stories by modern american authors-第3部分

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terms；　but　on　the　other　hand；　the　riddle　novel　demands　a　power　of

vivid　character　portrayal　and　of　telling　description　which　are　not

indispensable　in　the　briefer　narrative。　　A　famous　tale；　published

perhaps　forty　years　ago；　but　which　cannot　be　included　in　our

series；　tells　the　story　of　a　murder　the　secret　of　which　is

admirably　concealed　till　the　last；　and　much　of　the　fascination　of

the　book　is　due　to　the　ability　with　which　the　leading　character；

and　some　of　the　subordinate　ones；　are　drawn。　　The　author　was　a

woman；　and　I　have　often　marveled　that　women　so　seldom　attempt　this

form　of　literature；　many　of　them　possess　a　good　constructive

faculty；　and　their　love　of　detail　and　of　mystery　is　notorious。

Perhaps　they　are　too　fond　of　sentiment；　and　sentiment　must　be

handled　with　caution　in　riddle　stories。　　The　fault　of　all　riddle

novels　is　that　they　inevitably　involve　two　kinds　of　interest；　and

can　seldom　balance　these　so　perfectly　that　one　or　the　other　of　them

shall　not　suffer。　　The　mind　of　the　reader　becomes　weary　in　its

frequent　journeys　between　human　characters　on　one　side　the

mysterious　events　on　the　other；　and　would　prefer　the　more　single…

eyed　treatment　of　the　short　tale。　　Wonder；　too；　is　a　very　tender

and　short…lived　emotion；　and　sometimes　perishes　after　a　few　pages。

Curiosity　is　tougher；　but　that　too　may　be　baffled　too　long；　and　end

by　tiring　of　the　pursuit　while　it　is　yet　in　its　early　stages。　　Many

excellent　plots；　admirable　from　the　constructive　point　of　view；

have　been　wasted　by　stringing　them　out　too　far；　the　reader

recognizes　their　merit；　but　loses　his　enthusiasm　on　account　of　a

sort　of　monotony　of　strain；　he　wickedly　turns　to　the　concluding

chapter；　and　the　game　is　up。　　〃The　Woman　in　White；〃　by　Wilkie

Collins；　was　published　about　1860；　I　think；　in　weekly　installments；

and　certainly　they　were　devoured　with　insatiable　appetite　by　many

thousands　of　readers。　　But　I　doubt　whether　a　book　of　similar　merit

could　command　such　a　following　to…day；　and　I　will　even　confess　that

I　have　myself　never　read　the　concluding　parts；　and　do　not　know　to

this　day　who　the　woman　was　or　what　were　the　wrongs　from　which　she

so　poignantly　suffered。



The　tales　contained　in　the　volumes　herewith　offered　are　the　best

riddle　or　detective　stories　in　the　world；　according　to　the　best

judgment　of　the　editors。　　They　are　the　product　of　writers　of　all

nations；　and　translation；　in　this　case；　is　less　apt　to　be

misleading　than　with　most　other　forms　of　literature；　for　a　mystery

or　a　riddle　is　equally　captivating　in　all　languages。　　Many　of　the

good　onesperhaps　some　of　the　best　oneshave　been　left　out；

either　because　we　missed　them　in　our　search；　or　because　we　had　to

choose　between　them　and　others　seemingly　of　equal　excellence；　and

were　obliged　to　consider　space　limitations　which；　however

generously　laid　out；　must　have　some　end　at　last。　　Be　that　as　it

may；　we　believe　that　there　are　enough　good　stories　here　to　satisfy

the　most　Gargantuan　hunger；　and　we　feel　sure　that　our　volumes　will

never　be　crowded　off　the　shelf　which　has　once　made　room　for　them。

If　we　have；　now　and　then；　a　little　transcended　the　strict

definition　of　the　class　of　fiction　which　our　title　would　promise；

