Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Yours faithfully,

  “James Harroll.”

  Lines Scribbled on the Leaf of a Note-book and Found in a Bottle in the Pocket of an old Shooting-coat a Year Later.

  “Atlantic Ocean,

  “Miles South of Holy Cross Light,

  “February 16.

  “Catharine — I think this is the end. Selden and I have been blown out to sea in a rowboat, and it’s leaking. I only want to say good-by. Telegraph Selden’s mother, Lenox, Massachusetts. I have nobody to notify. Good-by.

  “James Harroll.”

  Telegram to James Harroll, Received and Opened by the Keeper while Search-boats Were still Out after Mr. Harroll and Mr. Selden, Two Days Missing.

  “James Harroll, Holy Cross Light, Florida, East Coast:

  “Don’t run any risks. Be careful for our sakes. Terrible storm on the coast reported here. Wire me that you are safe.

  “Catharine Delancy,

  “Avalon, Florida.”

  Telegrams Addressed to Young Harroll, and Opened by the Keeper of the Lighthouse after the Search-boats Had Returned.

  No. 1.

  “Why don’t you telegraph us? Your silence and the reports of the storm alarm us. Reply at once.

  “Catharine.”

  No. 2.

  “Wire Catharine, Jim. You surely were not ass enough to go out in such a storm.

  “S. Delancy.”

  No. 3.

  “For pity’s sake telegraph to me that you are safe. I cannot sleep.

  “Catharine.”

  Telegram to Miss Catharine Delancy, Avalon, Florida.

  “Holy Cross Light.

  “Miss Catharine Delancy:

  “Rowboat containing Mr. Harroll and Mr. Selden blown out to sea. Search-boats returned without finding any trace of them.

  “Caswell, Keeper.”

  Telegram from Mr. Delancy to Keeper of Holy Cross Light.

  “Caswell:

  “Charter a fast ocean-going tug and as many launches as necessary. Don’t give up the search. Spare no expense. Check mailed to you to-day.

  “I will give ten thousand dollars to the man who rescues James Harroll. You may draw on me for any amount necessary. Keep me constantly informed of your progress by wire.

  “Stephen Delancy.”

  In from the open sea drifted the castaways, the sun rising in tropic splendor behind them, before them a far strip of snowy surf edging green shores.

  Selden sat in the bow, bailing; Harroll dug vigorously into the Atlantic with both oars; a heavy flood-tide was doing the rest. Presently Selden picked up the ducking-glass and examined the shore.

  Harroll rested his oars, took a pull at the mineral water, and sighed deeply. “Except for the scare and the confounded leak it’s been rather amusing, hasn’t it?” he said.

  “It’s all right.... Hope you didn’t set that farewell message afloat.”

  “What message?”

  “Oh — I thought I saw you scribbling in your notebook and — —”

  “And what?”

  “And stick the leaf into the bottle of gun-oil. If I was mistaken, kindly give me my bottle of gun-oil.”

  “Pooh!” said Harroll. “The storm was magnificent. Can’t a man jot down impressions? Open a can of sardines, will you? And pass me the bread, you idiot!”

  Selden constructed a sandwich and passed it aft. “When we near those ducks,” he said, “we’d better give them a broadside — our larder’s getting low. I’ll load for us both.”

  He fished about among the cartridge-sacks for some dry shells, loaded the guns, and laid them ready.

  “Bluebills,” observed Harroll, as the boat drew near. “How tame they are! Look, Selden! It would be murder to shoot.”

  The boat, drifting rapidly, passed in among the raft of ducks; here and there a glistening silver-breasted bird paddled lazily out of the way, but the bulk of the flock floated serenely on either side, riding the swell, bright golden eyes fearlessly observing the intruders.

  “Oh, a man can’t shoot at things that act like that!” exclaimed Selden petulantly. “Shoo! Shoo — o!” he cried, waving his gun in hopes that a scurry and rise might justify assassination. But the birds only watched him in perfect confidence. The boat drove on; the young men sat staring across the waves, guns idly balanced across their knees. Presently Harroll finished his sandwich and resumed the oars.

