Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Then in the height of the delirium, Arizona shook the walls with his war-cry. “Aw! I’m bad! b-b-a-a-d! Me teeth is choke-bored an’ a hair-trigger works both feet!” Fradley heard that cry and trembled. It came nearer and nearer.

  “Pick up the dead! Pick up the dyin’, an’ git the souvenir!”

  Sara cried: “Arizona, va t ‘en!” but it was too late. With a howl from Arizona and a scream from Fradley, they clinched and fell, Arizona on top. He remembered that he punched Arizona and in turn received a tap on the ear which made him forget that he was alive. Garland picked him up, and when consciousness returned he saw Sara, furious, withering Arizona with her scorn.

  “Go!” she cried, pointing to the door.

  Arizona, humbled and dishevelled, went.

  It needed much cooling liquid to put Fradley back where he had been prior to Arizona’s assault, and that condition was far from normal. He proffered menaces, he attempted to divest himself of his coat, but Sara, very pale, and paler still after each goblet in which she pledged the exalted Fradley, took possession of him with all the blindness of sudden caprice.

  Fradley felt that his hour, — the hour of the truly great, had struck. Dimly he recalled that other Fradley, the normal one, timid as a rabbit, dreading battle, loathing brute force. Vaguely he remembered that other and normal Fradley, moral, temperate in all but feeding. And he scorned him! Buried forever let him be, that other recreant Fradley! And all the while he went on talking with the others, capering when they capered, drinking when they drank, returning gibe for gibe, defending his own, claiming and pushing his claim with threats — warlike threats, and all the time, dimly, dully commiserating, scorning that other, — that normal Fradley.

  Later he revived enough to have a pang of fright as the cold air of the boulevard blew in his face, but the cab was warm and cosey and he sank back to the cushions with a sigh of content. As in a dream he heard the rattle of wheels and the cries of the driver. Other cabs passed — endless lines of them. It seemed centuries before his cab stopped and when it did he objected to leaving it, but Sara had her way, alas now as hazy as his own, and the porter who opened the door for them at the Café Sylvain, winked solemnly at the ancient cabby, who only shook his white head and drove slowly away.

  ENVOI.

  The rock-ribbed Planet drifts across the Sun, Swarming with creatures creeping on the crust, Freighted with fears, and tears, and human dust, Speaking the blank star-beacons, one by one.

  Tossed on the ocean of Ten Million Nights, The Moon a battered battle-lantern swings; A Meteor a battle-pennant flings, Lost in the ocean of Ten Million Lights.

  Down to the Sea in Ships! Who knows? — Who knows What Unseen Thing shall climb the mist-hung shrouds And set the spread of splendid crowding clouds, And light the signals set in starry rows?

  Deep in the Black Crypt of the Universe A feeble thing stood sobbing on a star; “I live! I live. ’Tis mine to make or mar!” And Silence was the Answer and the Curse.

  Bee-haunted blossoms bud and bloom at Noon; Bird-haunted meadows belt the Seven Zones; And under all lie bedded human bones, And over all still swings the tarnished moon.

  On Men and Haunts of Men — if all Light dies, — And, where a million stars hang tenantless Whence the last ray is fled, — yet — none the less A Million Lamps are trimmed for other Skies.

  Believe it, O my soul! Arise and go Forth among Men and seek the Haunts of Men; — Nor shalt thou, O my soul, return again To tell thou knowest naught; We know! We know!

  R. W. C.

  April, 1896.

  A YOUNG MAN IN A HURRY

  First published in 1904, this series of non-supernatural tales are all set in America, drawing not only on Chambers’ talent for descriptions of landscape, but also on his love of fishing and hunting. All of the stories have a light, romantic feel and the title story is an especially atmospheric vignette depicting a snow-covered New York City at night.

