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Title: The barge of haunted lives
Author: J. Aubrey Tyson
Release date: February 7, 2026 [eBook #77879]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: The Macmillan Company, 1923
Credits: Tom Trussel, Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES ***
THE
BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES
[Illustration]
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS
ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO
MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED
LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO
THE
BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES
BY
J. AUBREY TYSON
AUTHOR OF “THE SCARLET TANAGER”
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1923
_All rights reserved_
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
COPYRIGHT, 1923,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and Electrotyped. Published, 1923.
FERRIS PRINTING COMPANY
NEW YORK
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A SALT MARSH ADVENTURE 3
II. AT DESTINY’S CROSSROADS 18
III. THE MYSTERY OF A DERELICT 35
IV. THE SHADOW OF NEMESIS 68
V. THE EYES OF RAJIID 112
VI. A WANDERER FROM ARABY 171
VII. THE IMAGE OF GOD 244
VIII. ON DESERT SANDS 260
IX. THE QUEST OF THE BEAUTIFUL 271
X. AT THE END OF A TRAIL 292
XI. “WHAT DREAMS MAY COME?” 306
XII. THE DRAINED GLASS 329
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES
CHAPTER I
A SALT MARSH ADVENTURE
For more than two hours, a solitary hunter, crouching in a reed-covered
sneak-boat that was drawn close to a muddy bank topped with coarse,
yellow grass, had been gazing moodily skyward or across the broad
expanse of gloomy marshes to the north of Great South Bay. Near him
a score of gray and black decoy ducks bobbed lightly on the chill,
drab waters of a wide creek, but their complacent attitudes thus far
had failed to inspire among vagrant wildfowl any desire to seek their
companionship.
The hunter was a thick-set, sullen-looking man, with a broad,
clean-shaven face and thick, curly gray hair. He had only one eye--a
greenish-yellow, searching left eye which often produced uncanny
effects on persons on whom it gazed. For five years it had been this
man’s wont to go down to Sellersville on the first day of November.
There he was known to Captain Peters, the boathouse-keeper, as Colonel
Canbeck. From Peters he hired a little sloop, with a rusty motor that
was barely powerful enough to drive the craft up and down the tidal
creeks, which, flowing through the monotonous expanse of salt meadows,
empty into Great South Bay.
The sloop had a closed cabin in which were a couple of bunks, a folding
table, several lockers and a stove. Canbeck’s shooting trips lasted
one week, and he always went on them alone, seldom getting more than
ten or twelve miles from the Peters boathouse. Upon arriving at the
shooting grounds, he would anchor the sloop, and for two or three days
at a time the little craft would remain at the same anchorage. Leaving
the sloop alone, Canbeck would paddle off in a sneak-boat, sometimes
a mile or two distant, and, after floating his decoys, he would sit
motionless for hours, within his screen of reeds, except when, fortune
favoring him, he was engaged in bringing down and gathering in such
wildfowl as exposed themselves to his unerring aim.
It was now a few minutes after four o’clock, and the gray sky and
lapping waters were growing more chill and dark. It was Canbeck’s first
day out this season, and since ten o’clock in the morning his gun had
been silent. With an exclamation of disgust, he deposited it in the
bottom of the boat and began preparations for his return to the sloop.
As the duckhunter, with reluctant hands, began to draw in one of
the strings to which his floating decoys were attached, he swept a
last questioning glance around him. Suddenly the expression of bored
resignation on his features gave place to one of mild interest.
Faintly, at first, but soon more distinctly, he heard the distant drone
of an airplane. For several moments his attempts to locate the plane
were vain; then he saw it--a small, black blot on the western sky.
Uncertain concerning the course it was taking, Canbeck reflected that
it probably was one of the machines attached to the Mineola flying
field and now was returning to its base.
But, as the drone became more viciously assertive, Canbeck observed
that the great, man-made hawk was speeding eastward, leaving Mineola
further and further behind it, following a course which would take
it directly over his head. As it drew nearer, however, it veered
suddenly, and Canbeck saw it was a seaplane, flying at a height of
about six hundred feet above creeks and meadows. Immediately after it
veered, it circled toward the west and mounted higher. After proceeding
about a mile in that direction, it turned again and headed eastward,
gliding lightly and gracefully downward, in the manner of an albatross
as it sinks to the surface of the sea.
As the high, muddy bank of the creek hid from his view the final stage
of the seaplane’s descent, Canbeck fell to speculating on the purpose
of the airman in bringing down his craft at such a time and place.
The creek in which he had spent the day emptied into the bay at a
point scarcely more than two hundred yards from where he now sat in
his sneak-boat, and it was apparent that it was just beyond the mouth
of the creek that the flying-boat had come to water. But from that
direction there now came no sound.
The impulse to seek some point from which the movements of the seaplane
might be viewed was so slight that Canbeck quickly smothered it.
He lighted his pipe, smoked reflectively for several minutes, then
addressed himself to the task of taking in his decoys. He was thus
engaged when a succession of clattering, explosive sounds, near the
mouth of the creek, indicated that the motors of the seaplane again
were in action.
Nearly three minutes passed, however, before the flying-boat became
visible to the eyes of the watching duckhunter. Now, once more clear of
the bay, it was headed seaward. Higher and higher it mounted toward the
darkening sky, then, turning, it took a westerly course.
Canbeck still was watching the retreating plane when his attention was
attracted by the quacking of frightened ducks. He promptly crouched,
picked up his gun and raised its muzzle. A few moments later he
discharged both barrels and three ducks, out of a flock of a dozen,
dropped into the stream. He was preparing to paddle out to gather in
the dead wildfowl when a quiet voice near him caused him to start and
turn abruptly.
“I beg your pardon, but will you tell me whether it will be possible
for me to get to a railway station to-night?”
The soft, well-modulated voice was that of a woman, who stood on the
bank near the sneak-boat. The duckhunter, frowning, looked at the
speaker with astonishment. Habitually morose, he had as little liking
for women as they had for him, but in the aspect of this one there was
something that fairly startled him. Had he seen her in a ballroom,
in the lobby of a hotel, behind the footlights of a stage or on the
deck of a transatlantic liner, she would have held his gaze for a few
moments, then he would have passed on, phlegmatically admitting to
himself that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but
would have given no more thought to her.
In this environment, however, the rare beauty of this stranger affected
him strangely, and the thrill that passed through him was of the sort
that may come to a man in the presence of the supernatural. He promptly
combated and conquered the awe with which she inspired him, but he
never could have described her. More soberly appraising her, Canbeck
saw the speaker was young, rather above the average height of her sex,
with a straight, admirably proportioned figure, a matchless complexion,
black hair and dark eyes that had the lustre of moonlighted waters. Her
hair was disordered, however, and her gray Tam-o’-Shanter was a little
askew. She wore a neatly fitting tailor-made gown of heavy gray cloth,
and the protection afforded by the jacket of this was supplemented by a
plaid golf cape. Her stockings and high shoes were spattered with mud.
For several moments the duckhunter stared vacantly at the young woman
who had hailed him. She repeated her question:
“Can you tell me if it will be possible for me to get to a railway
to-night?”
“How, in Heaven’s name, did you get out here?” Canbeck demanded.
“I came in the seaplane,” the young woman replied, and now there was a
note of sharpness in her voice.
The duckhunter, turning deliberately, gazed thoughtfully toward where
the flying-boat appeared to be scarcely larger than an eagle in the
distance.
“The devil you did!” he muttered; then, in a louder voice, he asked:
“Why did it leave you in such a place as this?”
“Frankly, I do not know. I was compelled to alight, however.”
“Compelled!” Canbeck exclaimed. “Am I to understand that you were left
here against your will?”
“It is scarcely such a place as a woman would select to pass the
night,” the fair stranger retorted, curtly.
“You are right,” the duckhunter assented. “But how did it happen that--”
“Pardon me if I remind you that I was the first to ask a question and
that it still is unanswered,” interrupted the young woman, with some
severity. “Will it be possible for me to get to a railway station at
which I can get a train for New York to-night?”
“I am very much afraid it will not be possible, madame,” Canbeck
replied, with rather more politeness in his manner than had been
apparent before. “It already is getting dark and the tide is ebbing.
The nearest railway station is at Sellersville, which, in a direct
line, is seven miles from here, but between the village and this spot
are several creeks, so the meadows cannot be crossed on foot. In order
to get there by my sloop we would have to leave this creek, go out
into the bay and enter a long, winding creek which only a native can
navigate after nightfall--a distance of about eleven miles. I am not a
Long Islander and so am not competent to undertake the task.”
The expression of distrust that had settled on the young woman’s
features gradually disappeared while the duckhunter was speaking. There
was something in the aspect and voice of the speaker which encouraged
the fair aeronaut in the belief that he was a man who could be trusted.
When she first had met the gaze of that single eye she had been
conscious of a feeling of creepiness and suddenly awakened fear. But,
as Canbeck spoke, he looked away from her. His voice was deep, clear
and deliberate, and, despite his rough garb, there was something in the
man that bespoke a certain degree of refinement. Being a young woman of
quick perception, the fair stranger also recognized the fact that this
man’s spirit of chivalry was rather more perfunctory than earnest--in
short, that his aid would be offered as a result of a sense of duty
rather than a sense of pleasure. She was only twenty-two and he was
well past fifty, but she involuntarily straightened her Tam-o’-Shanter
and glanced ruefully at the mud on her skirt and cape.
“Is that the boat to which you refer?” she asked, as Canbeck paused.
“Oh, bless you, no! This is only a sneaker. The boat I speak of is
that little sloop over yonder. There’s a cabin on her, with a couple
of bunks and a stove. The centerboard trunk divides the cabin, and
a piece of tarpaulin will make a couple of rooms of it, with a bunk
in each. I can get a hot supper, if you like, and you can turn in
afterward on your side of the tarpaulin and centerboard. As soon as the
sun is up I’ll get you to Sellersville.”
An expression of vexation settled on the young woman’s face and she
compressed her lips slightly.
“You have nothing to do, then, with the canal-boat?” she asked.
“With the canal-boat!” Canbeck repeated wonderingly.
“Yes--it is a canal-boat, isn’t it? Or is it a barge?”
“I am afraid I do not understand you,” replied the duckhunter.
The young woman frowned impatiently.
“I mean the boat that is lying in the other creek,” she said.
“I did not know that there was a boat of any kind in the other creek,”
Canbeck explained.
Once more the young woman was looking at him searchingly, and, as she
looked, distrust again entered her eyes.
“How long have you been here--here in this creek?” she asked.
“I entered it from the bay about seven o’clock this morning, but I saw
no boat in the other creek.”
She looked over her shoulder.
“True,” she said, “one cannot see it from here. It does not show above
the bank and the meadow grass. There is a canal-boat there, however,
and, while I was in that miserable seaplane I saw smoke issuing from
the stovepipe on the roof of the deckhouse.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the duckhunter, and the expression of relief on his
features was unmistakable. “Most canal-boats have the families of their
captains on board, so we may be able to find a woman on this, and a
woman doubtless can make you more comfortable than I can. We will see.”
“You will go with me?”
“Certainly--if you will permit me to do so. It is better, perhaps, that
you should not go alone.”
Canbeck drew in his decoys; then he paddled his boat to the bank.
“Shall I take your gun?” the young woman asked, as the duckhunter
prepared to disembark from his craft.
