Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Toward noon, Speed, clinging to the stall-bars, called out to me that he could see Quimper, and in a few moments we rolled into the station, dropped two cars, and steamed out again into the beautiful Breton country, where the winter wheat was green as new grass and the gorse glimmered, and the clear streams rushed seaward between their thickets of golden willows and green briers, already flushing with the promise of new buds.

  Rosporden we passed at full speed; scarcely a patch of melting snow remained at Bannalec; and when we steamed slowly into Quimperlé, the Laïta ran crystal-clear as a summer stream, and I saw the faint blue of violets on the southern slope of the beech-woods.

  Some gendarmes aided us to disembark our horses, and a sub-officer respectfully offered us hospitality at the barracks across the square; but we were in our saddles the moment our horses’ hoofs struck the pavement, galloping for Paradise, with a sweet, keen wind blowing, hinting already of the sea.

  This was that same road which led me into Paradise on that autumn day which seemed years and years ago. The forests were leafless but beautiful; the blackthorns already promised their scented snow to follow the last melting drift which still glimmered among the trees in deep woodland gullies. A violet here and there looked up at us with blue eyes; in sheltered spots, fresh, reddish sprouts pricked the moist earth, here a whorl of delicate green, there a tender spike, guarding some imprisoned loveliness; buds on the beeches were brightening under a new varnish; naked thickets, no longer dead gray, softened into harmonies of pink and gold and palest purple.

  Once, halting at a bridge, above the quick music of the stream we heard an English robin singing all alone.

  “I never longed for spring as I do now,” broke out Speed. “The horror of this black winter has scarred me forever — the deathly whiteness, month after month; the freezing filth of that ghastly city; the sea, all slime and ice!”

  “Gallop,” I said, shuddering. “I can smell the moors of Paradise already. The winds will cleanse us.”

  We spoke no more; and at last the road turned to the east, down among the trees, and we were traversing the square of Paradise village, where white-capped women turned to look after us, and children stared at us from their playground around the fountain, and the sleek magpies fluttered out of our path as we galloped over the bridge and breasted the sweet, strong moor wind, spicy with bay and gorse.

  Speed flung out his arm, pointing. “The circus camp was there,” he said. “They have ploughed the clover under.”

  A moment later I saw the tower of Trécourt, touched with a ray of sunshine, and the sea beyond, glittering under a clearing sky.

  As we dismounted in the court-yard the sun flashed out from the fringes of a huge, snowy cloud.

  “There is Jacqueline!” cried Speed, tossing his bridle to me in his excitement, and left me planted there until a servant came from the stable.

  Then I followed, every nerve quivering, almost dreading to set foot within, lest happiness awake me and I find myself in the freezing barracks once more, my brief dream ended.

  In the hallway a curious blindness came over me. I heard Jacqueline call my name, and I felt her hands in mine, but scarcely saw her; then she slipped away from me, and I found myself seated in the little tea-room, listening to the dull, double beat of my own heart, trembling at distant sounds in the house — waiting, endlessly waiting.

  After a while a glimmer of common-sense returned to me. I squared my shoulders and breathed deeply, then rose and walked to the window.

  The twigs on the peach-trees had turned wine-color; around the roots of the larkspurs delicate little palmated leaves clustered; crocus spikes pricked the grass everywhere, and the tall, polished shoots of the peonies glistened, glowing crimson in the sun. A heavy cat sunned its sleek flanks on the wall, brilliant eyes half closed, tail tucked under. Ange Pitou had grown very fat in three months.

  A step at the door, and I wheeled, trembling. But it was only a Breton maid, who bore some letters on a salver of silver.

  “For me?” I asked.

  “If you please,” she said, demurely.

  Two letters, and I knew the writing on one. The first I read standing:

  “Buffalo, N. Y., Feb. 3, 1871.

  “Mr. Scarlett, Dear Sir and Friend, — Trusting you’re well I am pleased to admit the same, the blind Goddess having smiled on me and the circus since we quit that damn terra firma for a more peeceful climb.

  “We are enjoying winter quarters near to the majestic phenomena of Niagara, fodder is cheap and vittles bountiful.

  “Would be pleased to have you entertain idees of joining us, and the same to Mr. Speed — you can take the horses. I have a lion man from Jersey City. We open in Charleston S. C. next week no more of La continong for me, savvy voo! home is good enough for me. That little Jacqueline left me I got a girl and am training her but she ain’t Jacqueline. Annimals are well Mrs. Grigg sends her love and is joined by all especially the ladies and others too numerous to mention. Hoping to hear from you soon about the horses I remain yours truly and courteously,

  “H. Byram Esq.”

  The second letter I opened carelessly, smiling a little:

  “New York, Feb. 1, 1871.

  “Dear Mr. Scarlett, — We were married yesterday. We have life before us, but are not afraid. I shall never forget you; my wife can never forget the woman you love. We have both passed through hell — but we have passed through alive. And we pray for the happiness of you and yours.

  “Kelly Eyre.”

