Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  What a day that had been. … Only one day and one evening. … And never had he been so near in love in all his life. …

  That one day and evening had been enough for her to confide in an American officer her entire life’s history. … Enough for him to pledge himself to her service while life endured. … And if emotion had swept every atom of reason out of his youthful head, there in the turmoil and alarm — there in the terrified, riotous city jammed with refugees, reeking with disease, halt frantic from famine and the filthy, rising flood of war — if really it all had been merely romantic impulse, ardour born of overwrought sentimentalism, nevertheless, what he had pledged that day to a little Grand Duchess in rags, he had fulfilled to the letter within the hour.

  As the false dawn began to fade, he loosened hunting coat and cartridge sling, drew from his shirt-bosom the morocco case. It bore the arms and crest of the Grand Duchess Theodorica of Esthonia.

  His fingers trembled slightly as he pressed the jewelled spring. It opened on an empty casket.

  In the sudden shock of horror and astonishment, his convulsive clutch on the spring started a tiny bell ringing. Then, under his very nose, the empty tray slid aside revealing another tray underneath, set solidly with brilliants. A rainbow glitter streamed from the unset gems in the silken tray. Like an incredulous child he touched them. They were magnificently real.

  In the centre lay blazing the great Erosite gem, — the Flaming Jewel itself. Priceless diamonds, sapphires, emeralds ringed it. In his hands he held nearly four millions of dollars.

  Gingerly he balanced the emblazoned case, fascinated. Then he replaced the empty tray, closed the box, thrust it into the bosom of his flannel shirt and buttoned it in.

  Now there was little more for this excited young man to do. He was through with Clinch. Hal Smith, hold-up man and dish-washer at Clinch’s Dump, had ended his career. The time had now arrived for him to vanish and make room for James Darragh.

  Because there still remained a very agreeable role for Darragh to play. and he meant to eat it up — as Broadway has it.

  For by this time the Grand Duchess of Esthonia — Ricca, as she was called by her companion, Valentine, the pretty Countess Orloff-Strelwitz — must have arrived in New York.

  At the big hunting lodge of the late Henry Harrod — now inherited by

  Darragh — there might be a letter — perhaps a telegram — the cue for

  Hal Smith to vanish and for James Darragh to enter, play his brief but

  glittering part, and ——

  Darragh’s sequence of pleasing meditations halted abruptly. … To walk out of the life of the little Grand Duchess did not seem to suit his ideas — indefinite and hazy as they were, so far.

  He lifted the bridle from the horse’s neck, divided curb and snaffle thoughtfully, touched the splendid animal with heel and knee.

  As he cantered on into the wide forest road that led to his late uncle’s abode, curiosity led him to wheel into a narrower trail running east along Star Pond, and from whence he could make a farewell view of Clinch’s Dump.

  He smiled to think of Eve and Stormont there together, and now in safety behind bolted doors and shutters.

  He grinned to think of Quintana and his precious crew, blood-crazy, baffled, probably already distrusting one another, yet running wild through the night like starving wolves galloping at hazard across a famine-stricken waste.

  “Only wait till Stormont makes his report,” he thought, grinning more broadly still. “Every State Trooper north of Albany will be after Senor Quintana. Some hunting! And, if he could understand, Mike Clinch might thank his stars that what I’ve done this night has saved him his skin and Eve a broken heart!”

  He drew his horse to a walk, now, for the path began to run closer to

  Star Pond, skirting the pebbled shallows in the open just ahead.

  Alders still concealed the house across the lake, but the trail was already coming out into the starlight.

  Suddenly his horse stopped short, trembling, its ears pricked forward.

  Darragh sat listening intently for a moment. Then with infinite caution, he leaned over the cantle and gently parted the alders.

  On the pebbled beach, full in the starlight, stood two figures, on white and slim, the other dark.

  The arm of the dark figure clasped the waist of the white and slender one.

  Evidently they had heard his horse, for they stood motionless, looking directly at the alders behind which his horse had halted.