we　shall　nevertheless　not　anticipate　any　serious　quarrel　with　our

readers；　if　there　be　room　to　question　the　right　of　any　given　story

to　appear　in　this　company；　there　will　be　all　the　more　reason　for

accepting　it　on　its　own　merits；　for　it　had　to　be　very　good　indeed

in　order　to　overcome　its　technical　disqualification。　　And　if　it　did

not　rightfully　belong　here；　there　would　probably　be　objections　as

strong　to　admitting　it　in　any　other　collection。　　Between　two　or

more　stools；　it　would　be　a　pity　to　let　it　fall　to　the　ground；　so

let　it　be　forgiven；　and　please　us　with　whatever　gift　it　has。



In　many　cases　where　copyrights　were　still　unexpired；　we　have　to

express　our　acknowledgments　to　writers　and　publishers　who　have

accorded　us　the　courtesy　of　their　leave　to　reproduce　what　their

genius　or　enterprise　has　created　and　put　forth。　　To　our　readers　we

take　pleasure　in　presenting　what　we　know　cannot　fail　to　give　them

pleasurea　collection　of　the　fruits　of　the　finest　literary

ingenuity　and　nicest　art　accessible　to　the　human　mind。　　Gaudeat；

non　caveat　emptor！



JULIAN　HAWTHORNE。







American　Mystery　Stories





F。　Marion　Crawford



By　the　Waters　of　Paradise





I





I　remember　my　childhood　very　distinctly。　　I　do　not　think　that　the

fact　argues　a　good　memory；　for　I　have　never　been　clever　at　learning

words　by　heart；　in　prose　or　rhyme；　so　that　I　believe　my　remembrance

of　events　depends　much　more　upon　the　events　themselves　than　upon　my

possessing　any　special　facility　for　recalling　them。　　Perhaps　I　am

too　imaginative；　and　the　earliest　impressions　I　received　were　of　a

kind　to　stimulate　the　imagination　abnormally。　　A　long　series　of

little　misfortunes；　so　connected　with　each　other　as　to　suggest　a

sort　of　weird　fatality；　so　worked　upon　my　melancholy　temperament

when　I　was　a　boy　that；　before　I　was　of　age；　I　sincerely　believed

myself　to　be　under　a　curse；　and　not　only　myself；　but　my　whole

family　and　every　individual　who　bore　my　name。



I　was　born　in　the　old　place　where　my　father；　and　his　father；　and

all　his　predecessors　had　been　born；　beyond　the　memory　of　man。　　It

is　a　very　old　house；　and　the　greater　part　of　it　was　originally　a

castle；　strongly　fortified；　and　surrounded　by　a　deep　moat　supplied

with　abundant　water　from　the　hills　by　a　hidden　aqueduct。　　Many　of

the　fortifications　have　been　destroyed；　and　the　moat　has　been

filled　up。　　The　water　from　the　aqueduct　supplies　great　fountains；

and　runs　down　into　huge　oblong　basins　in　the　terraced　gardens；　one

below　the　other；　each　surrounded　by　a　broad　pavement　of　marble

between　the　water　and　the　flower…beds。　　The　waste　surplus　finally

escapes　through　an　artificial　grotto；　some　thirty　yards　long；　into

a　stream；　flowing　down　through　the　park　to　the　meadows　beyond；　and

thence　to　the　distant　river。　　The　buildings　were　extended　a　little

and　greatly　altered　more　than　two　hundred　years　ago；　in　the　time　of

Charles　II。；　but　since　then　little　has　been　done　to　improve　them；

though　they　have　been　kept　in　fairly　good　repair；　according　to　our

fortunes。



In　the　gardens　there　are　terraces　and　huge　hedges　of　box　and

evergreen；　some　of　which　used　to　be　clipped　into　shapes　of　animals；

in　the　Italian　style。　　I　can　remember　when　I　was　a　lad　how　I　used

to　try　to　make　out　what　the　trees　were　cut　to　represent；　and　how　I

used　to　appeal　for　explanations　to　Judith；　my　Welsh　nurse。　　She