  “Better bail some more,” he said. “What are you looking at?” — for Selden, using the ducking-glass, had begun to chuckle.

  “Well, upon my word!” he said slowly— “of all luck! Where do you suppose we are?”

  “Well, where the devil are we?”

  “Off Avalon!”

  “Avalon!” repeated Harroll, stupidly. “Why, man, it’s a hundred miles south of Holy Cross!”

  “Well, we’ve made it, I tell you. I can see one of their dinky little temples shining among the trees. Hark! There go the bells ringing for meditation!”

  A mellow chime came across the water.

  “It can’t be Avalon,” repeated Harroll, not daring to hope for such fortune. “What do you know about Avalon, anyway?”

  “What I’ve heard.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why, it’s a resort for played-out people who’ve gone the pace. When a girl dances herself into the fidgets, or a Newport matron goes to pieces, or a Wall Street man begins to talk to himself, hither they toddle. It’s the fashionable round-up for smashed nerves and wibbly-wobbly intellects — a sort of “back-to-nature” enterprise run by a “doctor.” He makes ’em all wear garments cut in the style of the humble bed-sheet, and then he turns ’em out to grass; and they may roll on it or frisk on it or eat it if they like. Incidentally, I believe, they’re obliged to wallow in the ocean several times a day, run races afoot, chuck the classic discus, go barefooted and sandal-shod, wear wreaths of flowers instead of hats, meditate in silence when the temple bells ring, eat grain and fruit and drink milk, and pay enormous bills to the quack who runs the place. It must be a merry life, Harroll. No tobacco, no billiards, no bridge. And hit the downy at nine-thirty by the curfew!”

  “Good Lord!” muttered Harroll.

  “That’s Avalon,” repeated Selden. “And we’re almost there. Look sharp! Stand by for a ducking! This surf means trouble ahead!”

  It certainly did; the boat soared skyward on the crest of the swell; a smashing roller hurled it into the surf, smothering craft and crew in hissing foam. A second later two heads appeared, and two half-suffocated young men floundered up the beach and dropped, dripping and speechless, on the sand.

  They lay inert for a while, salt water oozing at every pore. Harroll was the first to sit up.

  “Right?” he inquired.

  “All right. Where’s the boat?”

  “Ashore below us.” He rose, dripping, and made off toward the battered boat, which lay in the shoals, heeled over. Selden followed; together they dragged the wreck up high and dry; then they sat down on the sand, eying one another.

  “It’s a fine day,” said Selden, with a vacant grin. He rolled over on his back, clutching handfuls of hot sand. “Isn’t this immense?” he said. “My! how nice and dry and solid everything is! Roll on your back, Harroll! You’ll enjoy it more that way.”

  But Harroll got up and began dragging the guns and cartridge-sacks from the boat.

  “I’ve some friends here,” he said briefly. “Come on.”

  “Are your friends hospitably inclined to the shipwrecked? I’m about ready to be killed with hospitality,” observed Selden, shouldering gun and sack and slopping along in his wet boots.

  They entered a thicket of sweet-bay and palmetto, breast-high, and forced a path through toward a bit of vivid green lawn, which gave underfoot like velvet.

  “There’s a patient now — in his toga,” said Selden, in a low voice. “Better hit him with a piteous tale of shipwreck, hadn’t we?”

  The patient was seated on a carved bench of marble und
er the shade of a live oak. His attitude suggested ennui; he yawned at intervals; at intervals he dug in the turf with idle bare toes.

  “The back of that gentleman’s head,” said Harroll, “resembles the back of a head I know.”

  “Oh! One of those friends you mentioned?”

  “Well — I never saw him in toga and sandals, wearing a wreath of flowers on his head. Let’s take a front view.”

  The squeaky, sloppy sound of Selden’s hip boots aroused the gentleman in the toga from his attitude of bored meditation.

  “How do you do, sir?” said Harroll, blandly, “I thought I’d come to Avalon.”

  The old gentleman fumbled in his toga, found a monocle, screwed it firmly into his eye, and inspected Harroll from head to heel.

  “You’re rather wet, Jim,” he said, steadying his voice.

