Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Do you think I’d fire this charge,” he demanded warmly, “if there was the slightest possible danger to you? Take down your hands and listen.”

  Her closed eyelids quivered: “We’ll both — there won’t be anything left of either of us if anything does happen,” she said tremulously. “I am not afraid.... Only tell me when to close my ears.”

  “Do you really think there is danger?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He looked at her standing there, pale, plucky, eyes tightly shut, her pretty fingers resting lightly on her ears.

  He said: “Would you think me crazy if I tell you something?”

  “W-What?”

  “Would you think me insane, Jean?”

  “I don’t think I would.”

  “You wouldn’t consider me utterly mad?”

  “N-no.”

  “No — what?”

  “No, I wouldn’t consider you mad — —”

  “No — what?” he persisted.

  And after a moment her pallor was tinted with a delicate rose.

  “No — what?” he insisted again.

  “No — Jim,” she answered under breath.

  “Then — close your ears, Jean, dear.”

  She closed them; his arm encircled her waist. She bore it nobly.

  “You may fire when you are ready — James!” she said faintly.

  A thunder-clap answered her; the Causeway seemed to spring up under their feet; the world reeled.

  Presently she heard his voice sounding calmly: “Are you all right, Jean?”

  “Yes.... I was thinking of you — as long as I could think at all. I was ready to go — anywhere — with you.”

  “I have been ready for that,” he said unsteadily, “from the moment I heard your voice. But it is — is wonderful of you!”

  She opened her blue eyes, dreamily looking up into his. Then the colour surged into her face.

  “If — if you had spoken to me across the aisle,” she said, “it would have begun even sooner, I think.... Because I can’t imagine myself not — caring for you.”

  He took her into his arms:

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll make a place for you in the world, even if that Maltese cross means nothing.”

  She looked into his eyes fearlessly: “I know you will,” she said.

  Then he kissed her and she put both arms around his neck and offered her fresh, young lips again.

  XXXI

  Toward sunset he came to, partially, passed his hand across his enchanted eyes, and rose from the hammock beside her.

  “Dearest,” he said, “that swamp ought to be partly drained by this time. Suppose we walk over before dinner and take a look?”

  Still confused by the sweetness of her dream, she sat up, and he drew her to her feet, where she stood twisting up her beautiful hair, half smiling, shy, adorable.

  Then together they walked slowly out along the Causeway, so absorbed in each other that already they had forgotten the explosion, and even the Maltese cross itself.

  It was only when they were halted by the great gap in the Causeway that Jean Sandys glanced to the left, over a vast bed of shining mud, where before blue wavelets had lapped the base of the Causeway.

  Then her vaguely smiling eyes flew wide open; she caught her lover’s arm in an excited clasp.

  “O Jim!” she exclaimed. “Look! Look! It is true! It is true! Look at the bed of the lake!”

  They stood trembling and staring at the low, squat, windowless coquina house, reeking with the silt of centuries, crawling with stranded water creatures.

  The stones that had blocked the door had fallen before the shock of the dynamite.

  “Good God!” he whispered. “Do you see what is inside?”

  But Jean Sandys, calmly looking untold wealth in its glittering face, sighed, smiled, and turned her blue gaze on her lover, finding in his eyes the only miracle that now had power to hold her undivided attention.

  For it is that way with some girls.

  But the novelist, unable to endure a dose of his own technique, could no longer control his impatience:

  “What in God’s name was there in that stone house!” he burst out.

  “Oh, Lord!” muttered Stafford, “it is two hours after midnight.”

  He rose, bent over the girl’s hand, and kissed the emerald on the third finger.

  Figure after figure, tall, shadowy, leisurely followed his example, while her little hand lay listlessly on the silken cushions and her dreaming eyes seemed to see nobody.

  Duane and I remained for a while seated, then in silence, — which Athalie finally broke for us:

  “Patience,” she said, “is the art of hoping.... Good-night.”

  I rose; she looked up at me, lifted her slim arm and placed the palm of her hand against my lips.

  And so I took my leave; thinking.

  THE HIDDEN CHILDREN

  CONTENTS

  AUTHOR’S PREFACE

  NOTE

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  TO MY MOTHER

  Whatever merit may lie in this book is due to her wisdom,

  her sympathy and her teaching

  AUTHOR’S PREFACE

  No undue liberties with history have been attempted in this romance. Few characters in the story are purely imaginary. Doubtless the fastidious reader will distinguish these intruders at a glance, and very properly ignore them. For they, and what they never were, and what they never did, merely sugar-coat a dose disguised, and gild the solid pill of fact with tinselled fiction.

  But from the flames of Poundridge town ablaze, to the rolling smoke of Catharines-town, Romance but limps along a trail hewed out for her more dainty feet by History, and measured inch by inch across the bloody archives of the nation.

  The milestones that once marked that dark and dreadful trail were dead men, red and white. Today a spider-web of highways spreads over that Dark Empire of the League, enmeshing half a thousand towns now all a-buzz by day and all a-glow by night.

