Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Then the cautious departure, her stepfather slouching ahead and the furtive file sneaking after him, away into the white obscurity of the morning mist.

  After that — dishes washed and wiped — there were a few gaunt mountain cows to milk and turn out among the ferns again, a few eggs to be gathered, a few potatoes to be peeled, pies and cake to be constructed, a little washing of ragged clothing, an hour’s ironing.

  Then the rest of the day was hers; and she could go to her own little room, which was plastered and papered, and turn over the leaves of her father’s books, or she could sit in her mother’s rocking-chair and gaze at the family photographs tacked up over the fireplace — or she could lay her cheek against the soft, creamy folds of her grandmother’s Paisley shawl — her only heirloom.

  Also, she might, if she wished, go out into the sunshine and seat herself on the chopping block, and listen to the garrulous little river, or to the blue jays in the chilly woods, or to a hawk mewing, sweeping the hillside in widening circles over acres of berry bramble and slashings.

  And it happened one sunny morning, when frost still whitened the shadows of house and tree, and the few remaining yellow forest leaves fell more thickly with every breath of wind, that the creak of wheels aroused her from her reverie.

  A man got out of a muddy wagon, came toward her, and lifted his shooting cap. Which in itself was extraordinary, because nobody had ever before saluted her in that fashion.

  “Is this Jim Wildrick’s tavern?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Is there anybody here to take my horse?”

  “I can do that,” she replied.

  He said, smiling:

  “I’ll bed and feed him myself.... Is that the barn?” — doubtfully.

  “Yes.”

  “Very well, I’ll manage, thank you.”

  And taking his horse by the head he led him away, the muddy wagon rattling over the stones.

  The girl sat on the chopping block, her purple-grey eyes following the stranger.

  In due course of time he reappeared, all in leather, rifle balanced across his padded shoulder, a suit-case swinging in his left hand.

  “Is Mr. Wildrick about?” he asked cheerfully.

  “No,” she said.

  “Where is he?”

  “Hunting.”

  “Oh! Then he won’t return until tonight?”

  “He won’t be back till tomorrow or next day.”

  “What?”

  “He has a party out beyond Lynx Peak. He’ll lie out.”

  The young man’s keen eyes rested on her for a second, and their alert intelligence softened.

  “Then I shall have to wait for my buck, I suppose,” he remarked, looking around. “May I have a room?”

  “This way, if you please,” and rising, she led the way into the house.

  Up the rickety stairs he followed her; unplastered boards and bunks built in, straw ticks and ragged, musty coverings, did not appear to disturb him.

  “This is fine!” he exclaimed. “Thank you very much, Miss — Miss Wildrick — I suppose—”

  “I am Helen Grey.”

  “Thank you — I thought — understood—”

  “He is only my stepfather.”

  “Certainly. I ought to have known.”

  A slight flush came into her face, and she picked up his tin water pitcher.

  “I’ll fill that,” he said pleasantly, taking it from her hand with a decision that discounted instinctive resistance. She did not seem to know exactly how to confront such a situation — nobody before ever having relieved her of any burden.

  “Will you have dinner?” she asked mechanically.

  “Please. Any time suits me.”

  She went away down the stairs.

  For a while the young man was busy with his rifle and the contents of his suit-case, but about noon he also went downstairs. Dinner, including roast venison, potatoes, and flapjacks, was on the table.

  As he ate he could see the girl busy in the kitchen, moving quickly and gracefully here and there. The fire had tinted her bare arms and face a delicate pink; her hair, with the ruddy glimmer in it, sagged heavily over both close-set ears. He decided that the snowy purity of her skin made the grey eyes seem purple and her lips almost scarlet, so vivid was the contrast.

  She came presently to the kitchen doorway and looked in at him.

  “Will you have anything more?” she asked seriously.

  “Nothing, thank you.... Is there anything to read in the house?”

  “What?”

  “Any newspapers?”

  “No.”

  “No books, I suppose—”

  She was silent; but as he rose to leave the room she said in a low voice that sounded unwilling and sullen:

  “I have some books.... Would you care to read one?”

  “Why — thank you — if you don’t mind—”

  “If you will wait until the dishes are done.”

  “Of course I’ll wait—” Then, with a laugh, he added: “I’m accustomed to camping. May I help you with your dishes?”

  She looked around at him in slow surprise, while his pleasant laugh was still sounding in her ears. Then the painful colour crept to the roots of her hair.

  “I didn’t mean to be impertinent,” he added, watching the grave, young face turn from him.

  She made no response.

  So he went outdoors to light his pipe and saunter about; and after a little while, chancing to turn, he saw her standing at the house door as though awaiting him.

  “The books are in my room,” she said. “Would you mind reading them there?”

  “Not if you don’t,” he replied pleasantly.

  “I usually read after the dishes are done,” she said in a low voice, looking away from him.

  He made a slight and amiable inclination.

  So she led the way to her room, with its faded wall paper, limp sash curtains, its painted rocking-chair with the Paisley shawl lying over one arm. He looked about him at the single bookcase, the two broken vases full of dry immortelles, the pale photograph of her mother.

