunset clouds faded, the golden light in the west died out, leaving a calm, clear sky tinged with faintest green.

  Pines hid the west as he crept toward the hill where she awaited him. As he climbed through dusky purple grasses, higher, higher, he saw the new moon’s crescent tipping above the hills; and he crushed back the deathly fright that clutched at him and staggered on.

  ‘Rosamund!’

  The pines answered him.

  ‘Rosamund!’

  The pines replied, answering together. Then the wind died away, and there was no answer when he called.

  East and south the darkening thickets, swaying, grew still. He saw the slim silver birches glimmering like the ghosts of young trees dead; he saw on the moss at his feet a broken stalk of golden-rod.

  The new moon had drawn a veil across her face; sky and earth were very still.

  While the moon lasted he lay, eyes open, listening, his face pillowed on the moss. It was long after sunrise when his dog came to him; later still when men came.

  And at first they thought he was asleep.

  IN SEARCH OF THE MAMMOTH

  I

  Before I proceed any further, common decency requires me to assure my readers concerning my intentions, which, Heaven knows, are far from flippant.

  To separate fact from fancy has always been difficult for me, but now that I have had the honor to be chosen secretary of the Zoological Gardens in Bronx Park, I realize keenly that unless I give up writing fiction nobody will believe what I write about science. Therefore it is to a serious and unimaginative public that I shall hereafter address myself; and I do it in the modest confidence that I shall neither be distrusted nor doubted, although unfortunately I still write in that irrational style which suggests covert frivolity, and for which I am undergoing a course of treatment in English literature at Columbia College. No, having promised to avoid originality and confine myself to facts, I shall tell what I have to tell concerning the dingue, the mammoth and – something else.

  For some weeks it had been rumored that Professor Farrago, president of the Bronx Park Zoological Society, would resign, to accept an enormous salary as manager of Barnum & Bailey’s circus. He was now with the circus in London, and had promised to cable his decision before the day was over.

  I hoped he would decide to remain with us. I was his secretary and particular favorite, and I viewed, without enthusiasm, the advent of a new president, who might shake us all out of our congenial and carefully excavated ruts. However, it was plain that the trustees of the society expected the resignation of Professor Farrago, for they had been in secret session all day, considering the names of possible candidates to fill Professor Farrago’s large, old-fashioned shoes. These preparations worried me, for I could scarcely expect another chief as kind and considerate as Professor Leonidas Farrago.

  That afternoon in June I left my office in the Administration Building in Bronx Park, and strolled out under the trees for a breath of air. But the heat of the sun soon drove me to seek shelter under a little square arbor, a shady retreat covered with purple wisteria and honeysuckle. As I entered the arbor I noticed that there were three other people seated there – an elderly lady with masculine features and short hair, a younger lady sitting beside her, and, farther away, a rough-looking young man reading a book.

  For a moment I had an indistinct impression of having met the elder lady somewhere, and under circumstances not entirely agreeable, but beyond a stony and indifferent glance she paid no attention to me. As for the younger lady, she did not look at me at all. She was very young, with pretty eyes, a mass of silky brown hair, and a skin as fresh as a rose which had just been rained on.

  With that delicacy peculiar to lonely scientific bachelors, I modestly sat down beside the rough young man, although there was more room beside the younger lady. ‘Some lazy loafer reading a penny dreadful,’ I thought, glancing at him, then at the title of his book. Hearing me beside him, he turned around and blinked over his shabby shoulder, and the movement uncovered the page he had been silently conning. The volume in his hands was Darwin’s famous monograph on the monodactyl.

  He noticed the astonishment on my face and smiled uneasily, shifting the short clay pipe in his mouth.

  ‘I guess,’ he observed, ‘that this here book is too much for me, mister.’

  ‘It’s rather technical,’ I replied, smiling.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, in vague admiration; ‘it’s fierce, ain’t it?’

  After a silence I asked him if he would tell me why he had chosen Darwin as a literary pastime.

  ‘Well,’ he said placidly, ‘I was tryin’ to read about annermals, but I’m up against a word-sl
inger this time all right. Now here’s a gum-twister,’ and he painfully spelled out m-o-n-o-d-a-c-t-y-l, breathing hard all the while.

  ‘Monadactyl,’ I said, ‘means a single-toed creature.’

  He turned the page with alacrity. ‘Is that the beast he’s talkin’ about?’ he asked.