“If you will, please.”
The manner in which she took the weapon from his hand indicated that
firearms were not strange to her.
“The ducks you shot are drifting downstream,” she said, suggestively.
“I can spare them. I did pretty well this morning.”
Canbeck threw on the bank the big stone that did service as an anchor,
then, taking his gun from the small, gloved hands that held it, he led
the way over the spongy surface of the meadow toward the neighboring
creek.
As the young woman followed her conductor, she saw that his shoulders
were broad and square and that his thick-set figure was singularly
erect. Then, too, there was something in the precision of his steps
that suggested that there had been a period in his life during which he
had carried arms for purposes other than shooting ducks.
“An army man, and probably a West Pointer,” she murmured.
They had only about three hundred yards to go and the distance soon
was covered. When they arrived at the creek, the duckhunter saw that
the young woman had spoken truly. There was a long, broad, black barge
lying beside the bank of the creek--a creek scarcely more than three
times the width of the boat itself. From the stovepipe on the roof of
the deckhouse a thin cloud of smoke was issuing.
The port rail of the boat was against, and some three feet below, the
bank. The duckhunter stepped aboard, and, grasping a rough wooden
stool, he placed it in such a position that his companion could step on
it from the bank above. This done, he extended her a hand and helped
her aboard.
Without speaking, Canbeck led the way to the door of the deckhouse at
the stern. This was closed, and he knocked. To the knock there was no
reply. Canbeck grasped the knob and thrust the door open cautiously.
The duckhunter now found himself in a dingy, unpainted cabin which was
manifestly a storeroom. It was about twelve feet wide and fourteen
long, and was filled with barrels and wooden cases which, it was
plain, contained provisions. At the forward end appeared the head of a
companionway. To the left, rising from the floor to the roof, was the
pipe whose top had been seen from without.
“Queer barge--this!” he muttered. “They are doing their cooking below.”
He drew a thick, stubby wooden pipe from his pocket and with this
he rapped sharply several times on the door at the foot of the
companionway. This summons also failed to elicit an answer. Finding
that this door, too, was unlocked, Canbeck pushed it open. The fair
aeronaut, standing on the steps behind him, saw him stop suddenly as an
exclamation of amazement fell from his lips.
From the half-open door came a flood of mellow light and an odor which
was suggestive of that which permeates the atmosphere of cathedrals
after the celebration of a mass--the odor which emanates from swinging
censers borne by priests.
“You had better wait there,” said the duckhunter in a low voice, as,
moving back a step, he glanced over his shoulder at his companion.
But the aeronaut was a woman, and so it came to pass that when the
duckhunter, having entered the apartment, heard the door close behind
him with a soft click, he found his companion was beside him.
“Why did you not stay outside?” the duckhunter demanded sharply.
The young woman, looking around her with wide, staring eyes, gave no
heed to his question.
“In the name of all that is wonderful--” she began.
With a shrug of impatience, the duckhunter turned to the door and
grasped the knob.
“They’ve locked us in!” he muttered.
She heard him now.
“Locked us in!” she exclaimed with sudden apprehension. “Who do you
mean by ‘they’?”
“How should I know? But come--let’s get away from this door.”
Grasping the young woman roughly by one of her arms, Canbeck led her a
few paces to the left.
“Keep your back to this wall and your eyes on the curtains at the other
end of the room,” he cautioned in a low voice.
The first part of his advice she heeded, the second she ignored, for
the spectacle which now offered itself to her view was so extraordinary
that her curiosity exceeded her fears.
The apartment was about thirty-five feet in length, twenty in breadth
and ten in height. The walls were covered with rich crimson damask
and those on the sides were pierced by niches of polished black
wood--there being twelve niches in all. In each niche was a statue
wrought in gleaming white marble. Though these statues represented
different subjects, all possessed two remarkable features in common.
Each represented a human figure, which, like many of the sculptures
of Auguste Rodin, was only partly hewn from the rough block. In no
instance, however, was the face of the statue revealed, each being
hidden in a manner that differed from the others. The features of one
female figure were covered with the hands, while those of a second were
obscured by a veil. The form of a tense-muscled man appeared to be
struggling to free itself from the rough block from which it was hewn
with great perfection of detail, but the head, thrown backward, was
still a part of the block and only a few outlines of the face were even
faintly perceptible. Other faces were hidden by falling, dishevelled
hair, behind masks or within the closed visors of helmets.
At the further end of the apartment was a broad doorway which was
approached by three wide, carpet-covered steps. On each side of
these steps, on a low pedestal, was a full suit of armor. Each right
gauntlet grasped an upright lance and the raised visors of the helmets
revealed the hideous faces of grinning skulls. In the doorway hung a
pair of heavy velvet curtains of the same color as the damask-covered
walls, and, on each side of the doorway, niches in the wall held large
Etruscan vases. The apartment was lighted by numerous candelabra set in
the walls between the niches.
The floor was covered with a large Oriental rug of which the prevailing
colors were red, black and yellow. The carved ceiling was black, with
a curious mosaic centerpiece from which depended a heavy bronze chain
that sustained a large and elaborately wrought lamp of Arabesque
design. The lamp hung over the center of a table about ten feet long
and six feet wide--a table with appointments scarcely less remarkable
than the room in which it had a place. A snowy cloth, hanging low over
the sides and ends of this concealed its wood and carvings, but on the
cloth were crystal and gold and silverware befitting a feast of royalty.
The table was laid for ten persons, there being four chairs at each
side and one at each end. The chairs were of carved ebony, with arms,
the seats and backs being covered with heavy Japanese brocade of black
and gold. Other chairs of similar design stood against the wall, as did
also several ottomans that were covered with costly skins and rugs.
As the duckhunter, still grasping his fowling-piece and looking
around him, moved forward a couple of paces, he saw an upright
sarcophagus, with the cover removed. Within the sarcophagus was the
gilded cartonnage of a mummy, and the face painted on this was the
only representation of normal human features among the figures in the
room. The sarcophagus stood midway between two doors--one of these
being the door through which Canbeck and his companion had entered. The
duckhunter inferred that the second door communicated with the room
containing the stove from which rose the pipe that passed through the
deckhouse to its roof.
“What does it all mean?” asked the young woman, in a voice that was
scarcely louder than a whisper.
“It may mean much or little,” the duckhunter muttered. “No one but a
lunatic would fit up a barge like this and have it towed out here. If
there is only one of his class aboard we probably shall have little
difficulty in getting out, but--well, the table is laid for ten.”
The young woman, gazing around her with wondering eyes, murmured:
“It looks like some of those strange places--those cabarets in
Montmartre, in Paris--the Chat Noir, the House of Death and----”
“It will look many other things as well if I am compelled to let these
two barrels go,” growled the duckhunter, as, passing a hand under his
coat, he reached for a couple of “Double B” shells.
The words were scarcely spoken, however, when Canbeck and the young
woman started suddenly.
From the other end of the room came the sound of a low, chuckling
laugh. The curtains in the doorway shook for a moment, then they were
slowly thrust aside and the figure of a tall man in evening dress
appeared between them.
The hair of the newcomer was white, but his dark-skinned, clean-shaven
face was devoid of wrinkles, and his gray eyes were as clear and
shining as those of a youth. His head was admirably shaped, but was
scarcely as large as is usual in the case of men of such large stature.
His limbs were long, and he stooped slightly, but there was a grace and
courtliness in his bearing which indicated that he was as well endowed
with drawing-room accomplishments as he was with physical strength. As
he looked down now at the duckhunter, his thin lips were smiling. There
was a mocking, penetrating and unfathomable expression in his gray eyes.
“If you must shoot, my friend, let us have one barrel at a time,” he
said.
Thus speaking, he descended the three steps in front of the doorway.
Canbeck and his companion fairly gasped for breath. The man who
so suddenly had confronted them was a familiar figure on two
continents--in fashionable clubs, in boxes at the opera, at race
meetings, at public dinners and in the councils of princes of finance.
Neither of the persons whom he now was approaching had met him, but
his portrait had appeared so often in illustrated journals that his
features were as familiar to schoolboys throughout the land as was the
face of the nation’s President. In short, the newcomer was none other
than Hewitt Westfall, the multimillionaire.
Fixing his gaze on the duckhunter, Westfall, still smiling, added:
“We had been expecting you to dinner, Colonel Canbeck. I was only
awaiting the arrival of a boat, which should be here in a few minutes,
in order to visit you and ask you to join our party this evening. But,
thanks to the appearance of the seaplane and your gallantry, such a
visit has been made unnecessary.”
Frowning slightly, Canbeck regarded the speaker searchingly.
“You were expecting me to dinner--here--to-day?” he exclaimed
incredulously.
“Yes,” replied the millionaire, easily. “And the fact that you come as
escort to our guest of honor makes you doubly welcome.”
Nodding genially, Westfall now turned to Canbeck’s wondering companion.
“Your highness----” he began.
The young woman started violently, and, as the color left her features,
she gazed with widening, frightened eyes at the man who thus addressed
her.
“Highness!” she murmured in a low, trembling voice.
As if oblivious of the consternation with which he had inspired her,
Westfall approached, and, taking her hands, said gravely:
“And now, your highness, permit an honored and appreciative
host--Hewitt Westfall--to welcome the Princess Maranotti to the Barge
of Haunted Lives, on which it will be his pleasure to present to you
certain persons who have been victims of some of the most remarkable
misadventures that ever have fallen to the lot of men. Most of these
persons are unknown to you, and even they have yet to learn that their
strange lives have taken color from your own.”
A little cry of astonishment and pain escaped the young woman’s lips,
and there was a wild look in her eyes as, withdrawing her hands from
those of Westfall, she glanced furtively towards the door through which
she had entered the apartment. Westfall gently laid a hand on one of
her shoulders.
“Have no fear, your highness,” he said kindly. “Among the persons of
whom I have spoken there is none who willingly would cause you pain.
All are here in an attempt to lead you from that spectre-peopled wood
in which, for the last three years, you have been groping blindly. When
we are done, you will have no reason to reproach me for the visit I
have caused you to make to the Barge of Haunted Lives.”
CHAPTER II
AT DESTINY’S CROSSROADS
“And what is the Barge of Haunted Lives?” asked the duckhunter, sharply.
Westfall, looking thoughtfully at the floor, replied:
“Well, Canbeck, it’s the product of a hobby--the hobby of one who,
for many years, has found diversion in the study of the strange fates
that befall mankind. It is a vessel as clumsy, ugly and as helpless on
the waves as are the barks which bear most men on the stormy sea of
Destiny. It is moved from place to place by a tugboat--one of those
inconsequential craft, which, while unable to make long, stormy and
romantic voyages themselves, often are in a position to lend helping
hands to great vessels which can do these things if they only get into
proper channels. The tug gets them there, and, in this respect, I am a
great deal like the tug. When I find a brother craft, enveloped in a
fog and drifting toward the reef of error, I throw him a line and tow
him out. But I am no hypocrite, so I will confess that only a certain
class of sufferers finds it possible to excite my interest--the class
which consists of men and women of haunted lives.”
“Ah, I see,” exclaimed the duckhunter, moodily. “You find diversion in
the unravelling of other men’s mysteries.”
“No. I simply afford them certain facilities for unravelling such
mysteries themselves.”