  To turn might mean a shot in the back as far as Darragh knew. He was still masked with Salzar’s red bandanna. He raised his rifle, slid a cartridge into the breech, pressed his horse forward with a slight touch of heel and knee, and rode slowly out into the star-dusk.

  What Stormont saw was a masked man, riding his own horse, with menacing rifle half lifted for a shot! What Eve Strayer thought she saw was too terrible for words. And before Stormont could prevent her she sprang in front of him, covering his body with her gown.

  At that the horseman tore off his red mask:

  “Eve! Jack Stormont! What the devil are you doing over here!”

  Stormont walked slowly up to his own horse, laid one unsteady hand on its silky nose, kept it there while dusty, velvet lips mumbled and caressed his fingers.

  “I knew it was a calvaryman,” he said quietly. “I suspected you, Jim. It was the sort of crazy thing you were likely to do. … I don’t ask you what you’re up to, where you’ve been, what your plans may be. If you needed me you’d have told me.

  “But I’ve got to have my horse for Eve. Her feet are wounded. She’s in her night-dress and wringing wet. I’ve got to set her on my horse and try to take her through to Ghost Lake.”

  Darragh stared at Stormont, at the ghostly figure of the girl who had sunk down on the sand at the lake’s edge. Then he scrambled out of the saddle and handed over the bridle.

  “Quintana came back,” said Stormont. “I hope to reckon with him some day. … I believe he came back to harm Eve. … We got out of the house. … We swam the lake. … I’d have gone under except for her — —”

  In his distress and overwhelming mortification, Darragh stood miserable, mute, irresolute.

  Stormont seemed to understand: “What you did, Jim, was well meant,” he said. “I understand. Eve will understand when I tell her. But that fellow Quintana is a devil. You can’t draw a herring across any trail he follows. I tell you, Jim, this fellow Quintana is either blood-mad or just plain crazy. Somebody will have to put him out of the way. I’ll do it if I ever find him.”

  “Yes. … You people ought to do that. … Or, if you like, I’ll volunteer. … I’ve a little business to transact in New York, first. … Jack, your tunic an breeches are soaked; I’ll be glad to chip in something for Eve. … Wait a moment — —”

  He stepped into cover, drew the morocco box from his grey shirt, shoved it into his hip pocket.

  Then he threw off his cartridge belt and hunting coat, pulled the grey shirt over his head and came out in his undershirt and breeches, with the other garments hanging over his arm.

  “Give her these,” he said. “She can button the coat around her waist for a skirt. She’d better go somewhere and get out of that soaking wet night-dress — —”

  Eve, crouched on the sand, trying to wring out and twist up her drenched hair, looked up at Stormont as he came toward her holding our Darragh’s dry clothing.

  “You’d better do what you can with these,” he said, trying to speak carelessly. … “He says you’d better chuck — what you’re wearing — —”

  She nodded in flushed comprehension. Stormont walked back to his horse, his boots slopping water at every stride.

  “I don’t know any place nearer than Ghost Lake Inn,” he said … “except

  Harrod’s.”

  “That’s where we’re going, Jack,” said Darragh cheerfully.

  “That’s your place, isn’t it?”

  “It is. But I
don’t want Eve to know it. … I think it better she should not know me except as Hal Smith — for the present, anyway. You’ll see to that, won’t you?”

  “As you wish, Jim. … Only, if we go to your own house — —”

  “We’re not going to the main house. She wouldn’t, anyway. Clinch as taught that girl to hate the very name of Harrod — hate every foot of forest that the Harrod game keepers patrol. She wouldn’t cross my threshold to save her life.”

  “I don’t understand, but — it’s all right — whatever you say, Jim.”

  “I’ll tell you the whole business some day. But where I’m going to take you now is into a brand new camp which I ordered built last spring. It’s within a mile of the State Forest border. Eve won’t know tat it’s Harrod property. I’ve a hatchery there and the State lets me have a man in exchange for free fry. When I get there I’ll post my man.

  It will be a roof for to-night, anyway, and breakfast in the morning, whenever you’re ready.”

  “How far is it?”

  “Only about three miles east of here.”