  The illustration he pointed out was a wood-cut representing Darwin’s reconstruction of the dingue from the fossil bones in the British Museum. It was a well-executed wood-cut, showing a dingue in the foreground and, to give scale, a mammoth in the middle distance.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘that is the dingue.’

  ‘I’ve seen one,’ he observed calmly.

  I smiled and explained that the dingue had been extinct for some thousands of years.

  ‘Oh, I guess not,’ he replied, with cool optimism. Then he placed a grimy forefinger on the mammoth.

  ‘I’ve seen them things too,’ he remarked.

  Again I pointed out his error, and suggested that he referred to the elephant.

  ‘Elephant be blowed!’ he replied scornfully. ‘I guess I know what I seen. An’ I seen that there thing you call a dingue, too.’

  Not wishing to prolong a futile discussion, I remained silent. After a moment he wheeled around, removing his pipe from his hard mouth.

  ‘Did you ever hear tell of Graham’s Glacier?’ he demanded.

  ‘Certainly,’ I replied, astonished; ‘it’s the southernmost glacier in British America.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘And did you ever hear tell of the Hudson Mountings, mister?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  ‘What’s behind ’em?’ he snapped out.

  ‘Nobody knows,’ I answered. ‘They are considered impassable.’

  ‘They ain’t though,’ he said doggedly; ‘I’ve been behind ’em.’

  ‘Really!’ I replied, tiring of his yarn.

  ‘Ya-as, reely,’ he repeated sullenly. Then he began to fumble and search through the pages of his book until he found what he wanted.

  ‘Mister,’ he said, ‘jest read that out loud, please.’

  The passage he indicated was the famous chapter beginning:

  Is the mammoth extinct? Is the dingue extinct? Probably. And yet the aborigines of British America maintain the contrary. Probably both the mammoth and the dingue are extinct; but until expeditions have penetrated and explored not only the unknown region in Alaska but also that hidden tableland beyond the Graham Glacier and the Hudson Mountains, it will not be possible to definitely announce the total extinction of either the mammoth or the dingue.

  When I had read it, slowly, for his benefit, he brought his hand down smartly on one knee and nodded rapidly.

  ‘Mister,’ he said, ‘that gent knows a thing or two, and don’t you forgit it!’ Then he demanded, abruptly, how I knew he hadn’t been behind the Graham Glacier.

  I explained.

  ‘Shucks!’ he said; ‘there’s a road five mile wide inter that there tableland. Mister, I ain’t been in New York long; I come inter port a week ago on the Arctic Belle, whaler. I was in the Hudson range when that there Graham Glacier bust up—’

  ‘What!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Didn’t you know it?’ he asked. ‘Well, mebbe it ain’t in the papers, but it busted all right – blowed up by an earthquake an’ volcano combine. An’, mister, it was oreful. My, how I did run!’

  ‘Do you mean to tell me that some convulsion of the earth has shattered the Graham Glacier?’ I asked.

  ‘Convulsions? Ya-as, an’ fits too,’ he said sulkily. ‘The hull blame thing dropped inter a hole. An’ say, mister, home an’ mother is good enough fur me now.’

  I stared at him stupidly.

  ‘Once,’ he said, ‘I ketched pelts fur them sharps at Hudson Bay, like any yaller husky, but the things I seen arter that convulsion-fit – the things I seen behind the Hudson Mountings – don’t make me hanker arter no life on the pe-rarie wild, lemme tell yer. I may be a Mother Carey’s chicken, but this chicken has got enough.’

  After a long silence I picked up his book again and pointed at a picture of the mammoth.

  ‘What color is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Kinder red an’ brown,’ he answered promptly. ‘It’s woolly too.’

  Astounded, I pointed to the dingue.

  ‘One-toed,’ he said quickly; ‘makes a noise like a bell when scutterin’ about.’

  Intensely excited, I laid my hand on his arm.

  ‘My society will give you a thousand dollars,’ I said, ‘if you pilot me inside the Hudson tableland and show me either a mammoth or a dingue!’

  He looked me calmly in the eye.

  ‘Mister,’ he said slowly, ‘have you got a million for to squander on me?’

  ‘No,’ I said suspiciously.

  ‘Because,’ he went on, ‘it wouldn’t be enough. Home an’ mother suits me now.’

  He picked up his book and rose. In vain I asked his name and address; in vain I begged him to dine with me – to become my honored guest.

  ‘Nit,’ he said shortly, and shambled off down the path.

  But I was not going to lose him like that. I rose and deliberately started to stalk him. It was easy. He shuffled along, pulling at his pipe, and I after him.