“It’s a queer sort of place you give to them in which to do it,”
growled the duckhunter, looking around dubiously.
Westfall laughed quietly.
“It suffices,” he said, resignedly. “And, after all, it is doubtful
whether a more appropriate scene for such endeavors may be found.
Everything you see around you came here as a result of tales that have
been told beneath this roof.”
“Those statues without faces?” queried the duckhunter.
“Everything. I first saw this barge when I was summoned to it one night
to bid a last farewell to a man who, years before, had been one of my
most intimate friends. In consequence of an unfortunate act, he became
a fugitive--a pariah. When I reached his side he was dying--the worst
example of a haunted life I have ever known. In respect to his memory I
bought the barge and fitted it up as a place of refuge for persons who
might be fleeing from ghosts of their misdeeds or misfortunes. It has
had many interesting visitors, I assure you.”
His eyes had wandered to the aeronaut again, and, pausing in his
speech, he continued to gaze at her thoughtfully. Then, rousing himself
suddenly, he laid a hand on one of the shoulders of the duckhunter.
“And so, my dear Canbeck, you don’t like my statues,” he said.
The duckhunter shook his head.
“I’m no judge of art, I’m afraid,” he answered surlily.
“Well, some excellent judges have expressed rather favorable opinions
on these same marbles,” Westfall replied. “I had them from the sculptor
himself--a queer fellow, who was the victim of one of the strangest
misfortunes I ever have known. During the last five years of his life,
this man, who had attained many artistic triumphs before, dared not
carve a human face. In every block of marble there was a face that
haunted him, and, strive as he would, he could carve no other. It
mattered not whether his model was man or woman, maiden or boy, the
face that always haunted him invariably took form under his chisel. And
so, at last, it came to pass that he carved only such statues as you
see about you now.”
“What became of him?” the matter-of-fact duckhunter asked.
Westfall shrugged his shoulders slightly, and an enigmatical smile
played for a moment on his lips.
“It was from another guest of the Barge of Haunted Lives that I
obtained the two skulls which you see in these suits of armor,” he
went on. “The man was a Frenchman, and among his ancestors was one of
those vandals who, during the French Revolution, entered the church of
St. Denis and, opening the tombs of the old French kings, used royal
bones as playthings for a while, and then threw them into a ditch.
This ancestor preserved these skulls which, years before, had worn the
crown of France. One is said to be that of Henry of Navarre, and the
other that of Louis the XI. It was a strange fate that had awaited
them all those years, was it not? Above one of these skulls fluttered
the famous white plume that led the embattled Huguenots to victory at
Ivry. In the other were evolved designs almost Napoleonic in their
magnitude--designs that made France the greatest world power of that
period, and also caused the French capital to become the centre of the
intellectual life of Europe. The brain is gone, but the case belongs to
me. The memories of those days at St. Denis so haunted the descendant
of the vandal that, at last, in return for a small service, the last
of the unhappy race gave the two deathheads to me.”
The young woman was staring, with wide, horror-stricken eyes, at the
deathheads.
“But the armor--surely those suits did not belong--” Canbeck began.
“No,” said Westfall, “they were not worn by kings. There was a skeleton
in each when both were found walled up in a niche in an old English
castle that was said to have been haunted. The suits belonged to the
period of the fifth Henry.”
The single, searching eye of the duckhunter was gazing now at the
sarcophagus.
“That,” said Westfall, “contains the body of the Princess Tushepu, of
the Twentieth Dynasty, who died more than twelve hundred years before
Christ. It and the rug--but, enough of this. You will be here for two
or three days, and I will relate their stories when you have more
leisure to listen to them.”
“Two or three days!” exclaimed the duckhunter, scowling. “I’m afraid,
sir----”
“Possibly four,” added Westfall, thoughtfully.
And now the fair aeronaut spoke.
“You have said that it was your wish that I should meet at this table
certain persons in whose history I am especially interested,” she said.
“Might I ask you to tell me who these persons are?”
“They are those with whom some of the most important events of your
life are identified, your highness,” Westfall replied, respectfully.
“Singularly enough, however, you have met only three of them before.”
“But I must know the names of those three,” the young woman persisted,
as the millionaire paused.
“I beg of you to excuse me from revealing their names until you have
seen them.”
The young woman turned to the duckhunter.
“Am I right in assuming that I am under your protection, Colonel
Canbeck?” she asked.
“Perfectly,” replied the duckhunter, composedly.
“Then,” said the young woman, “I will ask you to take me from this
boat.”
The duckhunter turned to Westfall.
“You have my reason, sir, for now wishing you good-night,” he said
gravely.
Westfall, taking out his watch, glanced at it and laughed quietly.
“Not so fast--not so fast, Colonel,” he replied, easily. “If this lady
suspected how intimately you are related to her history, and the part
that you have played therein, you would be one of the last persons in
the world to whom she would go for protection.”
The face of the duckhunter grew pale with anger.
“Do you mean, sir, that I am not to be trusted--that I----”
“Oh, no, I do not mean that, but there is an episode in your life,
which, being of the greatest importance to her, it is best for her to
hear explained before she accepts any favor at your hands.”
“You are talking like a madman,” exclaimed the duckhunter, angrily.
“This lady and I never have met before, and there is nothing in my life
that possibly could have any effect on hers, or in her life that could
have affected mine. And, if there was, it would constitute no mystery
that would be an appropriate subject for one of your busybody councils
on this fool craft that you call the Barge of Haunted Lives.”
“You are sure, then, that you are not in that category--in short, that
the memory of no deed of yours has haunted you--that, when you sit out
yonder watching for wildfowl, it never enters your thoughts?” asked
Westfall.
An ashen pallor overspread the face of the duckhunter, and there was an
expression of apprehension in the eye that was turned to his questioner.
“No--unless----” he faltered.
Westfall nodded carelessly.
“Yes--that’s it,” he said.
With a low, half-smothered groan, Canbeck, still grasping his
fowling-piece, turned toward the door.
“Stop,” said the young woman, quietly.
The duckhunter halted, and, as he hesitated, the fair aeronaut saw that
his head was bowed and that there was a strange, dull glare in the eye
which gazed at the floor.
“You are fortunate, Colonel Canbeck, for it would seem that from your
past there comes only one spectre to haunt you,” the young woman went
on. “I am less favored, for I am the victim of many. For months I
have been trying to evade them, but they follow me everywhere. Thus
far, however, I have been able to identify all, but now Mr. Westfall,
apparently interesting himself in my unfortunate history, seems to have
found another one. Pray let him explain to us why it is that you and I,
who have never met before, must regard each other as enemies.”
“Come, come, let us all understand one another better,” said Westfall,
with some impatience. “As you see, the table has been laid for ten. An
hour hence eight men--including you, Canbeck--will sit down together.
The ninth place, which, from the first, was intended for you, Madame,
will remain vacant until the meal is finished. Then, you, madame,
having been served elsewhere, and veiled in such a manner that you
will not be recognized, will enter this room and take the seat reserved
for you.
“Of the men present I will be the only one who is not personally
identified with your strange history, and among the others there are
only two who have met before to-day. Your extraordinary misfortunes
are known to me, and during the nights which these men will spend on
this barge, each of them will tell a story. Some of these stories will
be scarcely less wonderful than those said to have been related by
Scheherezade to the Sultan of the Indies, but you will find that all
their adventures have direct connection with your own.”
“In this room I have heard many remarkable narratives and the analogy
of some of them to the stories told by Scheherezade has led me to call
them my American Nights Entertainments, but I may safely say that
the series which will begin to-night promises to be by far the most
wonderful of all, for a remarkable fatality seems to have invested with
an almost independent interest all the persons who, either directly or
indirectly, have had to do with those concerned with the mystery of the
Rajiid Buddha.”
The young woman gave utterance to a little cry, and exclaimed:
“The Rajiid Buddha! In Heaven’s name is that the man--the man who----”
She paused suddenly and darted a quick, searching glance toward Canbeck.
“I know nothing of a Rajiid Buddha,” the duckhunter explained.
“But you have been in India?” the young woman asked, with feverish
haste.
“Never, madame--never in my life,” the duckhunter answered gravely.
“Colonel Canbeck knows even less of the Rajiid adventure than you do,
madame,” Westfall explained.
“But you--you do know something of it, then?” the fair aeronaut asked,
and, as she spoke, her color came and went.
“The narrative of that adventure is one of those which will be
recounted to you, if you will consent to occupy the place which has
been provided for you at the table to-night,” Westfall answered. “I
can promise you that you will find the other narratives quite as
interesting.”
“I will stay,” the fair aeronaut murmured faintly.
“And you, Colonel?” queried Westfall, addressing the duckhunter.
“It is quite unnecessary,” said Canbeck in a low, uncertain voice.
“On the contrary, the story that you have to tell is one of the most
important of all, for, loth as you may be to tell it, its narration has
much to do toward defining this lady’s future position in the world.
You will, of course, exercise your own judgment in the matter. When,
however, you have heard something of the history of the principals
in this extraordinary affair, you will appreciate how much depends
on a revelation of the facts which are in your possession. You will
require no one then to urge you to speak. Until you make yourself known
voluntarily, no one will suspect your secret, and I think I may assure
you that, when you have told your story, the face that has haunted you
will trouble you no more.”
Canbeck shrugged his shoulders resignedly.
“Well, have it so then,” he muttered. Then, after a pause, he added:
“But, since you find it so easy to invite the confidence of others,
perhaps you will not mind telling us how you found me out--how it comes
to pass that this theatrical-looking barge of yours attracts to it so
many men and women of haunted lives who are willing to tell you their
troubles for your diversion.”
“They do not come here until I send for them, my dear Colonel,”
Westfall answered, calmly. “As I have told you, persons of this sort
always have interested me, but of this interest they are not aware
until I tell them of it. My hobby is known, however, to several
noted alienists, wardens of penitentiaries, and to city and private
detectives in this country and abroad. From these, from time to time,
I receive reports of strange cases to which their attention has been
directed. When one of these cases excites my interest, I get the
principals down to the Barge of Haunted Lives and, after listening
to their stories, I do all that lies within my power to aid the
unfortunate narrators. In this manner the expenses incident to the
clearing up of mysteries have constituted the price I pay for a form of
diversion which harms no man who yields it to me. In these matters my
curiosity is never idle, but I never betray confidence, even though the
man from whom I win it is a hardened, death-deserving criminal.”
“Humph!” Canbeck muttered. “Well, you’ve run me down, and that proves
your ability so far as others are concerned, I suppose. But why have
you had your barge towed away out here to this forsaken place?”
“Owing to the number of my guests, and certain perils which threaten
some of them, I thought it best to keep as well away from the city
as possible while they should be aboard,” Westfall explained. “While
I was still undecided as to where I should send the barge, I learned
that you, one of the men I sought, had arranged to come down here on
your annual visit to the shooting grounds. Accordingly, I had the
barge towed in here last night. The tug that brought it was out of
Great South Bay by dawn, so you did not see it when you came out from
Sellersville this morning.”
“Well, these shooting things are all I have to wear out here,” said
Canbeck, apologetically.
“More conventional garments await you in the room which has been
appropriated to your use,” replied Westfall, laughingly.
As he spoke, the millionaire crossed to one of the walls and pressed an
electric button. In response to the summons a young man in brown livery
appeared between the curtain under which Westfall had entered the room.
