Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  They had walked together to the southern end of the terrace; below stretched the splendid forest vista set with pool and fountain; under the parapet, in the new garden, red and white roses bloomed, and on the surface of spray-dimmed basins the jagged crimson reflections of goldfish dappled every unquiet pool.

  “Where is the new polo field?” he asked.

  She pointed out an unfamiliar path curving west from the tennis-courts, nodded, smiled, returning the pressure of his hand, and stood watching him from the parapet until he vanished in the shadow of the trees.

  The path was a new one to him, cut during the summer. For a quarter of a mile it wound through the virgin hammock, suddenly emerging into a sunny clearing where an old orange grove grown up with tangles of brier and vine had partly given place to the advance of the jungle.

  Something glimmered over there among the trees — a girl, coated and skirted in snowy white, sitting a pony, and leisurely picking and eating the great black mulberries that weighted the branches so that they bent almost to the breaking.

  She saw him from a distance, turned in her saddle, lifting her polo-mallet in recognition; and as he came, pushing his way across the clearing, almost shoulder-deep through weeds, from which the silver-spotted butterflies rose in clouds, she stripped off one stained glove, and held out her hand to him.

  “You were so long in coming,” she managed to say, calmly, “I thought I’d ride part way back to meet you; and fell a victim to these mulberries. Tempted and fell, you see.... Are you well? It is nice to see you.”

  And as he still retained her slim white hand in both of his:

  “What do you think of my new pony?” she asked, forcing a smile. “He’s teaching me the real game.... I left the others when Gray came up; Cuyp, Phil Gatewood, and some other men are practising. You’ll play to-morrow, won’t you? It’s such a splendid game.” She was talking at random, now, as though the sound of her own voice were sustaining her with its nervous informality; and she chattered on in feverish animation, bridging every threatened silence with gay inconsequences.

  “You play polo, of course? Tell me you do.”

  “You know perfectly well I don’t—”

  “But you’ll try if I ask you?”

  He still held her hand imprisoned — that fragrant, listless little hand, so lifeless, nerveless, unresponsive — as though it were no longer a part of her and she had forgotten it.

  “I’ll do anything you wish,” he said slowly.

  “Then don’t eat any of these mulberries until you are acclimated. I’m sorry; they are so delicious. But I won’t eat any more, either.”

  “Nonsense,” he said, bending down a heavily laden bough for her. “Eat! daughter of Eve! This fruit is highly recommended.”

  “Oh, Garry! I’m not such a pig as that!... Well, then; if you make me do it—”

  She lifted her face among the tender leaves, detached a luscious berry with her lips, absorbed it reflectively, and shook her head with decision.

  The shadow of constraint was fast slipping from them both.

  “You know you enjoy it,” he insisted, laughing naturally.

  “No, I don’t enjoy it at all,” she retorted indignantly. “I’ll not taste another until you are ready to do your part.... I’ve forgotten, Garry; did the serpent eat the fruit he recommended?”

  “He was too wise, not being acclimated in Eden.”

  She turned in her saddle, laughing, and sat looking down at him — then, more gravely, at her ungloved hand which he still retained in both of his.

  Silence fell, and found them ready for it.

  For a long while they said nothing; she slipped one leg over the pommel and sat sideways, elbow on knee, chin propped in her gloved hand. At times her eyes wandered over the sunny clearing, but always reverted to him where he stood leaning against her stirrup and looking up at her as though he never could look enough.

  The faint, fresh perfume of China-berry was in the air, delicately persistent amid the heavy odours from tufts of orange flowers clinging to worn-out trees of the abandoned grove.

  “Your own fragrance,” he said.

  She looked down at him, dreamily. He bent and touched with his face the hand he held imprisoned.

  “There was once,” he said, “among the immortals a maid, Calypso.... Do you remember?”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “I have not forgotten my only title to immortality.”

  Their gaze met; then he stepped closer.

  She raised both arms, crossing them to cover her eyes; his arms circled her, lifted her from the saddle, holding her a moment above the earth, free, glorious, superb in her vivid beauty; then he swung her to the ground, holding her embraced; and as she abandoned to him, one by one, her hands and mouth and throat, her gaze never left him — clear, unfaltering eyes of a child innocent enough to look on passion unafraid — fearless, confident eyes, wondering, worshipping in unison with the deepening adoration in his.