  Sobered, I laid this letter beside the first, turned thoughtfully away into the room, then stood stock-still. 388

  The Countess de Vassart stood in the doorway, a smile trembling on her lips. In her gray eyes I read hope; and I took her hands in mine. She stood silent with bent head, exquisite in her silent shyness; and I told her I loved her, and that I asked for her love; that I had found employment in Egypt, and that it was sufficient to justify my asking her to wed me.

  “As for my name,” I said, “you know that is not the name I bear; yet, knowing that, you have given me your love. You read my dossier in Paris; you know why I am alone, without kin, without a family, without a home. Yet you believe that I am not tainted with dishonor. And I am not. Listen, this is what happened; this is why I gave up all; and ... this is my name!” ...

  And I bent my head and whispered the truth for the first time in my life to any living creature.

  When I had ended I stood still, waiting, head still bowed beside hers.

  She laid her hand on my hot face and slowly drew it close beside hers.

  “What shall I promise you?” she whispered.

  “Yourself, Éline.”

  “Take me.... Is that all?”

  “Your love.”

  She turned in my arms and clasped her hands behind my head, pressing her mouth to mine.

  IN SEARCH OF THE UNKNOWN

  This collection of linked stories, first published in 1904, tells of the exploits of an assistant to a Professor of the New York Zoological Society, who is tasked with tracking down mysterious or extinct animals. Among the wonders he uncovers are a living Great Auk, the half-man/half-amphibian ‘harbor master’ and a colony of invisible swamp creatures. These science fiction elements are blended with the humorous streak befitting the tall tales on offer, whilst a string of beautiful women lend a romantic element to proceedings.

  Cover of the first edition

  CONTENTS

  PREFACE

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

&nb
sp; TO

  MY FRIEND

  E. LE GRAND BEERS

  My dear Le Grand, — You and I were early drawn together by a common love of nature. Your researches into the natural history of the tree-toad, your observations upon the mud-turtles of Providence Township, your experiments with the fresh-water lobster, all stimulated my enthusiasm in a scientific direction, which has crystallized in this helpful little book, dedicated to you.

  Pray accept it as an insignificant payment on account for all I owe to you.

  The Author.

  PREFACE

  It appears to the writer that there is urgent need of more “nature books” — books that are scraped clear of fiction and which display only the carefully articulated skeleton of fact. Hence this little volume, presented with some hesitation and more modesty. Various chapters have, at intervals, appeared in the pages of various publications. The continued narrative is now published for the first time; and the writer trusts that it may inspire enthusiasm for natural and scientific research, and inculcate a passion for accurate observation among the young.

  The Author.

  April 1, 1904.

  Where the slanting forest eaves, Shingled tight with greenest leaves, Sweep the scented meadow-sedge, Let us snoop along the edge; Let us pry in hidden nooks, Laden with our nature books, Scaring birds with happy cries, Chloroforming butterflies, Rooting up each woodland plant, Pinning beetle, fly, and ant, So we may identify What we’ve ruined, by-and-by.

  I

  Because it all seems so improbable — so horribly impossible to me now, sitting here safe and sane in my own library — I hesitate to record an episode which already appears to me less horrible than grotesque. Yet, unless this story is written now, I know I shall never have the courage to tell the truth about the matter — not from fear of ridicule, but because I myself shall soon cease to credit what I now know to be true. Yet scarcely a month has elapsed since I heard the stealthy purring of what I believed to be the shoaling undertow — scarcely a month ago, with my own eyes, I saw that which, even now, I am beginning to believe never existed. As for the harbor-master — and the blow I am now striking at the old order of things — But of that I shall not speak now, or later; I shall try to tell the story simply and truthfully, and let my friends testify as to my probity and the publishers of this book corroborate them.

  On the 29th of February I resigned my position under the government and left Washington to accept an offer from Professor Farrago — whose name he kindly permits me to use — and on the first day of April I entered upon my new and congenial duties as general superintendent of the water-fowl department connected with the Zoological Gardens then in course of erection at Bronx Park, New York.

  For a week I followed the routine, examining the new foundations, studying the architect’s plans, following the surveyors through the Bronx thickets, suggesting arrangements for water-courses and pools destined to be included in the enclosures for swans, geese, pelicans, herons, and such of the waders and swimmers as we might expect to acclimate in Bronx Park.

  It was at that time the policy of the trustees and officers of the Zoological Gardens neither to employ collectors nor to send out expeditions in search of specimens. The society decided to depend upon voluntary contributions, and I was always busy, part of the day, in dictating answers to correspondents who wrote offering their services as hunters of big game, collectors of all sorts of fauna, trappers, snarers, and also to those who offered specimens for sale, usually at exorbitant rates.

  To the proprietors of five-legged kittens, mangy lynxes, moth-eaten coyotes, and dancing bears I returned courteous but uncompromising refusals — of course, first submitting all such letters, together with my replies, to Professor Farrago.