  “You may have the chair,” she said. “I always lie on the bed when I read.”

  She picked up a volume of memoirs at random, took the Paisley shawl, crossed to the narrow bed and laid her slender length across the quilt, pulling a pillow under her head and the shawl over her knees. Then, without another glance at him, she opened her book and fixed her eyes on the first page.

  She had been reading for a minute or two before he bestirred himself, went to the bookcase and took out a volume at random.

  Then he seated himself in her mother’s little rocking-chair and tried to read and keep one eye on her at the same time. This being impossible, his reading progressed slowly. But her gaze never left the printed page.

  It is true she did not turn the page. Perhaps she read slowly.

  A frost-stiffened wasp, crawling on the pane, diverted his attention; the little room itself was subtly disturbing to his thoughts, and he kept glancing around at its pathetic details, mute revelations of this young girl’s life and circumstances.

  When again he looked in her direction he found the grey eyes intently fixed on him. Which, without any reason, startled him.

  “Does my being here disturb you?” he asked.

  “I ought to tell you,” she said slowly, “that I have told you a lie.”

  “What!” he exclaimed.

  “I told you that I usually read after my dishes are done. That is not true. I read at night, usually.”

  “Well, that isn’t a very serious lie, is it?” he asked.

  “The truth is,” she continued, “I thought that if you came up here — perhaps you might talk to me.... That is why I asked you to come — and why I came myself — not to read.”

  If he had any inclination to smile he did not betray it. Never had he seen youthful eyes so wistfully earnest.

  “I’d much rather talk to you than re
ad,” he said with emphasis. “Shall I?”

  “I’d be so glad if you would — unless your book interests you—”

  He said the book was not as interesting as she was. “Because,” she went on, “you are the first man that has ever come here who reminds me of my real father.”

  “Do I resemble him?”

  “No. I mean to say that your voice, and manners — to me — your way of speaking — recall him.”

  “I see. I am the general sort of man that your father was — that his friends were. Is that it?”

  “I think so.”

  “But other men of my sort sometimes come here hunting and fishing, don’t they?”

  “I have never seen any.”

  “That’s odd.” The keen expression flickered in his eyes; he turned his gaze on the window, carelessly, saying:

  “Your stepfather, Mr. Wildrick, is a guide, isn’t he?” Her answer was so long in coming that he turned to look at her. She said:

  “My stepfather has warned me not to answer questions from strangers.”

  Her calm, level gaze met his: he thought he had never seen such honest eyes in any woman.

  After a moment’s silence she said:

  “Are you a warden?”

  “No,” he said pleasantly.

  “I thought you might be. We have to be careful.”

  “Certainly,” he returned quietly. “Also, I imagine you have to be on the watch for excise officers and revenue men.”

  She nodded.

  “I am neither of these,” he assured her gaily. “Will you take my word for it?”

  She hesitated for a moment.

  “Yes,” she said, “I believe your word.”

  He opened the book on his knee, ran over its pages absently.

  “Your stepfather keeps a dog, does he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “A hound?”

  “We call it a collie. You know, of course, what it is.” The young man laughed.

  “How,” he asked, “do you ever manage to get any provisions in here? I fancy you have to live on ‘mountain beef’ mostly.”

  She nodded.

  “Are you not afraid of the local game protector?”

  “He’s out hunting with my stepfather now,” she replied indifferently.

  “I see. That’s a very comfortable arrangement, isn’t it?”

  She shrugged her shoulders; then, dropping her clasped hands back under her head, turned her face toward him.

  “Do you live in New York?” she asked.

  “Yes — my home is there. Part of the year I am in Albany.”

  “There are a great many theatres in New York, aren’t there?”

  “About ten million,” he admitted, amused.

  She smiled, too, then a very deep and serious sigh escaped her.

  “You have been to New York?” he inquired.

  “When I was a child.”

  “Not since?”

  “No, not for many, many years.”

  “But,” he said laughingly, “that was not such a very long time ago. You are not more than eighteen?”

  “I am twenty-four,” she replied unsmiling. “It was a long time ago — a long, long time.”

  “But,” he insisted, a trifle uneasy at what he was discovering in her face, “you surely have been — somewhere — since then. Haven’t you?”

  She shook her head. And when she turned her grey eyes on him once more, he saw plainly what he thought he had seen in them — the tragedy of youth, dying of its own solitude.

  Neither spoke for a long while; the sun glowed in spots on shabby carpet and faded wall; the maudlin wasp crawled and buzzed and fell sprawling, only to begin its aimless, stiff-legged journey again. From the woods came the far screaming of jays.

  Without knowing why, he abruptly rose, laid aside his book, and walked over to the bed. She lay there, motionless, looking up at him; and in her young eyes he saw a very hell of solitude.

  “Shall we be friends?” he asked pleasantly. “Or have you already too many?”

  She did not seem to understand him.

  “How old did you say you are?” he asked. “Twenty-four.”