  “That’s the thing to do, then,” said Stormont bluntly.

  He dropped one sopping-wet sleeve over his horse’s neck, asking care not to touch the handle. He was thinking of the handful of gems in his pocket; and he wondered why Darragh had said nothing about the empty case for which he had so recklessly risked his life.

  What this whole business was about Stormont had no notion. But he knew Darragh. There was sufficient to leave him tranquil, and perfectly certain that whatever Darragh was doing must be the right thing to do.

  Yet — Eve had swum Star Pond with her mouth filled with jewels.

  When she had handed the morocco box to Quintana, Stormont now realised that she must have played her last card on the utterly desperate chance that Quintana might go away without examining the case.

  Evidently she had emptied the case before she left her room. He recollected that, during all that followed, Eve had not uttered a single word. He knew why, now. How could she speak with her mouth full of (diamonds)?

  A slight sound from the shore caused him to turn. Eve was coming toward him in the dusk, moving painfully on her wounded feet. Darragh’s flannel shirt and his hunting coat buttoned around her slender waist clothed her.

  The next instant he was beside her, lifting her in both arms.

  As he placed her in the saddle and adjusted one stirrup to her bandaged foot, she turned and quietly thanked Darragh for the clothing.

  “And that was a brave thing you did,” she added, “ — to risk your life for my father’s property. Because the morocco case which you saved proved to be empty does not make what you did any less loyal and gallant.”

  Darragh gazed at her, astounded; took the hand she stretched out to him; held it with a silly expression on his features.

  “Hal Smith,” she said with perceptible emotion, “I take back what I once said to you on Owl Marsh. No man is a real crook by nature who did what you have done. That is `faithfulness unto death’ — the supreme offer — loyalty — —”

  Her voice broke; she pressed Darragh’s hand convulsively and her lip quivered.

  Darragh, with the morocco case full of jewels buttoned into his hip pocket, stood motionless, mutely swallowing his amazement.

  What in the world did this girl mean, talking about an empty case?

  But this was no time to unravel that sort of puzzle. He turned to

  Stormont who, as perplexed as he, had been listening in silence.

  “Lead your horse forward,” he said. “I know the trail. All you need do is to follow me.” And, shouldering his rifle, he walked leisurely into the woods, the cartridge belt sagging en bandouliere across his woollen undershirt.

  * * * * *

  II

  When Stormont gently halted his horse it was dawn, and Eve sagging against him with one arm around his neck, sat huddled up on her saddle fast asleep.

  In a birch woods, on the eastern slope of the divide, stood the log camp, dimly visible in the silvery light of early morning.

  Darragh, cautioning Stormont with a slight gesture, went forward, mounted the rustic veranda, and knocked at a lighted window.

  A man, already dressed, came and peered out at him, then hurried to open the door.

  “I didn’t know you, Captain Darragh — —” he began, but fell silent under the warning gesture that checked him.

  “I’ve a guest outside. She’s Clinch’s step-daughter, Eve Strayer. She knows me by the name of Hal Smith. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir — —”

  “Cut that out, too. I’m Hal Smith to you, also. State Trooper

  Stormont is out here with Eve Strayer. He was a comrade of mine in

  Russia. I’m Hal Smith to him, by mutual agreement. Now do you get

  me, Ralph?”

  “Sure, Hal. Go on; spit it out!”

  They both grinned.

  “You’re a hootch runner,” said Darragh. “This is your shack. The hatchery is only a blind. That’s all you have to know, Ralph. So put that girl into my room and let her sleep till she wakes of her own accord.

  “Stormont and I will take two of the guest-bunks in the L. And for heaven’s sake make us some coffee when you make your own. But first come out and take the horse.”

  They went out together. Stormont lifted Eve out of the saddle. She did not wake. Darragh led the way into the log house and along a corridor to his own room.

  “Turn down the sheets,” whispered Stormont. And, when the bed was ready: “Can you get a bath towel, Jim?”

  Darragh fetched one from the connecting bath-room.

  “Wrap it around her wet hair,” whispered Stormont. “Good heavens, I wish there were a woman here.”