  One day towards the end of May, however, just as I was leaving Bronx Park to return to town, Professor Lesard, of the reptilian department, called out to me that Professor Farrago wanted to see me a moment; so I put my pipe into my pocket again and retraced my steps to the temporary, wooden building occupied by Professor Farrago, general superintendent of the Zoological Gardens. The professor, who was sitting at his desk before a pile of letters and replies submitted for approval by me, pushed his glasses down and looked over them at me with a whimsical smile that suggested amusement, impatience, annoyance, and perhaps a faint trace of apology.

  “Now, here’s a letter,” he said, with a deliberate gesture towards a sheet of paper impaled on a file— “a letter that I suppose you remember.” He disengaged the sheet of paper and handed it to me.

  “Oh yes,” I replied, with a shrug; “of course the man is mistaken — or—”

  “Or what?” demanded Professor Farrago, tranquilly, wiping his glasses.

  “ — Or a liar,” I replied.

  After a silence he leaned back in his chair and bade me read the letter to him again, and I did so with a contemptuous tolerance for the writer, who must have been either a very innocent victim or a very stupid swindler. I said as much to Professor Farrago, but, to my surprise, he appeared to waver.

  “I suppose,” he said, with his near-sighted, embarrassed smile, “that nine hundred and ninety-nine men in a thousand would throw that letter aside and condemn the writer as a liar or a fool?”

  “In my opinion,” said I, “he’s one or the other.”

  “He isn’t — in mine,” said the professor, placidly.

  “What!” I exclaimed. “Here is a man living all alone on a strip of rock and sand between the wilderness and the sea, who wants you to send somebody to take charge of a bird that doesn’t exist!”

  “How do you know,” asked Professor Farrago, “that the bird in question does not exist?”

  “It is generally accepted,” I replied, sarcastically, “that the great auk has been extinct for years. Therefore I may be pardoned for doubting that our correspondent possesses a pair of them alive.”

  “Oh, you young fellows,” said the professor, smiling wearily, “you embark on a theory for destinations that don’t exist.”

  He leaned back in his chair, his amused eyes searching space for the imagery that made him smile.

  “Like swimming squirrels, you navigate with the help of Heaven and a stiff breeze, but you never land where you hope to — do you?”

  Rather red in the face, I said: “Don’t you believe the great auk to be extinct?”

  “Audubon saw the great auk.”

  “Who has seen a single specimen since?”

  “Nobody — except our correspondent here,” he replied, laughing.

  I laughed, too, considering the interview at an end, but the professor went on, coolly:

  “Whatever it is that our correspondent has — and I am daring to believe that it is the great auk itself — I want you to secure it for the society.”

  When my astonishment subsided my first conscious sentiment was one of pity. Clearly, Professor Farrago was on the verge of dotage — ah, what a loss to the world!

  I believe now that Professor Farrago perfectly interpreted my thoughts, but he betrayed neither resentment nor impatience. I drew a chair up beside his desk — there was nothing to do but to obey, and this fool’s errand was none of my conceiving.

  Together we made out a list of articles necessary for me and itemized the expenses I might incur, and I set a date for my return, allowing no margin for a successful termination to the expedition.

  “Never mind that,” said the professor. “What I want you to do is to get those birds here safely. Now, how many men will you take?”

  “None,” I replied, bluntly; “it’s a useless expense, unless there is something to bring back. If there is I’ll wire you, you may be sure.”

  “Very well,” said Professor Farrago, good-humoredly, “you shall have all the assistance you may require. Can you leave to-night?”

  The old gentleman was certainly prompt. I nodded, half-sulkily, aware of his amusement.

  “So,” I said, picking up my hat, “I am to start north to find a place called B
lack Harbor, where there is a man named Halyard who possesses, among other household utensils, two extinct great auks—”

  We were both laughing by this time. I asked him why on earth he credited the assertion of a man he had never before heard of.

  “I suppose,” he replied, with the same half-apologetic, half-humorous smile, “it is instinct. I feel, somehow, that this man Halyard has got an auk — perhaps two. I can’t get away from the idea that we are on the eve of acquiring the rarest of living creatures. It’s odd for a scientist to talk as I do; doubtless you’re shocked — admit it, now!”

  But I was not shocked; on the contrary, I was conscious that the same strange hope that Professor Farrago cherished was beginning, in spite of me, to stir my pulses, too.

  “If he has—” I began, then stopped.

  The professor and I looked hard at each other in silence.

  “Go on,” he said, encouragingly.

  But I had nothing more to say, for the prospect of beholding with my own eyes a living specimen of the great auk produced a series of conflicting emotions within me which rendered speech profanely superfluous.

  As I took my leave Professor Farrago came to the door of the temporary, wooden office and handed me the letter written by the man Halyard. I folded it and put it into my pocket, as Halyard might require it for my own identification.

  “How much does he want for the pair?” I asked.

  “Ten thousand dollars. Don’t demur — if the birds are really—”

  “I know,” I said, hastily, not daring to hope too much.

  “One thing more,” said Professor Farrago, gravely; “you know, in that last paragraph of his letter, Halyard speaks of something else in the way of specimens — an undiscovered species of amphibious biped — just read that paragraph again, will you?”