  Empire, League, forest, are vanished; of the nations which formed the Confederacy only altered fragments now remain. But their memory and their great traditions have not perished; cities, mountains, valleys, rivers, lakes, and ponds are endowed with added beauty from the lovely names they wear — a tragic yet a charming legacy from Kanonsis and Kanonsionni, the brave and mighty people of the Long House, and those outside its walls who helped to prop or undermine it, Huron and Algonquin.

  Perhaps of all national alliances ever formed, the Great Peace, which is called the League of the Iroquois, was as noble as any. For it was a league formed solely to impose peace. Those who took up arms against the Long House were received as allies when conquered — save only the treacherous Cat Nation, or Eries, who were utterly annihilated by the knife and hatchet or by adoption and ultimate absorption in the Seneca Nation.

  As for the Lenni-Lenape, when they kept faith with the League they remained undisturbed as one of the “props” of the Long House, and their role in the Confederacy was embassadorial, diplomatic and advisory — in other words, the role of the Iroquois married women. And in the Confederacy the position of women was one of importance and dignity, and they exercised a franchise which no white nation has ever yet accorded to its women.

  But when the Delawares broke faith, then the lash fell and the term “women” as applied to them carried a very different meaning when spat o
ut by Canienga lips or snarled by Senecas.

  Yet, of the Lenape, certain tribes, offshoots, and clans remained impassive either to Iroquois threats or proffered friendship. They, like certain lithe, proud forest animals to whom restriction means death, were untamable. Their necks could endure no yoke, political or purely ornamental. And so they perished far from the Onondaga firelight, far from the open doors of the Long House, self-exiled, self-sufficient, irreconcilable, and foredoomed. And of these the Mohicans were the noblest.

  In the four romances — of which, though written last of all, this is the third, chronologically speaking — the author is very conscious of error and shortcoming. But the theme was surely worth attempting; and if the failure to convince be only partial then is the writer grateful to the Fates, and well content to leave it to the next and better man.

  BROADALBIN, Early Spring, 1913.

  NOTE

  During the serial publication of “The Hidden Children” the author received the following interesting letters relating to the authorship of the patriotic verses quoted in Chapter X., These letters are published herewith for the general reader as well as for students of American history.

  R. W. C.

  149 WEST EIGHTY-EIGHTH STREET,

  NEW YORK CITY.

  MRS. HELEN DODGE KNEELAND:

  DEAR MADAM: Some time ago I accidentally came across the verses written by Samuel Dodge and used by R. W. Chambers in story “Hidden Children.” I wrote to him, inviting him to come and look at the original manuscript, which has come down to me from my mother, whose maiden name was Helen Dodge Cocks, a great-granddaughter of Samuel Dodge, of Poughkeepsie, the author of them.

  So far Mr. Chambers has not come, but he answered my note, inclosing your note to him. I have written to him, suggesting that he insert a footnote giving the authorship of the verses, that it would gratify the descendants of Samuel Dodge, as well as be a tribute to a patriotic citizen.

  These verses have been published a number of times. About three years ago by chance I read them in the December National Magazine, (Boston), entitled “A Revolutionary Puzzle,” and stating that the author was unknown. Considering it my duty to place the honor where it belonged, I wrote to the editor, giving the facts, which he courteously published in the September number, 1911, .

  Should you be in New York any time, I will take pleasure in showing you the original manuscripts.

  Very truly yours,

  ROBERT S. MORRIS, M.D.

  MR. ROBERT CHAMBERS,

  New York.

  DEAR SIR: I have not replied to your gracious letter, as I relied upon Dr. Morris to prove to you the authorship of the verses you used in your story of “The Hidden Children.” I now inclose a letter from him, hoping that you will carry out his suggestion. Is it asking too much for you to insert a footnote in the next magazine or in the story when it comes out in book form? I think with Dr. Morris that this should be done as a “tribute to a patriotic citizen.”

  Trusting that you will appreciate the interest we have shown in this matter, I am

  Sincerely yours,

  HELEN DODGE KNEELAND.

  May 21st, 1914.

  Ann Arbor, Michigan.

  MRS. FRANK G. KNEELAND,

  727 E. University Avenue.

  THE LONG HOUSE

  “Onenh jatthondek sewarih-wisa-anongh-kwe kaya-renh-kowah!

  Onenh wa-karigh-wa-kayon-ne.

  Onenh ne okne joska-wayendon.

  Yetsi-siwan-enyadanion ne

  Sewari-wisa-anonqueh.”

  “Now listen, ye who established the Great League!

  Now it has become old.

  Now there is nothing but wilderness.

  Ye are in your graves who established it.”

  “At the Wood’s Edge.”

  NENE KARENNA

  When the West kindles red and low,

  Across the sunset’s sombre glow,

  The black crows fly — the black crows fly!

  High pines are swaying to and fro

  In evil winds that blow and blow.

  The stealthy dusk draws nigh — draws nigh,

  Till the sly sun at last goes down,

  And shadows fall on Catharines-town.

  Oswaya swaying to and fro.

  By the Dark Empire’s Western gate

  Eight stately, painted Sachems wait

  For Amochol — for Amochol!