  “I love you so,” she said, “I love you so for making me what I am. I can be all that you could wish for if you only say it—”

  She smiled, unconvinced at his tender protest, wise, sweet eyes on his.

  “What a boy you are, sometimes! — as though I did not know myself! Dear, it is for you to say what I shall be. I am capable of being what you think I am. Don’t you know it, Garry? It is only—”

  “And locked in his embrace, she lifted her lips to his.”

  She felt a cool, thin pressure on her finger, and glanced down at the ring sparkling white fire. She lifted her hand, doubling it; looked at the gem for a moment, laid it against her mouth. Then, with dimmed eyes:

  “Your love, your name, your ring for this nameless girl? And I — what can I give for a bridal gift?”

  “What sweet nonsense—”

  “What can I give, Garry? Don’t laugh—”

  “Calypso, dear—”

  “Yes — Calypso’s offer! — immortal love — endless, deathless. It is all I have to give you, Garry.... Will you take it?... Take it, then.”

  And, locked in his embrace, she lifted her lips to his.

  THE END

  SPECIAL MESSENGER

  CONTENTS

  PREFACE

  PART ONE. WHAT SHE WAS

  CHAPTER I. NONCOMBATANTS

  PART TWO. WHAT SHE BECAME

  CHAPTER II. SPECIAL MESSENGER

  CHAPTER III. ABSOLUTION

  CHAPTER IV. ROMANCE

  CHAPTER V. RED FERRY

  CHAPTER VI. AN AIR-LINE

  CHAPTER VII. THE PASS

  CHAPTER VIII. EVER AFTER

  “Daintily her handsome horse set foot in the water.” Page 131.

  TO

  GEORGE F. D. TRASK

  IN MEMORY OF

  OUR FIRST MARTIAL EXPLOITS

  IN THE NURSERY

  Thou hast given a banner to them that fear Thee, that it may be displayed because of the truth. — Psalm lx, 4.

  PREFACE

  In the personality and exploits of the “Special Messenger,” the author has been assured that a celebrated historical character is recognizable — Miss Boyd, the famous Confederate scout and spy.

  It is not uncommon that the readers of a book know more about that book than the author.

  R. W. C.

  PART ONE. WHAT SHE WAS

  CHAPTER I. NONCOMBATANTS

  About five o’clock that evening a Rhode Island battery clanked through the village and parked six dusty guns in a pasture occupied by some astonished cows.

  A little later the cavalry arrived, riding slowly up the tree-shaded street, escorted by every darky and every dog in the country-side.

  The clothing of this regiment was a little out of the ordinary. Instead of the usual campaign head gear the troopers wore forage caps strapped under their chins, heavy visors turned down, and their officers were conspicuous in fur-trimmed hussar tunics slung from the shoulders of dark-blue shell jackets; but most unusual and most interesting of all,
a mounted cavalry band rode ahead, led by a bandmaster who sat his horse like a colonel of regulars — a slim young man with considerable yellow and gold on his faded blue sleeves, and an easy manner of swinging forward his heavy cut-and-thrust sabre as he guided the column through the metropolitan labyrinths of Sandy River.

  Sandy River had seen and scowled at Yankee cavalry before, but never before had the inhabitants had an opportunity to ignore a mounted band and bandmaster. There was, of course, no cheering; a handkerchief fluttered from a gallery here and there, but Sandy River was loyal only in spots, and the cavalry pressed past groups of silent people, encountering the averted heads or scornful eyes of young girls and the cold hatred in the faces of gray-haired gentlewomen, who turned their backs as the ragged guidons bobbed past and the village street rang with the clink-clank of scabbards and rattle of Spencer carbines.

  But there was a small boy on a pony who sat entranced as the weather-ravaged squadrons trampled by. Cap in hand, straight in his saddle, he saluted the passing flag; a sunburnt trooper called out: “That’s right, son! Bully for you!”