“Driggs, take the Duckhunter to his quarters, and bid Harvette report
to this lady,” said Westfall. Then turning to Canbeck, he added
smilingly: “It is a custom on this barge to give no guest a name in the
presence of others until such a time as it may please him to reveal
it himself. For this reason, each bears a title that is suggested
either by his story or some personal characteristic. Accordingly, while
you are known as the Duckhunter, the identity of this lady will be
protected by the sobriquet of the Veiled Aeronaut. Among the guests
whom you will meet will be the Whispering Gentleman, the Nervous
Physician, the Homicidal Professor and the Hypochondriacal Painter.
Each you see is----”
“And you tell me that the persons who have suggested these horrible
designations have, unknown to me, played important parts in the
miserable drama of my life?” demanded the aeronaut, breathlessly.
“Yes,” Westfall replied, “and, since these appellations have alarmed
you, perhaps it is better that I should not name the others, but I
assure you that there is not one among them who bears you any ill will.”
“Who is this Harvette you are sending to me?” asked the young woman,
suspiciously.
“A middle-aged Frenchwoman, who, being on the barge for such
emergencies as this, will be wholly at your service, madame, while you
are aboard.”
Canbeck, following Driggs, the liveried servant, bowed gravely to the
aeronaut and then disappeared behind the curtains. A few moments later
a pleasant-faced, matronly woman, clad in black, appeared and led the
young woman to a dainty little stateroom which was so well appointed
that, despite her forebodings of evil, the visitor was conscious of a
thrill of satisfaction. This, at least, was a happier fate than had
been indicated while she was confronted by the prospect of a bunk in
the Duckhunter’s disreputable-looking sloop.
When Canbeck returned to the saloon in which he first had encountered
Westfall, a marvellous change in his appearance had been effected.
Shaved, attired in evening dress and with carefully brushed hair,
he bore himself as easily as Westfall, and had the aspect of a
well-groomed man of the world. But the gloom that had settled on his
face nearly an hour before was not to be dissipated by the cheerful
greeting of his host.
“Well, Colonel, my yacht is in the bay, and one of her boats has just
brought the other members of our company aboard the barge,” Westfall
said. “They will be in presently, and dinner soon will be served.”
Passing a hand nervously over his face, the Duckhunter nodded, but made
no verbal reply.
They had not long to wait, for soon the sounds of subdued voices were
heard outside the curtains, and Canbeck’s single, greenish-yellow eye,
became suggestive of a searchlight.
“There will be no introductions,” said Westfall, speaking quietly. “I
will indicate our friends as they come in, however.”
Between the curtains there now appeared a figure that caused the
Duckhunter, strong-nerved as he was, to stiffen suddenly and contract
his brows. It was the figure of an admirably proportioned man, a little
under six feet in height. He carried himself gracefully, but his face
seemed to constitute a veritable caricature of human physiognomy.
Though his head was well-shaped, his features were so strikingly
demoniacal that it was impossible to look upon them without sensations
of horror and fear. The lean, triangular face was partly covered by
a close-cropped, double-pointed beard which, with a small moustache,
failed to disguise the effects produced on the visage by a wide,
high-cornered, pointed-lipped mouth, which, even in repose, constantly
was expressive of sardonic humor. In singular contrast with this
expression was one of suppressed pain which, burning in his large, dark
eyes, seemed ever to belie the sinister and unearthly smile that was
always present on his lips. Though this singular guest appeared to be
no more than thirty or thirty-two years of age, his thick, rebellious
black hair was well sprinkled with gray.
“The Sentimental Gargoyle--with the Fugitive Bridegroom just behind
him,” said Westfall, explanatorily.
As the Gargoyle descended the steps and the guest behind him stood
revealed, the Duckhunter saw a man, apparently about thirty-five years
old, whose appearance offered a striking contrast with that of the
guest who preceded him. Tall, and distinctly handsome, his thoughtful
features bespoke a mind ill at ease. His brow was contracted, and he
flashed toward the Duckhunter a stern, challenging glance which caused
Canbeck to believe that the newcomer suspected him of being an enemy.
“The Nervous Physician,” said Westfall, as a short, thick-set,
gray-bearded man, with a quick, fidgety manner, came down the steps.
“The Hypochondriacal Painter and the Whispering Gentleman,” Westfall
went on.
The first mentioned of these was a tall, emaciated man, past the prime
of life, with long, patriarchal white hair and beard. His brow was
high and unwrinkled, but on it, and in the large dark eyes below, was
an expression of the most profound melancholy that the Duckhunter ever
had seen on a human face. Beside the Hypochondriacal Painter walked a
man of medium height, with white hair and furtive gray eyes. The skin
of his hands and clean-shaven face had a peculiar copper-colored hue.
He glanced sharply at the Duckhunter to whom he nodded curtly, then,
having traversed the full length of the apartment with quick, nervous
steps, he drew out a pair of eyeglasses and, holding these to his nose,
he calmly proceeded to study the hieroglyphics which were inscribed on
the cartonnage covering the body of the Egyptian princess.
“The Homicidal Professor,” Westfall whispered.
The Duckhunter, whose eye had been following the movements of the
Whispering Gentleman, again turned toward the curtained doorway through
which a stalwart-looking man, about thirty years of age, was passing.
In the dark, brooding face and small, curled moustache of the newcomer
there was something which caused the Duckhunter to suspect that he was
either a Greek or an Italian. The low, deferential bow with which he
saluted the host seemed to confirm this suspicion.
All the guests were attired in full evening dress, and, with the single
exception of the Whispering Gentleman, all appeared to be too much
engrossed in serious reflections to manifest any interest in their
extraordinary environment.
“Well, gentlemen, shall we be seated?” asked Westfall, cheerfully.
“Are we all here?” asked the Whispering Gentleman, in a loud, hoarse
whisper.
“There are two absentees, but these will not join us until the meal
is finished,” Westfall explained, as he moved toward the head of the
table. “Of these, one will occupy the seat at the foot of the table and
the other will be on my right. A card at each plate will enable each of
you to find the place to which I have taken the liberty of assigning
you.”
All then seated themselves and, while they were being served by
Driggs, their host made several attempts to interest his guests in
topics suggested by the news of the day. These efforts met with scant
encouragement, however. The Nervous Physician and the Whispering
Gentleman were the only persons to respond, the others being so
occupied with their thoughts and the dishes set before them as to be
oblivious to all else.
At length the cigars were reached, and Driggs proceeded to remove the
last of the dishes. Then Westfall said:
“Gentlemen, though the eighth member of our company, who is about to
join us, is a member of the other sex, she has assured me that our
cigars will not be offensive to her, so you are at perfect liberty to
retain them. Driggs, ask the Veiled Aeronaut if she is prepared to join
us now.”
“The Veiled Aeronaut!” exclaimed the Gargoyle, starting.
Westfall frowned, as he went on:
“That is the name by which the eighth guest will be known to you, and
our friend’s exclamation seems to make it necessary for me to repeat
what I said when you arrived at the Barge. Neither by word nor by sign
must any of us interrupt a speaker in the course of his narrative, nor,
during the hours that intervene between our sessions, are we to discuss
with one another the subjects which have to do with the histories that
you have come here to relate. This is now thoroughly understood, I
believe.”
The silence that followed remained unbroken for several moments, then
Westfall, who had turned towards the doorway, rose gravely.
“My friends,” he said, “the Veiled Aeronaut is now a member of our
company.”
Following the example of their host, the seven guests rose, and it
would have been difficult to tell whether their action had been
inspired by amazement or a sense of chivalry. In the doorway stood one
of the most extraordinary figures they ever had seen. Apparently it was
the figure of a woman, for the garments were feminine. Through the open
front of a long, hanging-sleeved robe of gold and black brocade were
visible a red silk waist and skirt. The head was enveloped in a heavy
white veil which, falling to the shoulders of the wearer, completely
concealed not only her features but the outlines of her head.
For several moments the strange figure paused between the curtains.
Then those who watched it curiously saw it sway and move as if it were
about to retreat. Westfall, stepping quickly toward the veiled woman,
offered her his arm. After a little further hesitation she accepted
it, and permitted her host to lead her to the further end of the table
where she sank listlessly into the chair that Driggs drew back for her.
Exchanging covert, wondering glances, the other guests reseated
themselves. Westfall, standing at the head of the table, addressed them.
“My friends,” he said, “my purpose in causing you to assemble here
has been to solve the mystery of a single life, but, in attempting
to effect this solution, I have discovered that, supplementary to
that mystery there are others in which each of you is individually
interested. Into the greater mystery these individual adventures merge
like streams in confluence with a mighty river. All become one at last.
“In the course of my inquiries into the subject of haunted lives, I
learned, a few months ago, of the case of a bridegroom who, on the
very day of his wedding, became a fugitive under most extraordinary
circumstances. A secret investigation of this case led me through many
strange fields to some of the most remarkable men I have ever known.
With one exception, all these men are here, and though, looking around
you, my friends, most of you see no face, except my own, that you can
recollect having seen before you met to-day, all of you have been
working out a common destiny. Even now, as I say this, you look at me
incredulously.
“The impression that I am exaggerating may be strengthened at first,
perhaps, by the fact that the scenes of the first two tales are so
far apart, and the characters so vastly different. However, it soon
will be demonstrated that they bear the most intimate relationship. As
we proceed, you will observe that the interest of all the adventures
which will be described to you will focus on a single object. In the
mysterious chain that has excited my wonder every link is a haunted
life, and, as the adventure of the Fugitive Bridegroom constitutes the
first link I found, it properly will be the first to be submitted to
your attention. With your permission, therefore, he will relate it to
you now.”
As he finished speaking, Westfall bowed gravely toward the Fugitive
Bridegroom, who, leaning with crossed arms on the table, forthwith
began his narrative.
CHAPTER III
THE MYSTERY OF A DERELICT
In describing the events which, in the course of only a few months,
have transformed me from a care-free and prosperous young man of the
world into a miserable creature whose very soul is pursued by the
hounds of fear, I am now, for the first time, taking others into my
confidence. Nor would I, even now, reveal the nature of my terrible
adventures were it not for the feeble hope that among persons to whom
my recital will be addressed there may be one who will aid me in my
efforts to put to flight the spectres which, having mocked all my
reasoning faculties, have confronted me with one of the most terrifying
aspects of Fatality.
All men are more or less prone to superstition, and, being only an
average man, I never have been entirely free from superstitious
fancies. While I never refused to sit down to a table that was laid
for thirteen guests, I never did so without misgivings and secretly
reproaching my host for his lack of thoughtfulness. Like Dickens,
I always felt more comfortable when I saw a new moon over my right
shoulder than I would have been had it appeared over my left.
Instinctively I avoided walking under a ladder, and I was loath to
embark on a new business venture on a Friday. But I may say truthfully
that such fancies were only half-defined and I was inclined to mock
them.
I mention this fact because I want to make it clear that, despite the
earlier impressions made upon my mind by my misadventures, I have
attempted conscientiously to convince myself that my experiences were
the results of natural, rather than supernatural, causes. In the end I
have succeeded, but this conviction, so far from affording me relief,
has rendered me more miserable than I would be were I satisfied that
the causes were of a supernatural character.
