Reading books romantic stories you will plunge into the world of feelings and love. Most of the time the story ends happily. Very interesting and informative to read books historical romance novels to feel the atmosphere of that time.The Dark Star by Robert W. Chambers (best fiction novels of all time TXT) đź“–
- Author: Robert W. Chambers
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And now I must bring my letter to its end. The prospect of seeing you very soon is agreeable beyond words. You have been very kind to me. I do not forget it.
Yours very sincerely,
Ruhannah Carew.
The enclosure was a note from the Princess Mistchenka:
Dear Jim:
If in the past it has been my good fortune to add anything to yours, may I now invoke in you the memory of our very frank and delightful friendship?
When you first returned to America from Paris I found it possible to do for you a few favours in the way of making you known to certain editors. It was, I assure you, merely because I liked you and believed in your work, not because I ever expected to ask from you any favour in return. 154
Now, Fate has thrown an odd combination from her dice-box; and Destiny has veiled herself so impenetrably that nobody can read that awful visage to guess what thoughts possess her.
You, in America, have heard of the murder of the Austrian Archduke, of course. But—have you, in America, any idea what the consequences of that murder may lead to?
Enough of that. Now for the favour I ask.
Will you go at once to Brookhollow, go to Ruhannah’s house, open it, take from it a chest made of olive wood and bound with some metal which looks like silver, lock the box, take it to New York, place it in a safe deposit vault until you can sail for Paris on the first steamer that leaves New York?
Will you do this—get the box I have described and bring it to me yourself on the first steamer that sails?
And, Jim, keep your eye on the box. Don’t trust anybody near it. Rue says that, as she recollects, the box is about the size and shape of a suitcase and that it has a canvas and leather cover with a handle which buttons over it.
Therefore, you can carry it yourself exactly as though it were your suitcase, keep it with you in the train and on shipboard.
Will you do this, Jim? It is much to ask of you. I break in upon your work and cause you great inconvenience and trouble and expense. But—will you do it for me?
Much depends upon your doing this. I think that possibly the welfare of your own country might depend on your doing this for me.
If you find yourself embarrassed financially, cable me just one word, “Black,” and I shall arrange matters through a New York bank.
If you feel that you do not care to do me this favour, cable the single word, “White.”
If you have sufficient funds, and are willing to bring the box to me yourself, cable the word, “Blue.”
In case that you undertake this business for me, be careful of the contents of the box. Let nobody see it 155 open. Be certain that the contents are absolutely secure. I dare not tell you how vitally important to civilisation these papers already are—how much they may mean to the world; what powers of evil they might encourage if in any way they fall into other hands than the right ones.
Jim, I have seldom taken a very serious tone with you since we have known each other. I am very serious now. And if our friendship means anything to you, prove it!
Yours,
NaĂŻa.
As he sat there in his studio, perplexed, amazed, annoyed, yet curious, trying to think out what he ought to do—what, in fact, must be done somehow or other—there came a ring at his door bell. A messenger with a cable despatch stood there; Neeland signed, tore open the envelope, and read:
Please go at once to Brookhollow and secure an olive-wood box bound with silver, containing military maps, plans, photographs, and papers written in German, property of Ruhannah Carew. Lose no time, I implore you, as an attempt to rob the house and steal the papers is likely. Beware of anybody resembling a German. Have written, but beg you not to wait for letter.
NaĂŻa.
Twice he reread the cablegram. Then, with a half-bewildered, half-disgusted glance around at his studio, his belongings, the unfinished work on his easel, he went to the telephone.
It being July he had little difficulty in reserving a good stateroom on the Cunarder Volhynia, sailing the following day. Then, summoning the janitor, he packed a steamer trunk and gave order to have it taken aboard that evening.
On his way downtown to his bank he stopped at a 156 telegraph and cable office and sent a cable message to the Princess Mistchenka. The text consisted of only one word: “Blue.”
He departed for Gayfield on the five o’clock afternoon train, carrying with him a suitcase and an automatic pistol in his breast pocket.
It was a five-hour trip. He dined aboard the train with little desire for food, the July evening being oppressive, and a thunder storm brewing over the Hudson. It burst in the vicinity of Fishkill with a lively display of lightning, deluging the Catskills with rain. And when he changed to a train on the Mohawk division the cooler air was agreeably noticeable.
He changed trains again at Orangeville, and here the night breeze was delightful and the scent of rain-soaked meadows came through the open car window.
It was nearly ten o’clock and already, ahead, he caught sight of the lights of Neeland’s Mills. Always the homecoming was a keen delight to him; and now, as he stepped off the train, the old familiar odours were in his nostrils—the unique composite perfume of the native place which never can be duplicated elsewhere.
All the sweet and aromatic and homely smells of earth and land and water came to him with his first deep-drawn breath. The rank growth of wild flowers and weeds were part of it—the flat atmosphere of the mill pond, always redolent of water weed and lily pads, tinctured it; distant fields of buckwheat added heavier perfume.