  The boy turned his pony and raced along the column under a running fire of approving chaff from the men, until he came abreast of the bandmaster once more, at whom he stared with fascinated and uncloyed satisfaction.

  Into a broad common wheeled the cavalry; the boy followed on his pony, guiding the little beast in among the mounted men, edging as close as possible to the bandmaster, who had drawn bridle and wheeled his showy horse abreast of a group of officers. When the boy had crowded up as close as possible to the bandmaster he sat in silence, blissfully drinking in the splendors of that warrior’s dusty apparel.

  “I’m right glad you-all have come,” ventured the boy.

  The bandmaster swung round in his saddle and saw a small sun-tanned face and two wide eyes intently fixed on his.

  “I reckon you don’t know how glad my sister and I are to see you down here,” said the boy politely. “When are you going to have a battle?”

  “A battle!” repeated the bandmaster.

  “Yes, sir. You’re going to fight, of course, aren’t you?”

  “Not if people leave us alone — and leave that railroad alone,” replied the officer, backing his restive horse to the side of the fence as the troopers trotted past into the meadow, fours crowding closely on fours.

  “Not fight?” exclaimed the boy, astonished. “Isn’t there going to be a battle?”

  “I’ll let you know when there’s going to be one,” said the bandmaster absently.

  “You won’t forget, will you?” inquired the boy. “My name is William Stuart Westcote, and I live in that house.” He pointed with his riding whip up the hill. “You won’t forget, will you?”

  “No, child, I won’t forget.”

  “My sister Celia calls me Billy; perhaps you had better just ask her for Billy if I’m not there when you gallop up to tell me — that is, if you’re coming yourself. Are you?” he ended wistfully.

  “Do you want me to come?” inquired the bandmaster, amused.

  “Would you really come?” cried the boy. “Would you really come to visit me?”

  “I’ll consider it,” said the bandmaster gravely.

  “Do you think you could come to-night?” asked the boy. “We’d certainly be glad to see you — my sister and I. Folks around here like the Malletts and the Colvins and the Garnetts don’t visit us any more, and it’s lonesome sometimes.”

  “I think that you should ask your sister first,” suggested the bandmaster.

  “Why? She’s loyal!” exclaimed the boy earnestly. “Besides, you’re coming to visit me, I reckon. Aren’t you?”

  “Certainly,” said the bandmaster hastily.

  “To-night?”

  “I’ll do my best, Billy.”

  The boy held out a shy hand; the officer bent from his saddle and took it in his soiled buckskin gauntlet.

  “Good night, my son,” he said, without a smile, and rode off into the meadow among a crowd of troopers escorting the regimental wagons.

  A few moments later a child on a pony tore into the weed-grown drive leading to the great mansion on the hill, scaring a lone darky who had been dawdling among the roses.

  “‘Clar’ tu goodness, Mars Will’m, I done tuk you foh de Black Hoss Cav’ly!” said the ancient negro reproachfully. “Hi! Hi! Wha’ foh you mek all dat fuss an’ a-gwine-on?”

  “Oh, Mose!” cried the boy, “I’ve seen the Yankee cavalry, and they have a horse band, and I rode with them, and I asked a general when they were going to have a battle, and the general said he’d let me know!”

  “Gin’ral?” demanded the old darky suspiciously; “who dat gin’ral dat gwine tell you ‘bout de battle? Was he drivin’ de six-mule team, or was he dess a-totin’ a sack o’ co’n? Kin you splain dat, Mars Will’m?”

  “Don’t you think I know a general when I see one?” exclaimed the boy scornfully. “He had yellow and gilt on his sleeves, and he carried a sabre, and he rode first of all. And — oh, Mose! He’s coming here to pay me a visit! Perhaps he’ll come to-night; he said he would if he could.”

  “Dat gin’ral ‘low he gwine come here?” muttered the darky. “Spec’ you better see Miss Celia ‘fo’ you ax dis here gin’ral.”

  “I’m going to ask her now,” said the boy. “She certainly will be glad to see one of our own men. Who cares if all the niggers have run off? We’re not ashamed — and, anyhow, you’re here to bring in the decanters for the general.”