  Title page of the first edition

  CONTENTS

  A YOUNG MAN IN A HURRY

  A PILGRIM

  THE SHINING BAND

  ONE MAN IN A MILLION

  THE FIRE-WARDEN

  THE MARKET-HUNTER

  THE PATH-MASTER

  IN NAUVOO

  MARLITT’S SHOES

  PASQUE FLORIDA

  Illustration, depicting a scene from the title story

  TO

  MARGERY

  A YOUNG MAN IN A HURRY

  “Soyez tranquilles, mesdames.… Je suis un jeune homme pressé.… Mais modeste.” — Labiche.

  AT ten minutes before five in the evening the office doors of the Florida and Key West Railway Company flew open, and a young man emerged in a hurry.

  Suit-case in one hand, umbrella in the other, he sped along the corridor to the elevator-shaft, arriving in time to catch a glimpse of the lighted roof of the cage sliding into depths below.

  “Down!” he shouted; but the glimmering cage disappeared, descending until darkness enveloped it.

  Then the young man jammed his hat on his head, seized the suit-case and umbrella, and galloped down the steps. The spiral marble staircase echoed his clattering flight; scrub-women heard him coming and fled; he leaped a pail of water and a mop; several old gentlemen flattened themselves against the wall to give him room; and a blond young person with pencils in her hair lisped “Gee!” as he whizzed past and plunged through the storm-doors, which swung back, closing behind him with a hollow thwack.

  Outside in the darkness, gray with whirling snowflakes, he saw the wet lamps of cabs shining, and he darted along the line of hansoms and coupés in frantic search for his own.

  “Oh, there you are!” he panted, flinging his suit-case up to a snow-covered driver. “Do your best now; we’re late!” And he leaped into the dark coupé, slammed the door, and sank back on the cushions, turning up the collar of his heavy overcoat.

  There was a young lady in the farther corner of the cab, buried to her nose in a fur coat. At intervals she shivered and pressed a fluffy muff against her face. A glimmer from the sleet-smeared lamps fell across her knees.

  Down-town flew the cab, swaying around icy corners, bumping over car-tracks, lurching, rattling, jouncing, while its silent occupants, huddled in separate corners, brooded moodily at their respective windows.

  Snow blotted the glass, melting and running down; and over the watery panes yellow light from shop windows played fantastically, distorting vision.

  Presently the young man pulled out his watch, fumbled for a match-box, struck a light, and groaned as he read the time.

  At the sound of the match striking, the young lady turned her head. Then, as the bright flame illuminated the young man’s face, she sat bolt upright, dropping the muff to her lap with a cry of dismay.

  He looked up at her. The match burned his fingers; he dropped it and hurriedly lighted another; and the flickering radiance brightened upon the face of a girl whom he had never before laid eyes on.

  “Good heavens!” he said. “Where’s my sister?”

  The young lady was startled, but resolute. “You have made a dreadful mistake,” she said; “you are in the wrong cab—”

  The match went out; there came a brief moment of darkness, then the cab turned a corner, and the ghostly light of electric lamps played over them in quivering succession.

  “Will you please stop this cab?” she said, unsteadily. “You have mistaken my cab for yours. I was expecting my brother.”

  Stunned, he made no movement to obey. A sudden thrill of fear passed through her.

  “I must ask you to stop this cab,” she faltered.

  The idiotic blankness of his expression changed to acute alarm.

  “Stop this cab?” he cried. “Nothing on earth can induce me to stop this cab!”

  “You must!” she insisted, controlling her voice. “You must stop it at once!”

  “How can I?” he asked, excitedly; “I’m late now; I haven’t one second to spare!”
<
br />   “Do you refuse to leave this cab?”

  “I beg that you will compose yourself—”

  “Will you go?” she insisted.

  A jounce sent them flying towards each other; they collided and recoiled, regarding one another in breathless indignation.

  “This is simply hideous!” said the young lady, seizing the door-handle.

  “Please don’t open that door!” he said. She tried to wrench it open; the handle stuck — or perhaps the strength had left her wrist. But it was not courage that failed, for she faced him, head held high, and —

  “You coward!” she said.

