Out of the Dark: Tales of Terror by Robert W. Chambers

‘My – my step-fa—’

Then she pushed me away from her with all the strength of her slender wrists and covered her face.

If I slipped my arm about her and drew her to me – if I kissed away the tears that fell slowly between her fingers – if I told her how I loved her – how it cut me to the heart to see her unhappy – after all that is my own business. When she smiled through her tears, the pure love and sweetness in her eyes lifted my soul higher than the high moon vaguely glimmering through the sunlit blue above. My happiness was so sudden, so fierce and overwhelming that I only knelt there, her fingers clasped in mine, my eyes raised to the blue vault and the glimmering moon. Then something in the long grass beside me moved close to my knees and a damp acrid odor filled my nostrils.

‘Ysonde!’ I cried, but the touch of her hand was already gone and my two clenched fists were cold and damp with dew.

‘Ysonde!’ I called again, my tongue stiff with fright – but I called as one awakening from a dream – a horrid dream, for my nostrils quivered with the damp acrid odor and I felt the crab-reptile clinging to my knee. Why had the night fallen so swiftly – and where was I – where? – stiff, chilled, torn, and bleeding, lying flung like a corpse over my own threshold with Voyou licking my face and Barris stooping above me in the light of a lamp that flared and smoked in the night breeze like a torch. Faugh! the choking stench of the lamp aroused me and I cried out:

‘Ysonde!’

‘What the devil’s the matter with him?’ muttered Pierpont, lifting me in his arms like a child, ‘has he been stabbed, Barris?’

VII

In a few minutes I was able to stand and walk stiffly into my bedroom where Howlett had a hot bath ready and a hotter tumbler of Scotch. Pierpont sponged the blood from my throat where it had coagulated. The cut was slight, almost invisible, a mere puncture from a thorn. A shampoo cleared my mind, and a cold plunge and alcohol friction did the rest.

‘Now,’ said Pierpont, ‘swallow your hot Scotch and lie down. Do you want a broiled woodcock? Good, I fancy you are coming about.’

Barris and Pierpont watched me as I sat on the edge of the bed, solemnly chewing on the woodcock’s wishbone and sipping my Bordeaux, very much at my ease.

Pierpont sighed his relief.

‘So,’ he said pleasantly, ‘it was a mere case of ten dollars or ten days. I thought you had been stabbed—’

‘I was not intoxicated,’ I replied, serenely picking up a bit of celery.

‘Only jagged?’ enquired Pierpont, full of sympathy.

‘Nonsense,’ said Barris, ‘let him alone. Want some more celery, Roy? – it will make you sleep.’

‘I don’t want to sleep,’ I answered; ‘when are you and Pierpont going to catch your gold-maker?’

Barris looked at his watch and closed it with a snap.

‘In an hour; you don’t propose to go with us?’

‘But I do – toss me a cup of coffee, Pierpont, will you – that’s just what I propose to do. Howlett, bring the new box of Panatella’s – the mild imported – and leave the decanter. Now Barris, I’ll be dressing, and you and Pierpont keep still and listen to what I have to say. Is that door shut tight?’

Barris locked it and sat down.

‘Thanks,’ said I, ‘Barris, where is the city of Yian?’

An expression akin to terror flashed into Barris’ eyes and I saw him stop breathing for a moment.

‘There is no such city,’ he said at length, ‘have I been talking in my sleep?’

‘It is a city,’ I continued, calmly, ‘where the river winds under the thousand bridges, where the gardens are sweetly scented and the air is filled with the music of silver bells—’

‘Stop!’ gasped Barris, and rose trembling from his chair. He had grown ten years older.

‘Roy,’ interposed Pierpont coolly, ‘what the deuce are you harrying Barris for?’

I looked at Barris and he looked at me. After a second or two he sat down again.

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