Shapes that Haunt the Dusk

Henry Mills Alden, William Dean Howells

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• Publié par: fiem
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 25
• Langue: English

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Project Gutenberg's Shapes that Haunt the Dusk, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Shapes that Haunt the Dusk Author: Various Editor: William Dean Howells and Henry Mills Alden Release Date: November 28, 2008 [EBook #27352] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHAPES THAT HAUNT THE DUSK *** Produced by David Edwards, S.D. and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) S h a p e s t h a t H a u n t t h e D u s k Harper's Novelettes EDITED BY WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS AND HENRY MILLS ALDEN Harper & Brothers Publishers New York and London Copyright, 1891, 1893, 1894, 1895, 1896, 1897, 1898, 1905, 1906, 1907, by H ARPER & BROTHERS. All rights reserved. GEORG SCHOCK THE CHRISTMAS CHILD RICHARD RICE THE WHITE SLEEP OF AUBER HURN HOWARD PYLE IN TENEBRAS MADELENE YALE WYNNE THE LITTLE ROOM HARRIET LEWIS BRADLEY THE BRINGING OF THE ROSE HILDEGARDE HAWTHORNE PERDITA M. E. M. DAVIS AT LA GLORIEUSE F. D. MILLET A FADED SCAPULAR E. LEVI BROWN AT THE HERMITAGE H. W. McVICKAR THE REPRISAL [Pg v] Introduction The writers of American short stories, the best short stories in the world, surpass in nothing so much as in their handling of those filmy textures which clothe the vague shapes of the borderland between experience and illusion. This is perhaps because our people, who seem to live only in the most tangible things of material existence, really live more in the spirit than any other. Their love of the supernatural is their common inheritance from no particular ancestry, but is apparently an effect from psychological influences in the past, widely separated in time and place. It is as noticeable among our Southerners of French race as among our New-Englanders deriving from Puritan zealots accustomed to wonder-working providences, or among those descendants of the German immigrants who brought with them to our Middle States the [Pg vi] superstitions of the Rhine valleys or the Hartz Mountains. It is something that has tinged the nature of our whole life, whatever its varied sources, and when its color seems gone out of us, or, going, it renews itself in all the mystical lights and shadows so familiar to us that, till we read some such tales as those grouped together here, we are scarcely aware how largely they form the complexion of our thinking and feeling. The opening story in this volume is from a hand quite new, and is, we think, of an excellence quite absolute, so fresh is it in scene, character, and incident, so delicately yet so strongly accented by a talent trying itself in a region hardly yet visited by fiction. Its perfect realism is consistent with the boldest appeal to those primitive instincts furthest from every-day events, and its pathos is as poignant as if it had happened within our own knowledge. In its way, it is as finely imaginative as Mr. Pyle's wonderfully spiritualized and moralized conception of the other world which he has realized on such terms as he alone can command; or as Mrs. Wynne's symphony of thrills and shudders, which will not have died out of the nerves of any one acquainted with it before. Mr. Millet's [Pg vii] sketch is of a quality akin to that of Mr. McVickar's slighter but not less impressive fantasy: both are "in the midst of men and day," and command such credence as we cannot withhold from any well-confirmed report in the morning paper. Mr. Rice's story is of like temperament, and so, somewhat, is Miss Hawthorne's, and Mr. Brown's, and Miss Bradley's, while Miss Davis's romance is of another atmosphere, but not less potent, because it comes from farther, and wears a dreamier light. Such as they severally and differently and collectively are, the pieces are each a masterpiece and worthy the study of every reader who feels that there are more things than we have dreamt of in our philosophy. The collection is like a more things than we have dreamt of in our philosophy. The collection is like a group of immortelles, gray in that twilight of the reason which Americans are so fond of inviting, or, rather, they are like a cluster of Indian pipe, those pale blossoms of the woods that spring from the dark mould in the deepest shade, and are so entirely of our own soil. W. D. H. [Pg 1] The Christmas Child BY GEORG SCHOCK The moonlight was so bright across the clock that it showed the time, and its tick was solemn, as though the minutes were marching slowly by. There was no other sound in the room except the breathing of Conrad, who lay in shadow, sleeping heavily, his head a black patch among the pillows. Mary's hair looked like gold in the pale light which reflected in her open eyes. She had been lying