Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  I alone was alone.

  “Because,” said I to myself, “I’ve got brains”; but the boast fell only on the idle unbelieving ears of the corn, too young to understand or sympathize.

  A great tenderness was in my heart, but I crushed it out, and turned into the fields, treading my way through rustling corn where June breezes lingered, whispering.

  When I struck the hazel patch I felt better, and I whistled “Sir Daniel O’Donnel” again.

  A wood-thrush, striving to imitate me, produced an unconscious masterpiece; a cat-bird mewed unceasingly from the deeper growth. Both had mates.

  I took the hidden path through the beech-woods until I came to a big pine. Here, following a trail, known to myself, I entered the denser woods, crossed the two spring brooks that feed the river, and after a few minutes rapid walking came to the oak which spreads above the limpid silvery pool, the abode of Mine Enemy.

  “As long as I have sunk to the level of a pothunter,” said I, treading softly over the moss, “I might as well do the thing thoroughly.”

  Very cautiously I produced an angle-worm from my box, baited my hook, cast the infernal machine into the pool, and then, placing my rod on the bank, put a flat stone on the butt and sat down to smoke. When I had finished my cigarette I lay down, stretching out on the moss under the oak tree.

  And as I sprawled on my back looking skyward, I was aware of a pair of stockings, — black stockings, — hanging from a limb directly over my head.

  Astonished and indignant I lay perfectly still, staring at the stockings. They had been wet but now were rapidly drying, swinging gently in the warm June wind.

  “This is pleasant!” I thought; “some credulous country wench has taken my pool for a footbath. I’ll not put up with it, by jingo! Have fishermen no rights? Is this a picnic ground? Is that river a resort for barefooted giggling girls?”

  If there were any people splashing and paddling about among the stones down the river, I knew that every trout within range would be paralyzed with fright. I sat up and tried to see through the foliage which bordered the shallow river where it curved into the woods.

  “They’re down there,” I muttered, “and I bet they’ve done the business for every trout between here and the falls. Idiots!”

  I looked up at the stockings. They were certainly silk, I could see that. The sun bronzed the pointed toes, now almost dry. And while I looked there came a faint sound of splashing close by, just where the river narrows to curve into the woods. Something bright was glistening down there between the branches, something white that moved slowly up stream, nearer and nearer, now plainly in view through the leaves.

  It was a young woman in a light summer gown with a big straw hat on her head, and she was slowly and deliberately wading through the shallow water toward my pool.

  She seemed to be enjoying it; the swift water rippled around her ankles dashing her skirts with spray, as she lifted her wet pink feet carefully over the sharp rocks and deeper channels. Her skirt, gathered naïvely in both hands, fluttered perhaps a trifle higher than it might have done under other circumstances. It was a pretty innocent picture, but it was out of place in my trout pool, and I stood up, determined to expostulate. After a second I sat down again, somewhat suddenly. The black stockings waved triumphantly above my head. I looked at them, bewildered, utterly upset. The young lady in the water was Miss Thorne.

  Before I could decide what to do, she came in sight around the trees, stepping daintily over the sandy shallows. I dared not move. She did not look up.

  “What the mischief shall I do?” I thought, keeping very still so that no movement should attract her eyes to the oak on the bank above. I could not retreat and leave my rod, I dared not creep to the pool to recover it. Besides, I didn’t want to go away.

  She had sat down on a sunny rock, just below me, and was stirring the sandy bottom with her little toes. It was, as I said, a pretty picture, sweet and innocent, but utterly fatal to my peace of mind. I wondered what she’d do next, and lay silent, scarcely breathing.

  “If she turns her back,” I thought, “I’ll get up and go. I’m no eavesdropper, and I’ll go, — only I hope she won’t give me the chance.”

  She had drawn a book from the folds of her skirt, and, as I lay there without sound or motion, she began to read, repeating aloud to herself the passages that pleased her.

  “I am the magic waterfall

  Whose waters leap from fathomless and living springs, Far in the mist-hung silence of the Past.”