My inclination to take a superstitious view of the incidents I am about
to describe was due, I think, to the fact that they had to do with the
sea. However strong may be a landsman’s powers of analysis, awe clouds
his faculties when he is called upon to fathom the mysteries of the
ocean. He may see, but he cannot understand. He may recount, but it is
beyond his power to explain. Natural phenomena which he contemplates on
land may result in transient sensations of wonder or alarm, but when he
encounters them upon the surging billows above the wreck-strewn floor
of the sea his fears rise to the call of abnormal fancies. Bewildered
by marvelous effects, he is prone to regard them as supernatural,
rather than as the simple working of atmospheric and submarine forces.
The son of a man of moderate wealth, I am a native of Philadelphia,
and am now thirty years of age. My father died shortly before I took
my degree at Harvard, and thus, when I was twenty-two years old, I
found myself with an excellent education and a fortune that amounted
to several hundred thousand dollars. Business interests, as well as
social inclinations, eventually caused me to become a resident of New
York City. There I joined several clubs and soon numbered among my
acquaintances many well-known members of society. I remained unmarried,
however, and most of my leisure was spent in the company of men who,
like myself, were free from domestic ties.
Among my friends there was none with whom I enjoyed closer relations
than those which characterized my friendship with Arthur Tallier, a
prosperous broker and an enthusiastic yachtsman, who had been one of
my classmates at Harvard. When, therefore, he proposed a cruise to the
Mediterranean and asked me to be one of the party I gladly accepted
his invitation and so arranged my business affairs that I might spend
several months abroad.
Arrangements for the cruise soon were completed, and one sultry August
morning Tallier’s steam yacht, the _Powhatan_, with a congenial company
aboard, put to sea.
For two days all went well, but on the morning of the third the
_Powhatan_ ran into a dense fog. This lifted a bit in the afternoon,
but as evening approached it became almost impenetrable and a light
rain began to fall. Soon after dinner most of the members of the party
went to the smoking-room to play bridge. Having spent most of the day
inside, however, and believing a little exercise would be conducive to
a restful night, I donned my raincoat, and, accompanied by a physician
who was one of Tallier’s guests, went for a stroll on deck.
The sea was calm and a light rain was falling. Inasmuch as we were
in one of the steamship lanes, the yacht, proceeding blindly through
darkness and fog, sounded her siren every few minutes. These blasts
elicited no response. Apparently no other vessel was within the compass
of their warning notes.
After a brisk walk on the wet deck for about fifteen minutes, my
companion and I, having had enough of the drizzly atmosphere,
stepped into the wheelhouse. The captain was at the wheel, but was
so strangely sullen that we soon abandoned our attempts to draw him
into conversation. At length the doctor suggested that we join our
fellow-voyagers in the smoking-room. I assented, and we bade our
inhospitable captain good-night.
I had just opened the door of the wheelhouse, preparatory to stepping
down to the deck, when a terrific, crashing shock brought the yacht
to a standstill so suddenly that I lost my footing at the top of the
wheelhouse steps. Falling, I grabbed a brass rail, but some unseen
power seemed to wrench me loose and fling me to the deck.
I tried to rise, but the effort was vain. As, succumbing to a great
numbness, I sank back weakly, I seemed to be lying on a white-padded
floor, with a cluster of arc lights dazzling my eyes with their glare.
Hoarse shouts of men and shrill cries of women filled the air as
over me bent a shirt-sleeved man, calling off seconds, as I had seen
referees do over men who had been knocked down in boxing contests.
Then a great chill came over me, and, with it, a sense of
strangulation. As I choked, a roaring filled my ears, but the sound
no longer was that made by the voices of men and women. There
now flashed into my mind a realization of the fact that I was in
water--sinking--that I must struggle for my life. At last my head
reached air. I freed my nose and mouth of water, and breathed again.
With breath came thought--and horror.
In the darkest night I ever had seen I was swimming alone--in the open
sea!
Dazed by the inexplicable nature of the accident that had befallen
me, I thought slowly. My first impression was that I was the victim
of a nightmare, but this passed quickly. Then it occurred to me that,
despite the calmness of the sea before and after the occurrence that
was responsible for my plight, the _Powhatan_ had been overwhelmed by
a tidal wave, and, still afloat, perhaps, was within range of my voice.
Scarcely had this hope flashed into my mind when I began to call for
aid.
The great conglomerate of fog and darkness and pattering rain smothered
my hollow shouts. As I listened vainly for a response, despair gripped
my heart and throat until they swelled with pain. But, mechanically and
aimlessly, I swam on.
Stricken with some malady or with a mortal wound, nearly every man,
whether strong or weak, meets death with fortitude. Physically and
mentally sound, he may advance intrepidly toward a flashing battle
line, walk with firm steps to the place of his military or civil
execution, or, weary of earth, end his life with his own hand. In such
situations death comes with the fulfilment of a purpose--surcease
of suffering, the expression of loyalty or self-invited capital
punishment. But when a strong man, free from mental and physical
infirmity, is brought face to face with death in a situation such as
the one which confronted me the most terrible degree of mental torture
is likely to precede the flight of his soul.
Though I may say truthfully that I had no fear of death itself, it
still is true that the association of my physical strength and utter
helplessness produced in my mind an anguish that is indescribable. I
felt as if I were to be my own executioner--that, in order to sink to
asphyxiation and death, it first would be necessary for me to exhaust
deliberately the physical vigor with which nature and my inclination
toward athletic exercises had endowed me.
So broad and unruffled were the great, gently heaving sea-swells that
I was scarcely sensible of their rise and fall. The water which had
chilled me a bit when I was first immersed, now seemed of Gulf Stream
warmth. When I had entered the _Powhatan’s_ wheelhouse I was perspiring
as a result of the briskness of my walk on the deck. Accordingly I
removed the raincoat I had been wearing. Leaving the wheelhouse, I
had thrown the coat loosely over my shoulders, and when I fell it had
slipped from me. So light and loose-fitting were the coat and trousers
I wore that they hampered my movements as little as did the tennis
shoes on my feet.
Swimming as easily as I often had done at Newport and Palm Beach, I
tried to meet with resignation the fate that seemed inevitable. But the
effort was vain. Every impulse that came to me, every fibre of my being
was in revolt against that God who had condemned me to such a death.
How long I endured this mental torment I do not know, but its end came
suddenly. In a moment all my senses were alert, and I was listening
for a repetition of a sound that was of neither rain nor sea. It soon
came to me again--a faint, creaking and grinding sound that bore some
resemblance to those made by a big vessel, which, heaved by large
swells, strains at its hawsers and grates against its pier. Scarcely
had I begun to speculate on the nature of this sound when I became
aware that the air was permeated by something stronger than brine. It
was the acrid odor of burnt wood.
Again the blood was throbbing in my temples, and the abrupt reaction
from despair to hope produced a feeling of suffocation. So great was
my agitation that my hearing was dulled, and for several moments I
listened vainly for the sounds that had so affected me. When I heard
them again I began to think more calmly, then realized how necessary
it was that I should proceed with the greatest caution. A continuance
of my ability to hear the sounds might mean life to me. Should they
cease, death was inevitable. By swimming only a few strokes in the
wrong direction I might be unable to hear them again.
So impressed was I by the fear that I might lose my sense of direction
that I restrained the impulse to shout for aid. Careful to keep my ears
free from water, I now, for the first time, began to put power into my
strokes. Soon the creaking and grinding and clanking grew louder. That
the sounds emanated from some vessel was obvious. Fearful lest it might
run me down or pass me, I ceased to press on and shouted with all the
power of which my lungs were capable, but there came no answering hail.
Once more I swam on. But now, as I proceeded, I exercised the greatest
caution. Certain minor sounds, mingling with those I heard first,
plainly indicated that I was within a few yards of my objective. That
its motive power was idle was plain. So close was I to the vessel now
that, had there been lights aboard, I scarcely could have failed to
see something of their glow. The thought came to me that maybe, after
all, this was the _Powhatan_, so crippled by the shock it had sustained
that its light-generating apparatus had been made useless. Again I
shouted--now calling the names of some of my late companions. But there
came no answer.
The last of my cries ended abruptly. My right hand, extended in
a swimming movement, came in contact with something of rock-like
solidity. Half-fearfully, I drew back, and the blood leaped in my
veins; then, breathlessly, I struck out to find the rock-like thing
again. The effort was successful. In a few moments I was passing one of
my hands over a row of rivet heads, set in the steel side of a vessel.
But the thrill of exultation that followed my discovery scarcely was
gone before the old feeling of helplessness again settled upon me. My
failure to obtain an answer to my shouts, the absence of lights, the
motionless screw and the heavy, oppressive odor of burnt wood made the
situation clear.
I was swimming beside the fire-scarred hulk of a derelict, and into my
mind flashed the suspicion that it was with this the _Powhatan_ had
been in collision--that this great worthless steel mass had survived
the shock that sent the more lightly built steam yacht to the sea’s
bottom.
Perhaps, even now, the derelict, itself, was sinking, and in a few
minutes I might be drawn down by the suction of the waters as they
closed over her. But this reflection did not inspire me with fear. It
occurred to me that should the vessel go down, I, escaping the suction,
might be able to find lodgment on some piece of charred wreckage left
on the surface of the sea.
Gradually this series of speculations ceased to engage my mind, which
became dominated by the hope that I might find some means of getting
aboard the vessel. This, at least, being in a steamship lane, might be
observed in a few hours by some liner. If I could find some means of
keeping afloat until after daybreak my rescue still was possible.
And now a new inspiration came to me. I reflected that, lightened by
the burning of woodwork and cargo, the derelict probably was drawing
much less water than she had done before and that, as a result of
the lowering of her waterline, her rudder or screw might afford me a
temporary resting place. Accordingly I struck out in a direction which,
I thought, might take me to the stern.
Swimming slowly along the hull, I had progressed only ten or twelve
yards when my head and one of my shoulders came into contact with
something that produced upon me the effect of an unseen, reaching hand.
Though startled, I clutched at it wildly. I missed it, at first, but in
another moment it was in my grasp--a rope which depended from something
above me.
Hope flashed like lightning, but my senses were benumbed by the
rumbling of the thunder of despair. Cowardice set me trembling. I dared
not test the strength of the rope that seemed to have been lowered to
me from the skies. Was the upper end made fast, or was it lying loose?
How was it possible that hempen strands could survive the heat of the
fire that had swept the vessel?
In a few moments, however, I nerved myself for the ordeal. Reaching
well up, I grasped the rope firmly and threw my weight upon it. It met
the test.
In my boyhood I had climbed ropes in this fashion, and I soon found
I had not lost the knack. With less physical strain than I had
anticipated, I moved up evenly, hand over hand, until the rope ended in
the blockless iron ring of a davit. I was beginning to breathe heavily,
however, as I swung myself astride of the davit, and slipped cautiously
to the vessel’s side.
Clinging to the davit and the metalwork to which it was affixed, I
tried to estimate the character of the footing immediately around it.
I found all wood had been burned away and that I stood on the verge of
what appeared to be a great void. Below I heard the swish of shifting
waters and the creaking of iron as the vessel rolled from side to side
on the swells.
The metalwork around the foot of the davit was of a nature that
afforded me a safe, if not comfortable, perch for the night, and so,
after removing my dripping coat and my soaked shoes, I seated myself
and proceeded to await the coming of dawn.