so, listening to the tick and watching the hands, for hours. When they marked eleven she began to stir; her feet made no more sound than shadows; the cold air struck her body like a strange element. Conrad did not move as she went into the kitchen and softly closed the door. She groped her way to the chair where she had left her clothes and put them on, wrapped herself in a shawl, and slipped out. There was no snow, but a keen cold as befitted the night of the 24th of [Pg 2] December, and between two fields the ice on the Northkill glittered. The air was so clear that far away appeared the great black barrier of the mountains. Across the sky, as across deep water, was a radiance of light, serene and chill,—of clouds like foam, of throbbing stars, of the moon glorious in her aura. In the towns at that hour the people were ready to begin the coming day with prayer and the sound of bells: here sky and earth themselves honored the event with light and silence in a majestic expectation. As she made her way over the frozen grass she looked as detached from the world's affairs as some shrouded lady at her nightly journey along a haunted path. The great Swiss barn was dead silent; its red front, painted with moons and stars, looked patriarchal; it had its own pastoral and dignified associations. She hesitated at the middle door, then she lifted the wooden bar and pushed it back cautiously. The darkness seemed to come out to meet her, and when she had shut herself in she was engulfed as though the ready earth had covered her a few nights too soon. The straw rustled when she stepped on it, and she was afraid to risk a [Pg 3] movement, so she crouched and made herself small. The air was thick and pungent, freezing draughts played upon her through the cracks of the door, and her foot tingled, but she did not move. After a while she saw two luminous disks which halted, glared, and approached, and she patted the furry body until it curled up on her skirt and lay there purring. She felt it grow tense at a tiny squeak and scuttle, but she kept still. More than half an hour had gone when something happened. A horse stamped, a cock set up a sudden chatter, the cat leaped to a manger, and a cow scrambled to her feet. The darkness was full of movement,—wings fluttered, timbers shook under kicking hoofs and rubbing hides, tossed heads jarred the rings that held them fast. Then from the corner in which stood the splendid yoke of black oxen, the pride of the farm, there came a long, deep sound, as of something primeval mourning. Two minutes after, Conrad was roused by a noise in the kitchen. The house door stood wide, showing a great rectangle of moonlight, there was a rush of [Pg 4] cold air, and his bare foot struck Mary, doubled up where she had fallen. He shouted, and an old woman ran in with her gray hair flying. "Conrad!" she exclaimed, almost in a scream. "I don't know," he answered. He had his wife in his arms and held her out like a child showing a broken toy. The old woman bethought herself first. "Take her in and lay her on the bed," she ordered. While she worked he began to hurry on his clothes, moving as though he were stupid; then he came up to the bed. "Aunt Hannah, what has she?" he begged. She gave him a look, and he suddenly burst into a great storm of tears. "Hurry!" she said. "Take Dolly and a whip and go to Bernville first. If the doctor isn't home, go along to Mount Pleasant; but bring a doctor. Ach!" she seized his hand in her excitement. Mary's eyes were opening—blue, wide, and terrified. "Don't take Dolly," she said, quite loud. "Dolly knows too much." Then her eyes closed again. Conrad went into the kitchen, still sobbing, and the old woman followed. "I must take Dolly," he whispered. "Aunt Hannah, for God's sake, what has [Pg 5] she?" "I don't know what she means about Dolly. Maybe I can find out till you get back. She'll soon come to. You better be careful going out of the barnyard. It might worry her if she hears the hoofs." The young man checked his crying. "I take her through the fields," he said, and went out softly. In the light of the candle which contended with the moonbeams Hannah's wrinkled face looked witchlike as she bent over the bed. Presently Mary started and her eyes searched the room with a terrified stare; she seemed to be all at once in the midst of some dreadful happening. "Aunt Hannah," she exclaimed, "don't let them come for me!" The old woman bent over her. "How do you feel?" she asked, in her soft and friendly Dutch. "Don't let them come!" "Nobody comes, Mary. It is all right, only you are not so good. After while somebody is coming. Then you are glad!" "Keep them out! I don't want to go!" "You don't go off; you stay right here with me and Conrad." "They said—" "Who?" "The oxen." Hannah's hand shook, but she still spoke reassuringly. "Were you in the barn, Mary?" "Yes. You know how it is said that on Christmas eve, twelve o'clock, the