  It was growing a little dark, although the sun still reddened the tops of the maples. Afraid of losing him in the falling dusk, I once more approached him and laid my hand upon his ragged sleeve.

  ‘Look here,’ he cried, wheeling about, ‘I want you to quit follerin’ me. Don’t I tell you money can’t make me go back to them mountings!’ And as I attempted to speak, he suddenly tore off his cap and pointed to his head. His hair was as white as snow.

  ‘That’s what come of monkeyin’ inter your cursed mountings,’ he shouted fiercely. ‘There’s things in there what no Christian oughter see. Lemme alone er I’ll bust yer.’

  He shambled on, doubled fists swinging by his side. The next moment, setting my teeth obstinately, I followed him and caught him by the park gate. At my hail he whirled around with a snarl, but I grabbed him by the throat and backed him violently against the park wall.

  ‘You invaluable ruffian,’ I said, ‘now you listen to me. I live in that big stone building, and I’ll give you a thousand dollars to take me behind the Graham Glacier. Think it over and call on me when you are in a pleasanter frame of mind. If you don’t come by noon tomorrow I’ll go to the Graham Glacier without you.’

  He was attempting to kick me all the time, but I managed to avoid him, and when I had finished I gave him a shove which almost loosened his spinal column. He went reeling out across the side walk, and when he had recovered his breath and his balance he danced with displeasure and displayed a vocabulary that astonished me. However, he kept his distance.

  As I turned back into the park, satisfied that he would not follow, the first person I saw was the elderly, stony-faced lady of the wisteria arbor advancing on tiptoe. Behind her came the younger lady with cheeks like a rose that had been rained on.

  Instantly it occurred to me that they had followed us, and at the same moment I knew who the stony-faced lady was. Angry, but polite, I lifted my hat and saluted her, and she, probably furious at having being caught tiptoeing after me, cut me dead. The younger lady passed me with face averted, but even in the dusk I could see the tip of one little ear turn scarlet.

  Walking on hurriedly, I entered the Administration Building, and found Professor Lesard, of the reptilian department, preparing to leave.

  ‘Don’t you do it,’ I said sharply; ‘I’ve got exciting news.’

  ‘I’m only going to the theater,’ he replied. ‘It’s a good show – Adam and Eve; there’s a snake in it, you know. It’s in my line.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ I said; and I told him briefly what had occurred in the arbor.

  ‘But that’s not all,’ I continued savagely. ‘Those women followed us, and who do you think one of them turned out to be? Well, it was Professor Smawl, of Barnard College, an
d I’ll bet every pair of boots I own that she starts for the Graham Glacier within a week. Idiot that I was!’ I exclaimed, smiting my head with both hands. ‘I never recognised her until I saw her tiptoeing and craning her neck to listen. Now she knows about the glacier; she heard every word that young ruffian said, and she’ll go to the glacier if it’s only to forestall me.’

  Professor Lesard looked anxious. He knew that Miss Smawl, professor of natural history at Barnard College, had long desired an appointment at the Bronx Park gardens. It was even said that she had a chance of succeeding Professor Farrago as president, but that, of course, must have been a joke. However, she haunted the gardens, annoying the keepers by persistently poking the animals with her umbrella. On one occasion she sent us word that she desired to enter the tigers’ enclosure for the purpose of making experiments in hypnotism. Professor Farrago was absent, but I took it upon myself to send back word that I feared the tigers might injure her. The miserable small boy who took my message informed her that I was afraid she might injure the tigers, and the unpleasant incident almost cost me my position.

  ‘I am quite convinced,’ said I to Professor Lesard, ‘that Miss Smawl is perfectly capable of abusing the information she overhead, and of starting herself to explore a region that, by all the laws of decency, justice, and prior claim, belongs to me.’

  ‘Well,’ said Lesard, with a peculiar laugh, ‘it’s not certain whether you can go at all.’

  ‘Professor Farrago will authorise me,’ I said confidently.

  ‘Professor Farrago has resigned,’ said Lesard. It was a bolt from a clear sky.

  ‘Good Heavens!’ I blurted out. ‘What will become of the rest of us, then?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘The trustees are holding a meeting over in the Administration Building to elect a new president for us. It depends on the new president what becomes of us.’

  ‘Lesard,’ I said hoarsely, ‘you don’t suppose that they could possibly elect Miss Smawl as our president, do you?’

  He looked at me askance and bit his cigar.

  ‘I’d be in a nice position, wouldn’t I?’ said I anxiously.