  Over his face a deep flush burned — and it was a good face, too — youthfully wilful, perhaps, with a firm, clean-cut chin and pleasant eyes.

  “If I were a coward,” he said, “I’d stop this cab and get out. I never faced anything that frightened me half as much as you do!”

  She looked him straight in the eyes, one hand twisting at the knob.

  “Don’t you suppose that this mistake of mine is as humiliating and unwelcome to me as it is to you?” he said. “If you stop this cab it will ruin somebody’s life. Not mine — if it were my own life, I wouldn’t hesitate.”

  Her hand, still clasping the silver knob, suddenly fell limp.

  “You say that you are in a hurry?” she asked, with dry lips.

  “A desperate hurry,” he replied.

  “So am I,” she said, bitterly; “and, thanks to your stupidity, I must make the journey without my brother!”

  There was a silence, then she turned towards him again:

  “Where do you imagine this cab is going?”

  “It’s going to Cortlandt Street — isn’t it?” Suddenly the recollection came to him that it was her cab, and that he had only told the driver to drive fast.

  The color left his face as he pressed it to the sleet-shot window. Fitful flickers of light, snow, darkness — that was all he could see.

  He turned a haggard countenance on her; he was at her mercy. But there was nothing vindictive in her.

  “I also am going to Cortlandt Street; you need not be alarmed,” she said.

  The color came back to his cheeks. “I suppose,” he ventured, “that you are trying to catch the Eden Limited, as I am.”

  “Yes,” she said, coldly; “my brother—” An expression of utter horror came into her face. “What on earth shall I do?” she cried; “my brother has my ticket and my purse!”

  A lunge and a bounce sent them into momentary collision; a flare of light from a ferry lantern flashed in their faces; the cab stopped and a porter jerked open the door, crying:

  “Eden Limited? You’d better hurry, lady. They’re closin’ the gates now.”

  They sprang out into the storm, she refusing his guiding arm.

  “What am I to do?” she said, desperately. “I must go on that train, and I haven’t a penny.”

  “It’s all right; you’ll take my sister’s ticket,” he said, hurriedly paying the cabman.

  A porter seized their two valises from the box and dashed towards the ferry-house; they followed to the turnstile, where the tickets were clipped.

  “Now we’ve got to run!” he said. And off they sped, slipped through the closing gates, and ran for the gang-plank, where their porter stood making frantic signs for them to hasten. It was a close connection, but they made it, to the unfeigned amusement of the passengers on deck.

  “Sa-ay!” drawled a ferry-hand, giving an extra twist to the wheel as the chains came clanking in, “she puts the bunch on the blink f’r a looker. Hey?”

  “Plenty,” said his comrade; adding, after a moment’s weary deliberation, “She’s his tootsy-wootsy sure. B. and G.”

  The two young people, who had caught the boat at the last second, stood together, muffled to the eyes, breathing rapidly. She was casting tragic glances astern, where, somewhere behind the smother of snow, New York city lay; he, certain at last of his train, stood beside her, attempting to collect his thoughts and arrange them in some sort of logical sequence.

  But the harder he thought, the more illogical the entire episode appeared. How on earth had he ever come to enter a stranger’s cab and drive with a stranger half a mile before either discovered the situation? And what blind luck had sent the cab to the destination he also was bound for — and not a second to spare, either?

  He looked at her furtively; she stood by the rail, her fur coat white with snow.

  “The poor little thing!” he thought. And he said: “You need not worry about your section, you know. I have my sister’s ticket for you.”

  After a moment’s gloomy retrospection he added: “When your brother arrives to knock my head off I’m going to let him do it.”

  She made no comment.

  “I don’t suppose,” he said, “that you ever could pardon what I have done.”

  “No,” she said, “I never could.”

  A brief interval passed, disturbed by the hooting of a siren.

  “If you had stopped the cab when I asked you to—” she began.

  “If I had,” he said, “neither you nor I could have caught this train.”