When day broke, a dismal prospect met my view. With the exception of
part of the deck in the stern and a small stern deckhouse, the interior
of the vessel had been so ravaged by fire that the structure now was
scarcely more than an immense floating iron tank. The cross-beams,
reddish and gray, remained in position. Between them, piled upon them
or swinging beneath them were great tangled masses of grotesquely
twisted steel and fragments of blackened wood. These, grating together
as the big hulk lolled on the swells, produced the sounds that first
had attracted my attention.
The position in which I now found myself was on the starboard side,
well aft, but still about thirty feet from that part of the stern deck
that was only partly destroyed. Working my way carefully along the side
of the hulk, I had comparatively little difficulty in getting to the
stern deck. This, despite its blackened appearance, I found capable of
sustaining my weight, and over it I made my way to the deckhouse.
By what freakish combination of circumstances the complete destruction
of this deckhouse had been arrested it would be difficult to explain.
Though charred inside and out, the walls and roof still remained in
position, and within were a table and four chairs, all partly burned.
Subsequent speculations on the subject inclined me to the belief
that it was here the fire had its origin, and that while the crew
was fighting it at this point it had swept forward where it raged
unchecked. The drenching to which the deckhouse had been subjected,
before the crew fled from the vessel, doubtless had been sufficient to
enable this part of the structure to withstand the heat to which it
afterward was exposed.
A warm sun contributed in no small degree to my comfort during the
day and enabled me to dry my wet garments, but by noon an intolerable
thirst began to assert itself. It then occurred to me that, as it had
rained the night before, I might obtain fresh water from depressions
in the steel structural work. I found a dilapidated pan, and, after
considerable labor, I collected enough water to last me for at least
forty-eight hours.
There was something so miraculous in the manner I had been able to
board the derelict that, for several hours, I did not doubt that
eventually I would be taken off by a passing vessel. Firm in my faith,
I was depressed only by the magnitude of the disaster that had come to
my friends on the _Powhatan_, for that the yacht had gone down I did
not doubt. But, as hour after hour passed, my failure to see even the
smoke of a passing vessel again unnerved me. Had I escaped death from
the waves only to perish of hunger and thirst on a charred derelict?
By nightfall my head was aching as a result of hunger, the glare of the
sun on the sea and the overpowering odor of burned timbers. For several
hours longer I looked over the star-reflecting waters for the lights of
some passing liner, which, though it could not see my signals, still
would give me assurance that the derelict was in a steamship lane. But
I saw none, and, worn with fatigue and despondency, I stretched myself
on the charred floor of the deckhouse and slept.
I was awake at sunrise, and resumed my vigil. And now the monotony of
it all began to have a strange effect on my mind. It was difficult for
me to keep my thoughts out of ruts. The dominant subject in my mind was
the rope by means of which I had boarded the derelict. Why had it not
been destroyed by the fire which swept the vessel? Why was it tied in
that fashion to the davit ring, instead of passing through a block?
So engrossed did I become in such speculation that once I worked my way
back to the davit and there proceeded to subject the rope to a careful
examination. It was plain that it had not even been singed. The thought
then came to me that, following the fire, the derelict had been boarded
by members of the crew of some passing ship. I realized it would be
possible for sailors in a small boat to get a light line over some
projection above them, draw up a rope and board the hulk. In such a
case, it was possible that, making a descent by means of the davit, the
last one down had left the line in the position in which I had found it.
But even the partial acceptance of this theory did not enable me to get
my thoughts out of the rut for which the rope was responsible. Try as I
might, I could think of nothing but the rope.
Brain-weary and suffering from the pangs of hunger, I was watching
the sun go down at the close of my second day on the derelict when
my attention was suddenly attracted by something which darted by
me--something that seemed to be a black bird, a little smaller than a
robin. But, as it wheeled and circled above me, I finally identified it.
It was a bat.
As I watched the thing, it darted toward the forward part of the
derelict and disappeared.
So little impression did the incident make upon me, at first, that, for
the next two hours, it had no place in my thoughts. It was not until,
with my folded coat for a pillow, I had stretched myself again on the
floor of the deckhouse that the ill-omened creature fluttered into my
mind in a manner that was productive of a sudden mental shock.
For hours my disordered fancy had been occupied with an attempt to
solve the mystery of the unsinged rope. But here was a mystery that was
still more baffling. Assuming that the loathsome thing had been on the
vessel prior to the fire, how had it contrived to survive the period in
which the burning hulk was enveloped in flames and smoke? It had been
my understanding that the flights of bats were of comparatively brief
duration. Where had this found lodgment while the fire was raging?
Had it clung to some piece of wreckage it found floating on the sea?
Or had it hung or lain in the charred deckhouse while the flames were
consuming the forward part of the vessel?
It was in vain that I tried to expel it from my mind. It remained as
firmly fixed as one which, in my boyhood, I had seen entangled in a
woman’s hair. A thrill of horror passed through me as I reflected that
bats were believed to possess the attributes of vampires. I had seen
this one sally forth in quest of prey. But what was there in or about
this fire-scarred mass of eternally crunching, creaking, wailing steel
that could minister to its appetite?
Half rising, I looked fearfully toward the doorless doorway and
shattered windows.
And so it came to pass that I dared not sleep. Sitting cross-legged on
the deckhouse floor, my gaze wandered from window to window and to the
open doorway with dread expectancy.
“It will come back,” I kept repeating.
While I waited, a new thought came to me. I rose, stepped outside
and picked up a stick which had been lying on the deck. With this I
reentered the deckhouse. Dread gave place to sleepless patience as I
resumed my vigil. But the thing for which I waited did not come.
When darkness melted into the changing hues of dawn I left the
deckhouse. With my night vigil ended and my day vigil begun, my weary
gaze passed around the great circle of the horizon. No ship or blur
of smoke met my view. The craving for food, which had caused much
discomfort during the night, had left me now, but the indications of a
clear, warm day brought to me new reason for anxiety. Of my carefully
hoarded water only two swallows remained.
And yet in the freshness of the morning air there was something that
seemed to bring new life to me. My jaded spirit rose with the sun, and
I reproached myself for the fears that had been responsible for my
sleepless nights--fears which, I knew now, merely had been products of
a fancy disordered by hunger, unearthly isolation, the loss of friends,
exposure, lack of tobacco and the ceaseless creaking and wailing of the
mass of wreckage in the hold.
But how was I to guard against a recurrence of such fears and such a
night as the one I just had passed? Then I remembered I had heard it
said that the most effective way to free the mind of an unwelcome fancy
is to write something concerning it and lay it away. I was inclined to
ridicule the idea at first, but it soon made another sort of appeal to
me, for it offered a new means of relieving the monotony of my position.
Attached to the chain of the watch which went with me aboard the
derelict was a little gold pencil, and in one of the pockets of my coat
were several letters. Reasoning that these might serve as a means of
identifying my body if it should be found on the derelict, I had dried
them and returned them to my pocket. On the back of one of the letters
I now proceeded to write eight rhymed lines suggested by the fears that
had come to me the night before. When I was done, I folded the sheet
and slipped it back in the pocket from which I had taken it.
The morning was only about half spent when a plainly discernible smudge
of smoke on the western horizon indicated the position of a steamship.
For more than half an hour, tortured by nerve-racking anxiety, I
watched it. It disappeared, however, and with disappointment came
mental and physical collapse.
Whether I fainted, or whether, yielding to exhaustion resulting from my
wakeful night, I sank into a heavy sleep, I do not know. It was almost
sundown, however, when I regained my senses. When I had lapsed into
unconsciousness I had been on the deck. Now I was on the floor of the
deckhouse. I was coughing, and my blackened skin was hot with fever.
Rising weakly, I went to the pan that had held my supply of water. It
was empty. Seating myself on the floor beside the pan, I hid my face in
my hands. As my lids closed over my smarting eyes, it seemed to me I
was standing on the deck of the _Powhatan_, defending myself against a
giant seagull that had attacked me.
I was sinking into a doze when something startled me. As I raised my
head all my nerves were quivering. No longer conscious of physical
weakness, I rose with trembling haste and crossed to the doorway of
the deckhouse. Looking out, I saw that a strange, twilight haze had
enveloped the derelict, shutting out even a view of the sea. Then--far,
far in the distance--I heard the sullen booming of a steamer’s siren.
There was a long interval of silence, then the blasts were repeated,
but I was unable to determine whether the sounds indicated that the
unseen vessel was drawing nearer. Four blasts were followed by another
long period of silence.
Through long minutes I waited breathlessly. Then the siren boomed
again. A fierce exultation possessed me as I realized that, through the
haze, the steamer was heading toward the derelict.
Scarcely had the notes of the blast died away, however, when a great
chill smote me. From the creaking, mist-enshrouded wreckage in the
derelict’s hold suddenly issued a long peal of shrill, feminine
laughter. Then there rose a series of weird notes, which, at first, I
was unable to identify. Finally I recognized them. They were the notes
of a concertina.
And soon, mingling with the concertina’s strains, I heard the voice of
a woman, who, in a dreary monotone, sang the lines I had written on the
back of a letter several hours before:--
“You who would fresh water taste,
’Mid this wreckage, warped and torn,
Shall yield to me, before they waste,
A hundred blood-drops in the morn.
When I have had my full desire,
I will supply your every need.
Sweet water then shall quench your fire
And savoury food reward the deed.”
The singer ceased. Trembling and weak again, I leaned against the
charred deckhouse. Once more I heard the siren’s blasts. Fainter now,
they were coming from a greater distance. The steamer, unseeing and
unseen, had altered her course.
Tottering and groping like a drunkard, I went into the deckhouse and
sank to the floor. In my brain Reason and Unreason were in conflict.
Reason told me the concertina and the woman I had heard were mere
products of a disordered fancy. But Unreason assured me that they were
real and that I must prepare to meet the woman. Mumbling blasphemies,
addressed to each, I closed my eyes, and slept.
I awoke with a cry of alarm. Something had struck me lightly on the
face, and, as I listened, I heard a faint, fluttering sound. Looking
around me, I saw a singular change had come to the interior of the
deckhouse, which now seemed rather larger than before. A dimly burning
lamp lighted the room, and above a rusty stove bent an aged crone,
warming her hands and muttering incoherently. Under one arm she carried
a stout staff with which, from time to time, she struck at something in
the air. In a moment I marked the cause of the fluttering I had heard.
In the room were at least a score of bats.
“Begone, ye pests!” exclaimed the old hag, with vindictive eyes. “D’ye
not know Laquella will soon be here? Back--back to your holes, ye
evil-eyed devils! D’ye not hear Laquella at the door?”
The words were scarcely spoken when a young woman entered the doorway.
As I gazed upon the newcomer I was overcome by mingled sensations
of admiration and fear. She was of extraordinary beauty. Her dark
hair fell in unkempt masses about her shoulders. She wore only two
garments--a white chemise and a red petticoat which extended to her
ankles. Her skin was dark and her teeth faultless. There was something
in her expression, however--the lines of her mouth, the unnatural,
velvety lustre of her eyes, the abnormal redness of her lips and the
cat-like grace of her body--that at once fascinated and repelled me.
As she advanced with languid steps into the deckhouse, water ran in
streams from the folds of her rain-soaked garments, and she shivered.
“It’s bitterly cold to-night, mother,” she began, in soft, plaintive
accents, as she folded her bare arms across her bosom and drew nearer
the stove.