  Harroll admitted it. “This is my old friend, Jack Selden — the Lenox Seldens, you know, sir.” And, to Selden, he reverently named Mr. Delancy.

  “How do?” said Mr. Delancy. “You’re wet, too.”

  There was a silence. Mr. Delancy executed a facial contortion which released the monocle. Then he touched his faded eyes with the hem of his handkerchief. The lashes and furrowed cheeks were moist.

  “You’re so devilish abrupt, Jim,” he said. “Did you get any telegrams from us?”

  “Telegrams? No, sir. When?”

  “No matter,” said Mr. Delancy.

  Another silence, and Harroll said: “Fact is, sir, we were blown out to sea, and that’s how we came here. I fancy Selden wouldn’t mind an invitation to dinner and a chance to dry his clothes.”

  Selden smiled hopefully and modestly as Mr. Delancy surveyed him.

  “Pray accept my hospitality, gentlemen,” said Mr. Delancy, with a grim smile. “I’ve been ass enough to take a villa in this forsaken place. The food I have to offer you might be relished by squirrels, perhaps; the clothing resembles my own, and can be furnished you by the simple process of removing the sheets from your beds.”

  He rose, flung the flap of his toga over one shoulder, and passed his arm through Harroll’s.

  “Don’t you like it here?” asked Harroll.

  “Like it!” repeated Mr. Delancy.

  “But — why did you come?”

  “I came,” said Mr. Delancy slowly, “because I desired to be rid of you.”

  Selden instinctively fell back out of earshot. Harroll reddened.

  “I thought your theory was — —”

  “You smashed that theory — now you’ve shattered this — you and Catharine between you.”

  Harroll looked thoughtfully at Selden, who stood watching two pretty girls playing handball on the green.

  “Young man,” said Mr. Delancy, “do you realize what I’ve been through in one week? I have been obliged to wear this unspeakable garment, I’ve been obliged to endure every species of tomfoolery, I’ve been fed on bird seed, deprived of cigars, and sent to bed at half past nine. And I’m as sound in limb and body as you are. And all because I desired to be rid of you. I had two theories! both are smashed. I refuse to entertain any more theories concerning anything!”

  Harroll laughed; then his attention became concentrated on the exquisite landscape, where amid green foliage white villas of Georgia marble glimmered, buried in blossoming thickets of oleander, wistaria, and Cherokee roses — where through the trees a placid lake lay reflecting the violet sky — where fallow-deer wandered, lipping young maple buds — where beneath a pergola heavily draped with golden jasmine a white-robed figure moved in the shade — a still, sunny world of green and gold and violet exhaling incense under a cloudless sky.

  “I would like to see Catharine,” he said, slowly, “with your permission — and in view of the fate of the theories.”

  “Jim,” said Mr. Delancy, “you are doubtless unconscious of the trouble you have created in my family.”

  “Trouble, sir?” repeated the young man, flushing up.

  “Trouble for two. My daughter and I believed you drowned.”

  Harroll stood perfectly still. Mr. Delancy took a step or two forward, turned, and came back across the lawn. “She is sitting under that pergola yonder, looking out to sea, and I’m afraid she’s crying her eyes out for something she wants. It’s probably not good for her, either. But — such as it is — she may have it.”

  The two men looked at one another steadily.

  “I’m rather glad you were not drowned,” said Mr. Delancy, “but I’m not infatuated with you.”

  They shook hands solemnly, then Mr. Delancy walked over and joined Selden, who appeared to be fascinated by an attractive girl in Greek robes and sandals who was playing handball on the green.

  “‘Give up my dead!’ she whispered. ‘Give up my dead!’”

  “Young man,” said Mr. Delancy, “there’s always trouble for two in this world. That young woman with yellow hair and violet eyes who is playing handball with her sister, and who appears to hypnotize you, is here to recuperate from the loss of an elderly husband.”

  “A widow with yellow hair and blue eyes!” murmured Selden, entranced.

  “Precisely. Your train, however, leaves to-night — unless you mean to remain here on a diet of bird-seed.”

  Selden smiled absently. Bird-seed had no terror for him.

  “Besides,” he said, “I’m rather good at handball.”