  She paused, turning the leaves with languid capriciousness, then:

  “I fill the woods with songs; the trees,

  Through whose twigs flow prophecies,

  I deck with vestments green.”

  And again she read:

  “The shower has freshened the song of the bird And budded the bushes And gilded the maple and tasselled the linden and willow, Staining with green the forest-fringed path.”

  She sat silent, idly touching the fluttering pages. Then she raised her head, singing softly odd bits of songs to herself — to the thrushes around her.

  A great belted kingfisher flashed past, a blurr of blue and white against the trees. His loud harsh rattle startled her for an instant.

  And, as she turned to watch his flight along the winding stream, I rose and slipped noiselessly into the forest. Before I had taken a dozen steps, however, I remembered my rod, and halted irresolutely. Looking back through the thicket fringe, I saw that she had turned my way again, and it was out of the question to recover it without being seen.

  “If she only had her stockings on,” I sighed.

  Should I wait, taking discreet observations occasionally? Should I go and let the rod take care of itself? Suppose the big trout should seize hold and drag it into the river? Suppose Miss Thorne should step on the barbed hook with her bare little feet! At the thought I turned hastily back in my own tracks, halted again, started on, wavered, took one irresolute step, and stopped.

  I could see her now quite plainly without being seen. She had tossed her book up on the moss, and was picking her way along the ascending bank, holding on to branch and root.

  “She’s coming for her stockings, that’s what she’s doing,” I thought.

  Until she had safely passed the pool where the hook lay, I kept my eyes on her. After that I waited until I saw her reach up to the oak-limb for the stockings; then I looked the other way.

  I gave her ten minutes to complete her toilet, holding my watch in my hand.

  Once she sang pensively that puzzling but pathetic old ballad:

  “‘ Mother, may I go out to swim?’

  ‘ Yes, my darling daughter, —

  Hang your hose on a hickory limb,

  But don’t go near the water.’”

  The ten minutes were up at last. “Now,” said I to myself, “shall I look? No — yes — no indeed! — I don’t know, — I’ll just see whether—”

  I turned around.

  She had left the shelter of the oak and was hurrying down the bank toward my rod, with every appearance of excitement.

  “I’ll bet there’s a fish on it,” said I to myself; “by jingo! there is! — and it’s bending and tugging as if a porpoise had the line! It’ll be into the river in a moment! There! It’s gone!”

  But I was mistaken, for Miss Thorne grasped it just as it slid over the edge of the bank.

  “She’ll break it! I’ll bet it’s my big fish! There! She’s pulling the fish out — she’s trying to drag the fish up! I can’t stand this! It’s no use — I’ve got to go.”

  When she saw me hastening down the slope she did not cry out, neither did she drop the rod, but her blue eyes grew very large and round. And as I hurried up she gave one last convulsive tug and hauled up, over, and on to the bank an enormous trout, flapping and bouncing among the leaves.

  In a second I had seized the fish — it took all the strength of my arm to hold him — and the rest was soon over. There he lay, a mona
rch among trout, glistening, dappled, crimson-flecked. I walked down to the water’s edge, washed my hands mechanically, and slowly climbed back again.

  “I didn’t know it was your rod,” she said. “I only saw a big fish on it, and I pulled it out.”

  “I — I thought you had left Clovermead,” I stammered.

  “I thought you had also,” she said; “all the others have gone. To-morrow I go; my guardian is coming.”

  “To-morrow?”

  “Yes; at eight o’clock in the morning.”

  There was an awkward pause. I glanced askance at the fish, already ashamed of my work, dreading to know what she thought of a man who fished with bait.

  “It is a large trout,” she said timidly; “it is a wonder that I didn’t break your rod and line. You see I never before caught a trout.”

  “And — and you would not — you don’t think less of a man because he fishes with bait?” I asked, red with shame.

  “I? Why, no. What else would you use?”

  “Flies,” I said, desperately. “You know it.”