dealt　in　a　strange　mythology　of　her　own；　and　peopled　the　gardens

with　griffins；　dragons；　good　genii　and　bad；　and　filled　my　mind　with

them　at　the　same　time。　　My　nursery　window　afforded　a　view　of　the

great　fountains　at　the　head　of　the　upper　basin；　and　on　moonlight

nights　the　Welshwoman　would　hold　me　up　to　the　glass　and　bid　me　look

at　the　mist　and　spray　rising　into　mysterious　shapes；　moving

mystically　in　the　white　light　like　living　things。



〃It's　the　Woman　of　the　Water；〃　she　used　to　say；　and　sometimes　she

would　threaten　that　if　I　did　not　go　to　sleep　the　Woman　of　the　Water

would　steal　up　to　the　high　window　and　carry　me　away　in　her　wet

arms。



The　place　was　gloomy。　　The　broad　basins　of　water　and　the　tall

evergreen　hedges　gave　it　a　funereal　look；　and　the　damp…stained

marble　causeways　by　the　pools　might　have　been　made　of　tombstones。

The　gray　and　weather…beaten　walls　and　towers　without；　the　dark　and

massively　furnished　rooms　within；　the　deep；　mysterious　recesses　and

the　heavy　curtains；　all　affected　my　spirits。　　I　was　silent　and　sad

from　my　childhood。　　There　was　a　great　clock　tower　above；　from　which

the　hours　rang　dismally　during　the　day；　and　tolled　like　a　knell　in

the　dead　of　night。　　There　was　no　light　nor　life　in　the　house；　for

my　mother　was　a　helpless　invalid；　and　my　father　had　grown

melancholy　in　his　long　task　of　caring　for　her。　　He　was　a　thin；　dark

man；　with　sad　eyes；　kind；　I　think；　but　silent　and　unhappy。　　Next　to

my　mother；　I　believe　he　loved　me　better　than　anything　on　earth；　for

he　took　immense　pains　and　trouble　in　teaching　me；　and　what　he

taught　me　I　have　never　forgotten。　　Perhaps　it　was　his　only

amusement；　and　that　may　be　the　reason　why　I　had　no　nursery

governess　or　teacher　of　any　kind　while　he　lived。



I　used　to　be　taken　to　see　my　mother　every　day；　and　sometimes　twice

a　day；　for　an　hour　at　a　time。　　Then　I　sat　upon　a　little　stool　near

her　feet；　and　she　would　ask　me　what　I　had　been　doing；　and　what　I

wanted　to　do。　　I　dare　say　she　saw　already　the　seeds　of　a　profound

melancholy　in　my　nature；　for　she　looked　at　me　always　with　a　sad

smile；　and　kissed　me　with　a　sigh　when　I　was　taken　away。



One　night；　when　I　was　just　six　years　old；　I　lay　awake　in　the

nursery。　　The　door　was　not　quite　shut；　and　the　Welsh　nurse　was

sitting　sewing　in　the　next　room。　　Suddenly　I　heard　her　groan；　and

say　in　a　strange　voice；　〃Onetwoonetwo！〃　　I　was　frightened；

and　I　jumped　up　and　ran　to　the　door；　barefooted　as　I　was。



〃What　is　it；　Judith？〃　I　cried；　clinging　to　her　skirts。　　I　can

remember　the　look　in　her　strange　dark　eyes　as　she　answered：



〃Onetwo　leaden　coffins；　fallen　from　the　ceiling！〃　she　crooned；

working　herself　in　her　chair。　　〃Onetwoa　light　coffin　and　a

heavy　coffin；　falling　to　the　floor！〃



Then　she　seemed　to　notice　me；　and　she　took　me　back　to　bed　and　sang

me　to　sleep　with　a　queer　old　Welsh　song。



I　do　not　know　how　it　was；　but　the　impression　got　hold　of　me　that

she　had　meant　that　my　father　and　mother　were　going　to　die　very

soon。　　They　died　in　the　very　room　where　she　had　been　sitting　that

night。　　It　was　a　great　room；　my　day　nursery；　full　of　sun　when　there

was　any；　and　when　the　days　were　dark　it　was　the　most　cheerful　place

in　the　house。　　My　mother　grew　rapidly　worse；　and　I　was　transferred

to　another　part　of　the　building　to　make　place　for　her。　　They

thought　my　nurs