  A moment later he looked around, presumably for Harroll. That young man was already half-way to the jasmine-covered arbor, where a young girl sat, dry-eyed, deathly pale, staring out to sea.

  The sea was blue and smiling; the soft thunder of the surf came up to her. She heard the gulls mewing in the sky and the hum of bees in the wind-stirred blossoms; she saw a crested osprey plunge into the shallows and a great tarpon fling its mass of silver into the sun. Paroquets gleaming like living jewels rustled and preened in the china-trees; black and gold butterflies, covered with pollen, crawled over and over the massed orange bloom. Ah, the mask of youth that the sly world wore to mock her! Ah, the living lie of the sky, and the false, smooth sea fawning at her feet!

  Little persuasive breezes came whispering, plucking at the white hem of her robe to curry favor; the ingratiating surf purred, blinking with a million iridescent bubbles. The smug smile of nature appalled her; its hypocrisy sickened her; and she bent her dark eyes fiercely on the sea and clinched her little hands.

  “Give up my dead!” she whispered. “Give up my dead!”

  “Catharine!”

  Dazed, she rose to her sandalled feet, the white folds of her robe falling straight and slim.

  “Catharine!”

  Her voiceless lips repeated his name; she swayed, steadying herself by the arm around her waist.

  Then trouble for two began.

  As Williams ended, I looked at him with indignation.

  “As far as I can see,” I said, “you are acting as attorney for the defense. That’s a fine story to tell a father of two attractive daughters. You needn’t repeat it to them.”

  “But it happened, old man — —”

  “Don’t call me ‘old man,’ either. I’ll explain to you why.” And I did, peevishly.

  After that I saw less of Williams, from choice. He has a literary way with him in telling a story — and I didn’t wish Alida and Dulcima to sympathize with young Harroll and that little ninny, Catharine Delancy. So I kept clear of Williams until we arrived in Paris.

  CHAPTER IV

  WHEREIN A MODEST MAN IS BULLIED AND A LITERARY MAN PRACTICES STYLE

  “What was your first impression of Paris, Mr. Van Twiller?” inquired the young man from East Boston, as I was lighting my cigar in the corridor of the Hôtel des Michetons after breakfast.

  “The first thing I noticed,” said I, “was the entire United States walking down the Boulevard des Italiens.”

  “And your second impression, sir?” he asked somewhat uncertainly.

  “The entire United States walking back again.” He lighted
a cigarette and tried to appear cheerful. He knew I possessed two daughters. A man in possession of such knowledge will endure much.

  Presently the stout young man from Chicago came up to request a light for his cigar. “See Paris and die, eh?” he observed with odious affability.

  “I doubt that the city can be as unhealthy as that,” I said coldly.

  Defeated, he joined forces with the young man from East Boston, and they retired to the terrace to sit and hate me.

  My daughter Alida, my daughter Dulcima, and I spent our first day in Paris “ong voitoor” as the denizen of East Boston informed me later.

  “What is your first impression, Alida?” I asked, as our taxi rolled smoothly down the Avenue de l’Opera.

  “Paris? An enormous blossom carved out of stone! — a huge architectural Renaissance rose with white stone petals!”

  I looked at my pretty daughter with pride.

  “That is what Mr. Van Dieman says,” she added conscientiously.

  My enthusiasm cooled at once.

  “Van Dieman exaggerates,” I said. “Dulcima, what do you find to characterize Paris?”

  “The gowns!” she cried. “Oh, papa! did you see that girl driving past just now?”

  I opened my guidebook in silence. I had seen her.

  The sunshine flooded everything; the scent of flowers filled the soft air; the city was a garden, sweet with green leaves, embroidered with green grass — a garden, too, in architecture, carved out in silvery gray foliage of stone. The streets are as smooth and clean as a steamer’s deck, with little clear rivulets running in gutters that seem as inviting as country brooks. It did not resemble Manhattan.

  Paris!

  Paris is a big city full of red-legged soldiers.

  Paris is a forest of pink and white chestnut blossoms under which the inhabitants sit without their hats.

  Paris is a collection of vistas; at the end of every vista is a misty masterpiece of architecture; on the summit of every monument is a masterpiece of sculpture.