  “If you had not entered my cab, I should have been here at this moment with my brother,” she said. “Now I am here with you — penniless!”

  He looked at her miserably, but she was relentless.

  “It is the cold selfishness of the incident that shocks me,” she said; “it is not the blunder that offended me—” She stopped short to give him a chance to defend himself; but he did not. “And now,” she added, “you have reduced me to the necessity of — borrowing money—”

  “Only a ticket,” he muttered.

  But she was not appeased, and her silence was no solace to him.

  After a few minutes he said: “It’s horribly cold out here; would you not care to go into the cabin?”

  She shook her head, and her cheeks grew hot, for she had heard the observations of the ferrymen as the boat left. She would freeze in obscurity rather than face a lighted cabin full of people. She looked at the porter who was carrying their valises, and the dreadful idea seized her that he, too, thought them bride and groom.

  Furious, half frightened, utterly wretched, she dared not even look at the man whose unheard-of stupidity had inflicted such humiliation upon her.

  Tears were close to her eyes; she swallowed, set her head high, and turned her burning cheeks to the pelting snow.

  Oh, he should rue it some day! When, how, where, she did not trouble to think; but he should rue it, and his punishment should leave a memory ineffaceable. Pondering on his future tribulation, sternly immersed in visions of justice, his voice startled her:

  “The boat is in. Please keep close to me.”

  Bump! creak — cre — ak! bump! Then came the clank of wheel and chain, and the crowded cabin, and pressing throngs which crushed her close to his shoulder; and, “Please take my arm,” he said; “I can protect you better so.”

  A long, covered way, swarming with people, a glimpse of a street and whirling snowflakes, an iron fence pierced by gates where gilt-and-blue officials stood, saying, monotonously: “Tickets! Please show your tickets. This way for the Palmetto Special. The Eden Limited on track number three.”

  “Would you mind holding my umbrella a moment?” he asked.

  She took it.

  He produced the two tickets and they passed the gate, following a porter who carried their luggage.

  Presently their porter climbed the steps of a sleeping-car. She followed and sat down beside her valise, resting her elbow on the polished window-sill, and her flushed cheek on her hand.

  He passed her and continued on towards the end of the car, where she saw him engage in animated conversation with several officials. The officials shook their heads, and, after a while, he came slowly back to where she sat.

  “I tried to exchange into another car,” he said. “It cannot be done.”

  “Why do you wish to?” she asked, calmly.


  “I suppose you would — would rather I did,” he said. “I’ll stay in the smoker all I can.”

  She made no comment. He stood staring gloomily at the floor.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” he said, at last. “I’m not quite as selfish as you think. My — my younger brother is in a lot of trouble — down at St. Augustine. I couldn’t have saved him if I hadn’t caught this train.… I know you can’t forgive me; so I’ll say — so I’ll ask permission to say good-bye.”

  “Don’t — please don’t go,” she said, faintly.

  He wheeled towards her again.

  “How on earth am I to dine if you go away?” she asked. “I’ve a thousand miles to go, and I’ve simply got to dine.”

  “What a stupid brute I am!” he said, between his teeth. “I try to be decent, but I can’t. I’ll do anything in the world to spare you — indeed I will. Tell me, would you prefer to dine alone—”

  “Hush! people are listening,” she said, in a low voice. “It’s bad enough to be taken for bride and groom, but if people in this car think we’ve quarrelled I — I simply cannot endure it.”

  “Who took us for — that?” he whispered, fiercely.

  “Those people behind you; don’t look! I heard that horrid little boy say, ‘B. and G.!’ and others heard it. I — I think you had better sit down here a moment.”

  He sat down.

  “The question is,” she said, with heightened color, “whether it is less embarrassing for us to be civil to each other or to avoid each other. Everybody has seen the porter bring in our luggage; everybody supposes we are at least on friendly terms. If I go alone to the dining-car, and you go alone, gossip will begin. I’m miserable enough now — my position is false enough now. I — I cannot stand being stared at for thirty-six hours—”