  “I am thirty-one. Our ages are very perfectly suited for the best sort of friendship.”

  She made no response.

  “My name,” he continued, “is — well, it’s John — and then some. I’ll tell you the rest — tomorrow — or next day. Will John do for the present?”

  She did not seem to comprehend what he was saying. “Will John do for a beginning — Helen?”

  “Did you wish me to — speak that way to you?” she asked in a curious, still voice.

  “Yes — if you’ll let me speak that way to you.”

  Her eyes never left his, but she made no reply.

  “Shall I talk to you? Somehow, I have an idea you’d like to be talked to. And what shall I say to you? Shall I tell you about New York — and theatres, and crowded streets, and women in pretty gowns—”

  She half rose on one elbow and rested so, breathless; and he looked into the flushed face, astonished at its sudden passionate transformation.

  “I — I saw New York — I saw all that — as a child — what you describe,” she stammered. “I saw it — I was part of it — part of — all that. I wish to be part of it again.”

  From her lips, scarcely moving, the breath came quickly and unevenly, and her eyes were the colour of purple iris bloom.

  “I can’t forget it,” she went on unsteadily. “If I could forget it I might stand it here — better — stand the stillness — the dreadful woods — that terrible river — and the men who come here—”

  “The men?”

  “Yes, drunk or sober — even the game warden — Hal Glade — and the shoe clerk from Lynxville — who does the same thing—”

  “What thing?”

  “They never let me alone when they come—”

  “What is it they do?”

  “Try to get me — to be — what I — I don’t want to be!”

  “I see,” he said coolly.

  “Some of them say they want to marry me, too — but nobody seems to care what men do in these mountains!

  There’s a law for deer, and partridges, and trout — but none for men. They can even kill each other — and they dot I wish I were out of here — or dead! I — I wish you liked me — and would take me away!” she cried out fiercely.

  Astonished at the crude frankness of the outburst, he had seated himself on the bed’s edge, where she lay supported on one elbow, her eyes and cheeks brilliant.

  “You’re the only one I’ve ever seen that I could go with,” she muttered, turning her head on the pillow and staring out of the window.

  There was nothing to see out there except wintry sunshine and naked tree tops, and a jay, intensely blue against the hemlocks.

  She said, under her breath, still staring at the sky:

  “Unless somebody takes me I can’t get away. I’ve tried, but they always catch me. It’s twenty miles of open and then ten more. Some friend of Jim’s always sees me.”

  For a while she lay silent; the young man beside gazed gravely at the floor.

  Presently she said:

  “Some man will hit me and slam me around some day and get me that way. It’s the only way anybody can get me — unless you want me to go away with you.”

  “Don’t talk that way,” he said in a low voice.

  She turned an expressionless face toward him.

  “I am only saying what is true. Unless they beat me insensible some day, they can’t have me.... I’ve often wished one of them would do it — and kill me by mistake. They’ve come near it.”

  “You mean to say that men have hurt you?”

  “I’ve been black and blue from head to foot.”

  “Here? In your own house?”

  “Anywhere. I have been carrying a knife—” She flung aside her apron and he saw a hunting knife strapped flat on her thigh.

&n
bsp; “Does Wildrick know?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes. Whoever gets me will have to marry me, or Jim will kill him. It isn’t that. I want to go away. The mountains and the river — you don’t understand — but they are terrible! And the silence — and everywhere only the sky and the trees.... And nobody — nobody—”

  The feverish flush burnt her cheeks; her hands clenched and unclenched against the book on her breast; her superb hair, loosened, framed face and shoulders.

  “It is the first time,” she said, “that I have ever heard my own voice saying these things; but all day, all night I have thought them. I had to say them aloud to you.... You do not care to take me away with you, do you?”

  And as he remained silent, studying the floor, she raised herself on one arm, swung to her feet, and, walking to the little bookshelf, replaced the volume she had taken. Then she moved listlessly toward the stairs, adjusting her disordered hair.

  “Wait a minute,” he said.

  She halted and stood looking at him, her fingers still busy with the splendid masses of her ruddy hair.

  “If I take you away,” he said, “what then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Would you expect me to marry you?”

  “No — I don’t suppose you would.”

  “Would you care?”

  She shook her head.

  “You merely wish to get away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any man would do?”

  “I have never asked another man.”

  “Why did you ask me?”

  “I don’t know: I must have been crazy.”

  “It wasn’t because you — thought you might — care for me?”

  “Yes; I could.”

  “Care very much?”

  Still busy with her hair, she lifted her head and regarded him with the clearest and saddest eyes he had ever seen.

  “I think,” she said, “that such a man as you could make of any woman whatever you wished.”

  “Suppose,” he said, “I take you — honestly.”

  “How?”

  “Not marry you — and not — bother you.”

  “You could never bother me. I know that.”

  “Other men have.”

  She dropped her hands and her hair sagged again. For a few moments’ silence she stood in the doorway, eyes remote, her sensitive lips resting in troubled curves upon each other.