  “Flies? Can you catch enough?”

  “I mean artificial flies,” I said. “You don’t understand, you can’t conceive the depth of depravity that leads a man to catch a trout as I’ve caught this, — can you? It’s simple murder.”

  “But,” said Miss Thorne, with a puzzled glance at the fish, “I thought that I caught him.”

  “I — I baited the hook,” I faltered.

  “Then,” said she, “it’s a clear case of collusion, and we’re both responsible.”

  We looked at each other for an instant. She sighed, almost imperceptibly.

  “I am very sorry for what I said that night,” I began. “You can’t think how it has troubled me ever since. I have suffered a great deal — er — and I’m deucedly miserable, Miss Thorne.”

  “I forgive you,” she said sweetly. “Why did you not ask me before?”

  “Because,” said I, “being an idiot I didn’t dare.”

  “It made me very unhappy,” she said. “I should not have spoken so—”

  “Oh, you were quite right!” I cried; “it was my fault entirely.”

  “No indeed!”

  “It was, really.”

  “And to think I should have spoken so after the trout you gave me and the serenade—”

  “If the music had been as good as the trout—”

  “It was, — it was charming; and you said some things that first afternoon under my window—”

  “meant them! — I mean them now a thousandfold!”

  The crimson stained her cheeks. She half turned toward the river.

  “I think,” she said, “that I am late for luncheon.”

  Very humbly I produced my flask of Bordeaux, my cold chicken, bread, and hot-house pears. She looked at them, her head on one side.

  “It is not very much, “I ventured,— “for two.”

  “I think it will do,” she said reflectively; “there are some cresses by the brook. I am fond of cresses. Have you pepper and salt?”

  I rummaged in my pockets, produced the harmonica, a package of tobacco, a spare reel, a knife, a steel hunting watch, a cigarette case, a box of dry flies, a match-case, a box of leaders, and finally a neat little parcel of pepper and salt.

  She watched me with perfect gravity.

  “If you please,” she said, “you may go and play on your harmonica under that oak tree while I — arrange the table. Will you?”

  “Can’t I help you?” I murmured, giddy with happiness.

  “No. Go and play ‘Sir Daniel O’Donnell.’”

  I watched her, tooting fitfully the while, and presently she called to me that luncheon was ready, and asked me to lend her my handkerchief to dry her hands.

  We drank in turn from the flask, gravely begging pardon for the goutte sans façon.

  But the luncheon! There never was such a luncheon served in the palaces of Stamboul! I ate ambrosia — some name it chicken — and I drank nectar — foolish people would have called it Bordeaux, and I sat opposite to and looked in the blue eyes of the sweetest maid in the world.

  And so we sat and chatted on, I knowing little of what was said save that it was her voice, always her voice in my ears and every word was melody. The swift droop of the long lashes on the pure curved cheeks, the gentle caress in every movement, the light glinting on tawny hair, on stray curling strands blown across her eyes — these I remember.

  The shadows came and laid their long shapes on the sands of the shore, the trees darkened where the massed foliage swept in one unbroken sheet above the moss; the red west blazed.

  Once a fish splashed among the weeds; a wood-duck steered fearlessly past, peering and turning, sousing its gorgeous neck in the shallow stream.

  At last she sprang up, touching her hair with light swift fingers, and shaking her skirts full breadth.

  “I must go.”

  “So soon?”

  “Yes. Shall I say good-bye now for tomorrow?”

  “Say it.”

  “Good-bye, then.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Good-bye—”

  “Nothing more?”

  “Oh, what — what else?” she murmured; “I can say no more.”

  “I can,” said I.

  “You must not — ah, do you mean it?”

  “Yes. I love you.”

  “Then we will go back — together,” she said, innocently, and came close up to me, laying her white hands in mine.

  “Ah,” said I, as we entered the road by the dormitory, “the trout is a noble one, but, May, it was murder that was done on Clovermead water.”