Neither in the quaint brick feed mill nor in the lumber mill were there any lights, but in his own home, almost buried among tall trees and vines, the light streamed from the sitting-room windows. 158
From the dark yard two or three dogs barked at him, then barked again in a different key, voicing an excited welcome; and he opened the picket gate and went up the path surrounded by demonstrative setters and pointers, leaping and wagging about him and making a vast amount of noise on the vine-covered verandah as he opened the door, let himself into the house, and shut them out.
“Hello, dad!” he said, crossing swiftly to where his father sat by the reading lamp.
Their powerful grip lingered. Old Dick Neeland, ruddy, white-haired, straight as a pine, stood up in his old slippers and quilted smoking coat, his brier pipe poised in his left hand.
“Splendid, Jim. I’ve been thinking about you this evening.” He might have added that there were few moments when his son was not in his thoughts.
“Are you all right, dad?”
“Absolutely. You are, too, I see.”
They seated themselves.
“Hungry, Jim?”
“No; I dined aboard.”
“You didn’t telegraph me.”
“No; I came at short notice.”
“Can’t you stay?”
“Dad, I have a drawing-room reserved for the midnight tonight, and I am sailing on the Volhynia tomorrow at nine in the morning!”
“God bless me! Why, Jim?”
“Dad, I’ll tell you all I know about it.”
His father sat with brier pipe suspended and keen blue eyes fixed on his son, while the son told everything he knew about the reason for his flying trip to Paris.
“You see how it is, don’t you, dad?” he ended. “The 159 Princess has been a good and loyal friend to me. She has used her influence; I have met, through her, the people I ought to know, and they have given me work to do. I’m in her debt; I’m under real obligation to her. And I’ve got to go, that’s all.”
Old Dick Neeland’s clear eyes of a sportsman continued to study his son’s face.
“Yes, you’ve got to go,” he said. He smoked for a few moments, then: “What the devil does it mean, anyway? Have you any notion, Jim?”
“No, I haven’t. There seems to be some military papers in this box that is mentioned. Evidently they are of value to somebody. Evidently other people have got wind of that fact and desire to obtain them for themselves. It almost seems as though something is brewing over there—trouble of some sort between Germany and some other nation. But I haven’t heard of anything.”
His father continued to smoke for a while, then:
“There is something brewing over there, Jim.”
“I hadn’t heard,” repeated the young man.
“I haven’t either, directly. But in my business some unusual orders have come through—from abroad. Both France and Germany have been making inquiries through agents in regard to shipments of grain and feed and lumber. I’ve heard of several very heavy rush orders.”
“What on earth could cause war?”
“I can’t see, Jim. Of course Austria’s attitude toward Servia is very sullen. But outside of that I can see no trouble threatening.
“And yet, the Gayfield woollen mill has just received an enormous order for socks and underwear from the French Government. They’re running all night now. 160 And another thing struck me: there has been a man in this section buying horses for the British Government. Of course it’s done now and then, but, taking this incident with the others which have come to my personal knowledge, it would seem as though something were brewing over in Europe.”
Jim’s perplexed eyes rested on his father; he shook his youthful head slightly:
“I can’t see why,” he said. “But if it’s to be France and Germany again, why my sympathy is entirely for France.”
“Naturally,” nodded his father.
Their Irish ancestors had fought for Bonaparte, and for the Bourbons before him. And, cursed with cousins, like all Irish, they were aware of plenty of Neelands in France who spoke no English.
Jim rose, glanced at his watch:
“Dad, I’ll just be running over to Brookhollow to get that box. I haven’t such a lot of time, if I’m to catch the midnight train at Orangeville.”
“I should say you hadn’t,” said his father.
He was disappointed, but he smiled as he exchanged a handclasp with his only son.
“You’re coming right back from Paris?”
“Next steamer. I’ve a lot of work on hand, thank goodness! But that only puts me under heavier obligations to the Princess Mistchenka.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Anything but ingratitude, Jim. It’s the vilest vice of ’em all. They say it’s in the Irish blood—ingratitude. They must never prove it by a Neeland. Well, my boy—I’m not lonesome, you understand; busy men have no time to be lonesome—but run up, will you, when you get back?”
“You bet I will.” 161
“I’ll show you a brace of promising pups. They stand rabbits, still, but they won’t when the season is over.”
“Blue Bird’s pups?”
“Yes. They take after her.”
“Fine! I’ll be back for the shooting, anyway. Many broods this season?”
“A fair number. It was not too wet.”
For a moment they lingered, smiling at each other, then Jim gave his father’s hand a quick shake, picked up his suitcase, turned.
“I’ll take the runabout, dad. Someone from the Orangeville garage will bring it over in the morning.”
He went out, pushed his way among the leaping dogs to the garage, threw open the doors, and turned on the electric light.
A slim and trim Snapper runabout stood glistening beside a larger car and two automobile trucks. He exchanged his straw hat for a cap; placed hat and suitcase in the boot; picked up a flash light from the work-table, and put it into his pocket, cranked the Snapper, jumped in, ran it to the service entrance, where his father stood ready to check the dogs and close the gates after him.
“Good-bye,
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