  “Shoo, honey, you might talk dat-a-way ef yo’ pa wuz in de house,” grumbled the old man. “Ef hit’s done fix, nobody kin onfix it. But dess yo’ leave dem gin’rals whar dey is nex’ time, Mars Will’m. Hit wuz a gin’ral dat done tuk de Dominiker hen las’ time de blueco’ts come to San’ River.”

  The boy, sitting entranced in reverie, scarcely heard him; and it was only when a far trumpet blew from the camp in the valley that he started in his saddle and raised his rapt eyes to the windows. Somebody had hung out a Union flag over the jasmine-covered portico.

  “There it is! There it is, Mose!” he cried excitedly, scrambling from his saddle. “Here — take the bridle! And the very minute you hear the general dashing into the drive, let me know!”

  He ran jingling up the resounding veranda — he wore his father’s spurs — and mounted the stairs, two at a jump, calling: “Celia! Celia! You’ll be glad to know that a general who is a friend of mine — —”

  “Hush, Billy,” said his sister, checking him on the landing and leading him out to the gallery from which the flag hung; “can’t you remember that grandfather is asleep by sundown? Now — what is it, dear, you wish to tell me?”

  “Oh, I forgot; truly I did, Celia — but a general is coming to visit me to-night, if you can possibly manage it, and I’m so glad you hung out the flag — and Moses can serve the Madeira, can’t he?”

  “What general?” inquired his sister uneasily. And her brother’s explanations made matters no clearer. “You remember what the Yankee cavalry did before,” she said anxiously. “You must be careful, Billy, now that the quarters are empty and there’s not a soul in the place except Mose.”

  “But, Celia! the general is a gentleman. I shook hands with him!”

  “Very well, dear,” she said, passing one arm around his neck and leaning forward over the flag. The sun was dipping between a cleft in the hills, flinging out long rosy beams across the misty valley. The mocking birds had ceased, but a thrasher was singing in a tangle of Cherokee roses under the western windows.

  While they stood there the sun dipped so low that nothing remained except a glowing scarlet rim.

  “Hark!” whispered the boy. Far away an evening gunshot set soft echoes tumbling from hill to hill, distant, more distant. Strains of the cavalry band rose in the evening silence, “The Star Spangled Banner” floating from the darkening valley. Then silence; and presently a low, sweet thrush note from the dusky garden.

  It was afte
r supper, when the old darky had lighted the dips — there being no longer any oil or candles to be had — that the thrush, who had been going into interminable ecstasies of fluty trills, suddenly became mute. A jingle of metal sounded from the garden, a step on the porch, a voice inquiring for Mr. Westcote; and old Mose replying with reproachful dignity: “Mars Wes’cote, suh? Mars Wes’cote daid, suh.”

  “That’s my friend, the general!” exclaimed Billy, leaping from his chair. “Mose, you fool nigger, why don’t you ask the general to come in?” he whispered fiercely; then, as befitted the master of the house, he walked straight out into the hall, small hand outstretched, welcoming his guest as he had seen his father receive a stranger of distinction. “I am so glad you came,” he said, crimson with pleasure. “Moses will take your cap and cloak — Mose!”

  The old servant shuffled forward, much impressed by the uniform revealed as the long blue mantle fell across his own ragged sleeve.

  “Do you know why I came, Billy?” asked the bandmaster, smiling.

  “I reckon it was because you promised to, wasn’t it?” inquired the child.

  “Certainly,” said the bandmaster hastily. “And I promised to come because I have a brother about your age— ‘way up in New York. Shall we sit here on the veranda and talk about him?”

  “First,” said the boy gravely, “my sister Celia will receive you.”

  He turned, leading the way to the parlor with inherited self-possession; and there, through the wavering light of a tallow dip, the bandmaster saw a young girl in black rising from a chair by the center table; and he brought his spurred heels together and bowed his very best bow.

  “My brother,” she said, “has been so anxious to bring one of our officers here. Two weeks ago the Yan — the Federal cavalry passed through, chasing Carrington’s Horse out of Oxley Court House, but there was no halt here.” She resumed her seat with a gesture toward a chair opposite; the bandmaster bowed again and seated himself, placing his sabre between his knees.