  Hazel and samphire consecrate

  The magic blaze that burns like Hate,

  While the deep witch-drums roll — and roll.

  Sorceress, shake thy dark hair down!

  The Red Priest comes from Catharines-town.

  Ha-ai! Karenna! Fate is Fate.

  Now let the Giants clothed in stone

  Stalk from Biskoonah; while, new grown,

  The Severed Heads fly high — fly high!

  White-throat, White-throat, thy doom is known!

  O Blazing Soul that soars alone

  Like a Swift Arrow to the sky,

  High winging — fling thy Wampum down,

  Lest the sky fall on Catharines-town.

  White-throat, White-throat, thy course is flown.

  R. W. C.

  CHAPTER I

  THE BEDFORD ROAD

  In the middle of the Bedford Road we three drew bridle. Boyd lounged in his reeking saddle, gazing at the tavern and at what remained of the tavern sign, which seemed to have been a new one, yet now dangled mournfully by one hinge, shot to splinters.

  The freshly painted house itself, marred with buckshot, bore dignified witness to the violence done it. A few glazed windows still remained unbroken; the remainder had been filled with blue paper such as comes wrapped about a sugar cone, so that the misused house seemed to be watching us out of patched and battered eyes.

  It was evident, too, that a fire had been wantonly set at the northeast angle of the house, where sill and siding were deeply charred from baseboard to eaves.

  Nor had this same fire happened very long since, for under the eaves white-faced hornets were still hard at work repairing their partly scorched nest. And I silently pointed them out to Lieutenant Boyd.

  “Also,” he nodded, “I can still smell the smoky wood. The damage is fresh enough. Look at your map.”

  He pushed his horse straight up to the closed door, continuing to examine the dismantled sign which hung motionless, there being no wind stirring.

  “This should be Hays’s Tavern,” he said, “unless they lied to us at Ossining. Can you make anything of the sign, Mr. Loskiel?”

  “Nothing, sir. But we are on the highway to Poundridge, for behind us lies the North Castle Church road. All is drawn on my map as we see it here before us; and this should be the fine dwelling of that great villain Holmes, now used as a tavern by Benjamin Hays.”

  “Rap on the door,” said Boyd; and our rifleman escort rode forward and drove his rifle-butt at the door, “There’s a man hiding within and peering at us behind the third window,” I whispered.

  “I see him,” said Boyd coolly.

  Through the heated silence around us we could hear the hornets buzzing aloft under the smoke-stained eaves. There was no other sound in the July sunshine.

  The solemn tavern stared at us out of its injured eyes, and we three men of the Northland gazed back as solemnly, sobered once more to encounter the trail of the Red Beast so freshly printed here among the pleasant Westchester hills.

  And to us the silent house seemed to say: “Gentlemen, gentlemen! Look at the plight I’m in — you who come from the blackened North!” And with never a word of lip our heavy thoughts responded: “We know, old house! We know! But at least you still stand; and in the ashes of our Northland not a roof or a spire remains aloft between the dwelling of Deborah Glenn and the ford at the middle fort.”

  Boyd broke silence with an effort; and his voice was once more cool and careless, if a little forced:

  “So it’s this way hereabouts, too,” he said with a shrug and a sign to me
to dismount. Which I did stiffly; and our rifleman escort scrambled from his sweatty saddle and gathered all three bridles in his mighty, sunburnt fist.

  “Either there is a man or a ghost within,” I said again, “Whatever it is has moved.”

  “A man,” said Boyd, “or what the inhumanity of man has left of him.”

  And it was true, for now there came to the door and opened it a thin fellow wearing horn spectacles, who stood silent and cringing before us. Slowly rubbing his workworn hands, he made us a landlord’s bow as listless and as perfunctory as ever I have seen in any ordinary. But his welcome was spoken in a whisper.

  “God have mercy on this house,” said Boyd loudly. “Now, what’s amiss, friend? Is there death within these honest walls, that you move about on tiptoe?”

  “There is death a-plenty in Westchester, sir,” said the man, in a voice as colorless as his drab smalls and faded hair. Yet what he said showed us that he had noted our dress, too, and knew us for strangers.

  “Cowboys and skinners, eh?” inquired Boyd, unbuckling his belt.

  “And leather-cape, too, sir.”

  My lieutenant laughed, showing his white teeth; laid belt, hatchet, and heavy knife on a wine-stained table, and placed his rifle against it. Then, slipping cartridge sack, bullet pouch, and powder horn from his shoulders, stood eased, yawning and stretching his fine, powerful frame.

  “I take it that you see few of our corps here below,” he observed indulgently.

  The landlord’s lack-lustre eyes rested on me for an instant, then on Boyd:

  “Few, sir.”

  “Do you know the uniform, landlord?”

  “Rifles,” he said indifferently.

  “Yes, but whose, man? Whose?” insisted Boyd impatiently.

  The other shook his head.

  “Morgan’s!” exclaimed Boyd loudly. “Damnation, sir! You should know Morgan’s! Sixth Company, sir; Major Parr! And a likelier regiment and a better company never wore green thrums on frock or coon-tail on cap!”