  “I wish so too,” said Darragh; “she’s chilled to the bone. You’ll have to wake her. She can’t sleep in what she’s wearing; it’s almost as damp as her hair — —”

  He went to the closet and returned with a man’s morning robe, as soft as fleece.

  “Somehow or other she’s got to get into that,” he said.

  There was a silence.

  “Very well,” said Stormont, reddening. … “If you’ll step out I’ll — manage. …” He looked Darragh straight in the eyes: “I have asked her to marry me,” he said.

  * * * * *

  When Stormont came out a great fire of birch-logs was blazing in the living-room, and Darragh stood there, his elbow on the rough stone mantel-shelf.

  Stormont came straight to the fire and set one spurred boot on the fender.

  “She’s warm and dry and sound asleep,” he said. “I’ll wake her again if you think she ought to swallow something hot.”

  At that moment the fish-culturist came in with a pot of steaming coffee.

  “This is my friend, Ralph Wier,” said Darragh. “I think you’d better give Eve a cup of coffee.” And, to Wier, “Fill a couple of hot water bags, old chap. We don’t want any pneumonia in this house.”

  When breakfast was ready Eve once more lay asleep with a slight dew of perspiration on her brow.

  Darragh was half starved: Stormont ate little. Neither spoke at all until, satisfied, they rose, ready for sleep.

  At the door of his room Stormont took Darragh’s offered hand, understanding what it implied:

  “Thanks, Jim. … Hers is the loveliest character I have ever known. … If I weren’t as poor as a homeless dog I’d marry her to-morrow. … I’ll do it anyway, I think. … I can’t let her go back to Clinch’s Dump!”

  “After all,” said Darragh, smiling, “if it’s only money that worries you, why not talk about a job to me!”

  Stormont flushed heavily: “That’s rather wonderful of you, Jim — —”

  “Why? You’re the best officer I had. Why the devil did you go into the

  Constabulary without talking to me?”

  Stormont’s upper lip seemed inclined to twitch but he controlled it and scowled at space.


  “Go to bed, you darned fool,” said Darragh, carelessly. “You’ll find dry things ready. Ralph will take care of your uniform and boots.”

  Then he went into his own quarters to read two letters which, conforming to arrangements made with Mrs. Ray the day he had robbed Emanuel Sard, were to be sent to Trout Lodge to await his arrival.

  Both, written from the Ritz, bore the date of the day before: the first he opened was from the countess Orloff-Strelwitz:

  “Dear Captain Darragh:

  “ — You are so wonderful! Your messenger, with the ten thousand dollars which you say you already have recovered from those miscreants who robbed Ricca, came aboard our ship before we landed. It was a godsend; we were nearly penniless, — and oh, so shabby!

  “Instantly, my friend, we shopped, Ricca and I. Fifth Avenue enchanted us. All misery was forgotten in the magic of that paradise for women.

  “Yet, spendthrifts that we naturally are, we were not silly enough to be extravagant. Ricca was wild for American sport-clothes. I, also. Yet — only two gowns apiece, excepting our sport clothes. And other necessaries. Don’t you think we were economical?”

  “Furthermore, dear Captain Darragh, we are hastening to follow your instructions. We are leaving to-day for your chateau in the wonderful forest, of which you told us of that never-to-be-day in Riga.

  “Your agent is politeness, consideration and kindness itself. We have our accommodations. We leave New York at midnight.

  “Ricca is so excited that it is difficult for her to restrain her happiness. God knows the child has seen enough unhappiness to quench the gaiety of anybody!

  “Well, all things end. Even tears. Even the Red Terror shall pass from our beloved Russia. For, after all, Monsieur, God still lives.

  “VALENTINE.”

  “P.S. Ricca has written to you. I have read the letter. I have let it go uncensored.”

  * * * * *

  Darragh went to the door of his room:

  “Ralph! Ralph!” he called. And, when Wier hurriedly appeared:

  “What time does the midnight train from New York get into Five Lakes?”

  “A little before nine — —”

  “You can make it in the flivver, can’t you?”