There was a sudden fluttering among the bats that had found lodgment
among the timbers at the top of the room.
“Silence!” shrieked the old woman. “Ye black-winged leeches, d’ye not
see Laquella is here?” Leering, she turned toward the newcomer and
added: “Somebody’s waiting, my dear. Ah, it’s many a long moon since
you have had a lover so strong--eh, Laquella?” And the crone cackled
mischievously.
Laquella, giving a little start, faced me suddenly. At first a smile,
as of joyous surprise, played about her lips, but, as she gazed, this
was succeeded by an expression of fierce, passionate yearning, which,
kindling in her wide, lustrous eyes, rapidly lightened her features.
Her red lips parted and her bosom heaved as she extended her arms and
approached me. Three or four quick strides brought her to where I lay,
then, with a little sigh, she sank down beside me.
“See, I shudder with the cold,” she whispered, as she caressed my head.
“Breathe--breathe on me, dear. Your breath is life--life to me. Oh,
God! How chill and lonely it is out here on the sea, which moans all
day and night, and talks of death. Draw me closer--closer, love, and
warm me in your arms.”
Obedient to her will, I drew her to me. For several moments she hid her
face on my breast, and I felt her body shake with convulsive sobs. At
length she raised her head, and I shrank in terror from the passionate
eyes that fixed their gaze on mine.
“I live--I live again!” she murmured. “Already Death’s dreadful fingers
are beginning to relax their hold. You are breathing me back to life
again--to live--to live for you.”
Clasping me tighter in her arms, she pressed her lips to my forehead.
A chill pervaded my body, and I trembled violently. Drawing back a
little, she placed her frigid palms to my cheeks, and then went on:
“But your hot flesh burns my hands. Your feverish blood----”
She paused abruptly and, with a little gasp, she turned away. Her hands
moved quickly to the upper part of my right arm, and I felt her toying
with the sleeve of my shirt. Suddenly a twinge of pain darted through
me, and as, with exclamations of horror and distress, I tried to rise,
I heard a ripping sound made by the tearing of the sleeve. A wild light
was shining in her eyes, and, as she forced me back again, I knew the
blood I saw on one of her hands was my own.
Panting, and with eager haste, she pressed her cold lips to the
bleeding wound. It was in vain that I struggled frantically and bade
her desist. My privations had exhausted me, and she was the stronger
of the two. I felt my remaining strength slipping away from me. Then I
lost consciousness.
Slowly my senses came back to me again. A spoon was being thrust
between my teeth, and the odor of broth was in my nostrils. I made a
weak attempt to turn the spoon aside, for was not this food the price
of blood?
“Take it--take it, lad! Were the hampers of the _Hannibal_ so well
filled that you have no need of the bounty of the _Highland Lady_!”
The voice was that of a man, and, half-fearfully, I opened my eyes. I
saw that I now lay in the berth of a well appointed stateroom, and that
two men were standing beside me. One, clad in a blue uniform, held a
spoon and cup. The other, somewhat younger, was dressed as a ship’s
steward.
“Is he coming round, Doctor?” asked a quiet, kindly voice near the door.
“Oh, yes, yes--he’ll do well enough now,” replied the man in the blue
uniform, then, again addressing me, he said: “Come, come, man, take
this broth and then----”
But I heard no more. The physician who had found it necessary to use
force to get the spoonfuls of broth between my lips now was compelled
forcibly to restrain me from seizing the cup that held the precious
liquid. The doles came too slowly, and I gulped them down like a
famished beast of prey. And, as I ate and felt the warmth of brandy and
broth stealing through my veins, I realized that the vampire had indeed
kept her word and I was saved.
When the cup of broth was empty, I besought the physician for water and
more food, but all my prayers to him were vain.
“In another half hour, perhaps, but not now,” he answered kindly. “Your
stomach is so weak that we must wait a while.”
In a frenzy of despair I rose to a sitting posture, and accused the
physician of attempting to starve me. Laying a hand on my shoulder, he
tried to force me to lie down again. As I raised my right arm to thrust
his hand away a violent pain racked my arm and shoulder.
“Be careful, my man!” exclaimed the physician, sharply, and an
expression of anxiety came into his eyes. “In trying to fill your
stomach, see to it that you don’t empty your sleeve.”
Half-swooning with pain, I glanced at my arm. Then I saw that it was
swollen to nearly twice its natural size and was bandaged just below
the shoulder.
Once more the horror of my terrible adventure on the derelict
overwhelmed me, and I lost consciousness.
How often I regained my senses and lost them again in the course of the
next few days I do not know. Everything around me was blurred. Again
and again I heard the fluttering of the bats, but strange voices kept
assuring me that the sounds were those of waves and rain. Twice or
thrice I shrieked in fear as I saw the face of Laquella at my stateroom
door, and often, weeping like a child, I told myself that I was mad.
But there came a day, at last, when the hateful fluttering ceased and
the features of Laquella haunted me no more. The faces and words of
those who attended me grew more and more distinct. Before, sunlight,
moonlight and lamplight had been as one to me, but now I was able to
distinguish the difference between day and night. When the change in
my condition was brought about, I was lying on a cot in a Liverpool
hospital, and I was informed that I had been in the institution for
more than a week.
I was told, too, that not once since I had been taken from the derelict
_Hannibal_, in mid-ocean, had I been able to speak coherently. My name
was unknown, and the captain of the steamship _Highland Lady_ had
failed to learn from me how it had come to pass that I had “survived
the fire that had destroyed the tramp steamer.”
I asked the day of the month, and, when I learned this, I realized
that two weeks had passed since that fateful night when I stood on the
bridge on the _Powhatan_.
In response to the eager questions of my attendants, I described the
yacht’s collision with the derelict, but I was unable to tell whether
or not the _Powhatan_ went down. I told them, too, of the manner I had
climbed aboard the derelict, but of my experience with Laquella I did
not speak, for I felt now that that incident was nothing more than the
product of an imagination distorted by the physical suffering to which
I had been subjected.
“But how did you come by that wound in your arm?” asked one of the
physicians, when I had finished my story.
“The wound!” I exclaimed wonderingly.
“In your right arm--yes. Did you not know it was there?”
I felt beads of perspiration gathering on my brow, and my limbs began
to tremble.
“No,” I answered, weakly.
“You were scratched by a piece of rusty metal, perhaps,” my questioner
said, thoughtfully. “But, whatever the cause may have been, you have
had an attack of gangrene that almost made it necessary for us to
amputate your arm. In delaying the operation we took a long chance, but
the danger is over now, and another fortnight will find you little the
worse physically as a result of your unfortunate adventure.”
Stricken aghast by the significance of the wound in my arm, I still
struggled to assure myself that the injury was, as the doctor had
suggested, nothing more than infection resulting from some trifling
and unnoticed scratch that I had received while I was on the derelict.
But, strive as I would to combat it, the impression made on my mind by
the notes of the concertina, by the voice and words of the singer and
by the visit of the mysterious young woman to the wrecked deckhouse,
continued so strong that I was no longer able to regard these incidents
as anything less than realities.
At length, completely cured of the malady that had threatened me
with the loss of my arm, as well as the loss of my life, I left the
hospital. From England I went to the Continent to recuperate, and it
was not until the following Spring that I returned to New York.
The Summer and Autumn that followed my return to the United States
were uneventful. With my health completely restored, I again addressed
myself to my business interests, and in the commonplace atmosphere in
which I moved romance and superstition had so little place that at last
I came to regard my adventure on the _Hannibal_ as one recalls the
half-forgotten scenes of a nightmare.
About this time a change came over me, and club life began to lose many
of its former charms. I spent more time at the homes of my friends, and
was frequently a member of week-end parties at country houses, but,
though I was finding more pleasure in the society of women than I had
found before, no member of the sex had made any serious impression upon
me.
Thus it came to pass that I was again pursuing the even tenor of my
way, with pleasing prospects and with no past misfortunes to mourn
other than the deaths of my parents and the tragical end of Tallier and
my other shipmates on the _Powhatan_, when one night in early December,
I attended a performance of “_L’Africaine_,” in the Metropolitan Opera
House. Accompanied by George Kane, one of my friends, I left the box
which we had been occupying with his mother and sister, and strolled
out to the foyer. We were about to return to the box when my companion
nodded slightly to one of the promenaders. Involuntarily I glanced
toward the person who had attracted the attention of my friend. This
was a dark-haired, clean-shaven young man of about my own age. His face
was long and well-moulded, and his tall, faultlessly clad figure was
that of an athlete.
But for only a moment did my gaze rest on this stranger. Beside him
was a young woman--a young woman whose face and figure were, I think,
the most beautiful I had ever seen. She was rather above the medium
height of women, and her dark hair, coiled in great masses behind her
shapely head and neck, seemed by the contrast it offered to enhance the
exquisite coloring of her features. Her eyes were dark and singularly
lustrous. She was laughing when I saw her first, and her red lips,
faultless teeth and vivacious expression would have been sufficient to
fascinate an ordinary observer, even had her other perfections been
less striking. She was gowned in black and her splendid shoulders and
arms were bare. Unlike other fashionably dressed women, she wore no
necklace or bracelets.
As the young woman turned her head carelessly, her gaze met mine, but
it was only for a moment. She nodded slightly to my companion, and then
passed on with her escort.
“Who are they, Kane?” I asked abruptly, turning to my friend.
“Tom Trevison and his sister,” he answered, shortly.
“Trevison!” I muttered. “I have no recollection of having heard of them
before.”
“They’re not in society. Old Trevison, several years ago, came from
somewhere out West, where he owned some mining property. About a year
ago he died. No one ever saw Tom before that, and what he does for a
living no man knows. He and his sister live together at an apartment
hotel away uptown. They are great music lovers, and it’s only at
the opera and at musicales one ever sees them. The girl’s a stunner,
though. It’s a pity she doesn’t let herself out.”
The curtain was about to go up, so we hurried back to our box.
From that night I became known as one of the most assiduous patrons of
opera and piano recitals in the metropolis. I soon learned that Kane
had spoken truly. Music was Miss Trevison’s hobby. I repeatedly saw
her with her brother at the Metropolitan Opera House at night, and I
was quick to observe that they nearly always occupied the same seats
about the middle of the orchestra. In the afternoons I frequently saw
Miss Trevison at piano or violin recitals, on which occasions she was
accompanied by one or two women friends.
At length, with a fluttering heart, I became conscious of the fact
that the young woman had begun to notice my presence at the various
entertainments which attracted her. On several occasions I saw her
gaze rest upon me for a moment as she glanced over the audience in the
course of her search for familiar faces.
Once, while she was conversing with a man whom I knew to be a musical
critic for one of the newspapers, I saw the man glance toward me
quickly. He looked at me searchingly for several moments, then, turning
to her again, he shook his head.
I inferred that, answering a question, he had told her I was not a
member of his guild.
Two weeks after the evening on which I first had seen Miss Trevison at
the Opera House, I contrived to secure an introduction to her brother.
A week later the brother introduced me to his sister, and on the
following afternoon I met and conversed with her at a recital given by
a celebrated Russian pianist.
I doubt whether, in such a brief period, any man was so quickly
subjugated by a woman’s charms. At last I had permission to visit
her, and the privilege of escorting her to musical entertainments was
accorded to me. I became more and more desperately in love.