  “And theft,” she said, with a faint smile, “where is my heart, if you please? “ And we looked long, smiling into each other’s eyes.

  It all happened years ago. I have never touched bait to hook since, but I confess that I do still, at times, play “Sir Daniel O’Donnell” on the harmonica. May permits it, especially when the children beg me; and, as they are teasing me now, I shall probably play it to-night.

  A PLEASANT EVENING.

  Et pis, doucett’ment on s’endort.

  On fait sa carne, on fait sa sorgue.

  On ronfle, et, comme un tuyan d’orgue.

  L’tuyan s’met à ronfler pus fort...

  Aristide Bruant

  Chapter I

  As I stepped upon the platform of a Broadway cable-cat at Forty-second Street, some body said:

  “Hello, Hilton, Jamison’s looking for you.”

  “Hello, Curtis,” I replied, “what does Jamison want?”

  “He wants to know what you’ve been doing all the week,” said Curtis, hanging desperately to the railing as the car lurched forward; “he says you seem to think that the Manhattan Illustrated Weekly was created for the sole purpose of providing salary and vacations for you.”

  “The shifty old tom-cat!” I said, indignantly, “he knows well enough where I’ve been. Vacation! Does he think the State Camp in June is a snap?”

  “Oh,” said Curtis, “you’ve been to Peekskill?”

  “I should say so,” I replied, my wrath rising as I thought of my assignment.

  “Hot?” inquired Curtis, dreamily.

  “One hundred and three in the shade,” I answered. “Jamison wanted three full pages and three half pages, all for process work, and a lot of line drawings into the bargain. I could have faked them — I wish I had. I was fool enough to hustle and break my neck to get some honest drawings, and that’s the thanks I get!”

  “Did you have a camera?”

  “No. I will next time — I’ll waste no more conscientious work on Jamison,” I said sulkily.

  “It doesn’t pay,” said Curtis. “When I have military work assigned me, I don’t do the dashing sketch-artist act, you bet; I go to my studio, light my pipe, pull out a lot of old Illustrated London News, select several suitable battle scenes by Caton Woodville — and use ’em too.”

  The car shot
around the neck-breaking curve at Fourteenth Street.

  “Yes,” continued Curtis, as the car stopped in front of the Morton House for a moment, then plunged forward again amid a furious clanging of gongs, “it doesn’t pay to do decent work for the fat-headed men who run the Manhattan Illustrated. They don’t appreciate it.”

  “I think the public does,” I said, “but I’m sure Jamison doesn’t. It would serve him right if I did what most of you fellows do — take a lot of Caton Woodville’s and Thulstrup’s drawings, change the uniforms, ‘chic’ a figure or two, and turn in a drawing labelled ‘from life.’ I’m sick of this sort of thing anyway. Almost every day this week I’ve been chasing myself over that tropical camp, or galloping in the wake of those batteries. I’ve got a full page of the ‘camp by moonlight,’ full pages of ‘artillery drill’ and ‘light battery in action,’ and a dozen smaller drawings that cost me more groans and perspiration than Jamison ever knew in all his lymphatic life!”

  “Jamison’s got wheels,” said Curtis,— “more wheels than there are bicycles in Harlem. He wants you to do a full page by Saturday.”

  “A what?” I exclaimed, aghast.

  “Yes he does he was going to send Jim Crawford, but Jim expects to go to California for the winter fair, and you’ve got to do it.”

  “What is it?” I demanded savagely.

  “The animals in Central Park,” chuckled Curtis.

  I was furious. The animals! Indeed! I’d show Jamison that I was entitled to some consideration! This was Thursday; that gave me a day and a half to finish a full-page drawing for the paper, and, after my work at the State Camp I felt that I was entitled to a little rest. Anyway I objected to the subject. I intended to tell Jamison so — I intended to tell him firmly. However, many of the things that we often intended to tell Jamison were never told. He was a peculiar man, fat-faced, thin-lipped, gentle-voiced, mild-mannered, and soft in his movements as a pussy-cat.