But, by degrees, there came to be mingled with this love an almost
indefinable sense of fear. Strong as I am physically, there were times
when the very thought of Paula Trevison set me trembling. What had
inspired this fear I did not know. Often I would try to analyze the
feeling. Sometimes I fancied it was caused by doubts of my ability to
win her, but as, day by day, we became better comrades, I grew more
sanguine, and yet the haunting sense of fear became more and more
perceptible, taking the form of one of those premonitions of evil which
all men have felt at some period of their lives.
One afternoon, in February, Paula and I, seated together in a concert
room, were listening to a famous pianist’s exquisite rendition of
one of Chopin’s nocturnes. While under the spell of the music I
involuntarily laid my hand on hers. As our eyes met, something in those
of my companion caused me to grow hot and cold in turn. In that glance
I read the confession of a love so masterful and passionate that I
believed it was more than human, and yet I felt that it was no more
strong than mine.
That night I asked Paula to be my wife, and, as she gave me the answer
that I craved, I took her in my arms. Our lips met, and then--ah, all
that followed seemed to be as unreal as the incidents of a dream. I
kissed her lips, her brow, her hair, her hands. I saw the half-grave,
half-smiling face of her brother as we told him all. But, when he took
my hands, I, who was physically as strong as he, was trembling like a
frightened child.
When I returned to my apartments that night I tottered like a drunkard,
and as I saw my reflection in a mirror I shrank aghast from the ashen
features and bloodshot eyes that confronted me.
I asked myself whether I was mad. If not, why should I have walked
the floor nearly all that night, striving to banish from my mind the
love-illumined face of Paula Trevison? Why were my heart and mind in
conflict? Why was I tortured by sensations such as might come to a man
who, having sold his soul to the devil for five years of Paradise,
hesitates to enter into his reward?
During the three months that followed Paula’s consent to become my
wife, my fear that I was losing my reason became so great that at
length it virtually amounted to a conviction. In her presence I was
always a passionate and devoted admirer, but no sooner did I leave her
than I reproached myself because of my inability to keep away from
her--to thrust her out of my life.
It was arranged that we should be married in June, and that after the
ceremony we should embark for Europe where our honeymoon would be
spent. In accordance with this plan, a little party of our friends
assembled in a Harlem church one morning and in their presence Paula
Trevison became my wife. An hour later we entered a limousine and in
this we set off for the pier to which our luggage had been taken the
day before.
For several moments after entering the vehicle we sat in silence, with
Paula’s hand clasped in mine. Then I observed that my wife was looking
at me curiously. At length, laughing a little uneasily, she spoke.
“It seems so strange, dear, that you should be more nervous than I this
morning,” she said. “Are you not well?”
There was a note of reproach in her voice, and, as she attempted to
withdraw the hand I held, I grasped it more tightly.
“I am well enough,” I answered, “but I thought the ceremony would never
end, and, after it was over, every one, in offering congratulations,
seemed to say something to which I had replied before. I am afraid
that the difficulty I found in giving variety to my replies made me
irritable.”
“Well, you looked positively haggard,” said Paula laughingly, “and,
when I saw you so, I began to see in your face something that gave me
the impression that we had met somewhere before--a long time before you
first saw me on that night in the Opera House.”
“That we had met before!” I muttered. “Had we met before I think I
surely would have remembered it.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“It is no more than a mere fancy of mine, I suppose,” she said.
We rode on in silence, but there had been something in her words that
changed the current of my thoughts, and I asked myself whether, after
all, it was not possible that we had, indeed, met before.
We arrived at the pier at last, and, alighting from the limousine, we
quickly crossed the gangplank and made our way to the stateroom I had
engaged. This was on the promenade deck, and immediately after entering
I proceeded to open the window in order to admit the air.
Thinking that some of our friends might have decided to come to the
pier to see us off, I left Paula in the stateroom, and strolled out on
the deck. As I looked over the rail I saw a large crowd of Italians
who, apparently, had assembled to bid farewell to some of their
fellow-countrymen in the steerage.
At length I saw a couple of waving arms and I recognized Paula’s
brother and one of his friends. They quickly shouldered their way
through the crowd, but just as they reached the foot of the gangplank
an officer motioned them back. A moment later cries of “All off for
the shore” were echoing through the vessel, and the men who had been
standing beside the great posts over which the hawser loops were thrown
began to manifest signs of activity. The time for sailing was at hand.
Waving my hands toward my friends on the shore, I hurried back to the
stateroom for Paula. As I paused at the door, I saw she had removed the
hat she had worn on the way to the pier and that she was now putting on
a Tam-o’-Shanter.
I was about to speak when the sounds of Italian voices crying
“_addios_” came to my ears through the open window. The cries ceased as
suddenly as they had risen, and then I heard a sound that caused me to
start violently. As I listened, Paula turned toward me.
The sound I heard was that of a concertina!
What Paula saw in my face just then I do not know, but, pallid and
trembling, she retreated a step or two and gazed at me with wide,
wondering eyes.
The thrill of horror that passed though my body caused me to shiver.
There was a strange, tickling sensation on my scalp and my hair felt as
if it was rising.
The notes of the concertina had broken the spell that had kept my
memory dormant. All was clear to me now. I knew how it had come to pass
that I had been led to fear the woman I had made my wife. The woman to
whom I had given my love and name was Laquella--Laquella, the vampire
of the derelict!
In a voice that was so hoarse with emotion that it did not seem to be
my own I said:
“Your suspicion was well-founded, madame. The meeting in the Opera
House was not our first.”
Shrinking further from me, she murmured, with trembling lips:
“Yes--yes. I remember now. You are----”
With a groan of horror and anguish, I turned from the room and closed
the door behind me. From the decks and the depths of the great vessel
there still came the mournful cry of the stewards:
“All off for the shore.”
Moved by a sudden impulse, I dashed down the companionway that led
to the deck below. There I found that several seamen already were
beginning to run the gangplank from the vessel. I called to them to
pause, and then shouldered my way past them. A few moments later I was
on the pier.
As I hastened toward the street, I heard a man’s voice call my name.
Looking over my shoulder, I saw the white face and wonder-stricken
eyes of Paula’s brother. I quickened my steps and before he caught
up with me I was in a taxicab. In accordance with my quickly spoken
instructions, the chauffeur started in the direction of an uptown
hotel. Within five minutes I was satisfied that I had shaken off my
pursuer.
As soon as I was assured of my success in eluding Paula’s brother, I
hastened to the office of my lawyer. Though I had given no thought to
the matter at the time of my mad flight from the ship, I afterward
recollected that my wife was provided with sufficient funds to enable
her to return to the United States. I directed my lawyer, however, to
cable to one of his English correspondents to meet the vessel on its
arrival at Liverpool and to render my wife whatever assistance she
might require. In addition to this, I placed a large sum to Paula’s
credit in a New York bank, and caused her brother to be informed of my
action.
More than four months have passed since then, and, during this period
my wife and I have not met, nor have we, either directly or indirectly,
been in communication. The first two months I spent in the West, and,
with the single exception of my lawyer, none of my friends knew my
address. Returning then to the East, I took passage for Europe. There I
remained until two weeks ago.
I have learned that my wife embarked for New York immediately after
her arrival in Liverpool, but neither she nor her brother has made an
attempt to find me. The money which I placed to Paula’s credit in the
bank has remained untouched.
In conclusion, I will say that, since my flight from my wife, there
has been scarcely an hour of the day or night, except when sleep has
given me a respite, that my mind has not been occupied with attempts
to find some comforting solution to the mystery which partly cloaks
the incidents that have wrecked my life. For several weeks I could not
free myself from the impression that I was the victim of supernatural
agencies. Now, however, I am satisfied that Paula Trevison, perhaps
half-crazed by privations similar to mine, was on the derelict at the
time that I found refuge there, and that she had as a companion the old
crone whom I heard address her as Laquella. How they came there, only
Heaven knows, but you will recollect that I have told you that I got
aboard the _Hannibal_ by means of a rope that hung over the side. That
rope was of hemp, and it is obvious that it must have been fastened
to the davit after the fire had swept the vessel. This fact indicates
that, subsequent to the fire on the _Hannibal_, and prior to the
sinking of the _Powhatan_, the derelict was boarded, either by persons
who had put off in boats at the time of the fire or by others. It was,
of course, impossible for a woman to get aboard as I did by means of
this rope, but it is natural to infer that the rope was used for the
ascent and descent of a seaman who may have belonged to a party that
had a rope ladder. In that case the ladder doubtless was taken away in
the boat that had brought it, and the rope was left hanging from the
davit.
Convinced, then, that the woman I have wed is none other than that
Laquella, who whether mad or sane, inspired me with horror on the
derelict _Hannibal_, I am resolved to avoid as much as possible every
town in which I believe her to be. I do this because I fear that, if
we were to meet again, the love with which she once inspired me would
triumph over every principle that is allied with my self-respect, for
in her presence I would have to combat one of the most potent spells
which the beauty of woman ever cast over the heart of man.
* * * * *
As the Fugitive Bridegroom finished his story, the Nervous Physician
leaned forward.
“Are we to understand that, since your recovery from the effects of
your privations, you have had no communication with the captain or
other officers of the _Highland Lady_?” he asked.
“I have not seen or communicated with any of them.”
“But you have some reason to know that you were the only person taken
off the derelict?”
“Yes. The newspapers published the captain’s story before my identity
was known. I was the only person rescued from the _Hannibal_.”
The Homicidal Professor was the next to speak.
“And you are quite certain that, prior to the loss of the _Powhatan_,
you had not seen the young woman who is now your wife?” he asked.
“Of that I am certain,” the Fugitive Bridegroom replied in a tone of
conviction.
The Homicidal Professor nodded and settled back in his chair.
Westfall rose.
“As I have told you, my friends, the story of the Fugitive Bridegroom
was the first link I found to this mysterious chain, and it was for
this reason that I placed his adventure first. In due time, and in the
proper place, more light will be thrown on the incidents which you
have just heard described. We cannot look for this, however, in the
narrative which we are about to have from the Whispering Gentleman--a
narrative which properly may be said to introduce the principals of
this extraordinary affair.”
He nodded toward the Whispering Gentleman, who forthwith proceeded in a
loud, hoarse whisper, to describe the incidents which had resulted in
his appearance on the Barge of Haunted Lives.
CHAPTER IV
THE SHADOW OF NEMESIS
In the insane asylums of the United States there are, at this hour,
hundreds of persons who are no more mad than are men and women who,
having witnessed one of the entertainments of some modern exponent of
the art of legerdemain, soberly describe to their friends the acts that
have excited their wonder.
No man who describes the impressions made upon him by Hermann or Kellar
is suspected of lunacy. But when such impressions are produced by some
event or events in everyday life, the minds which receive them are
thought to be abnormal.
It was in consequence of an experience of this sort that, several
months ago, I became an inmate of a sanitarium for the insane. In that
institution I doubtless should have been to-day had it not been for
the fact that its superintendent suddenly discovered that he, too, was
being threatened by the same mysterious force which, tightening its
grip on me, had caused me to be regarded as a madman. This discovery
resulted in my release from the asylum; but since I left its walls
my peril has been doubly great--so great, indeed, that the final
catastrophe may confront me at any moment.
Though my hair is white, and my hands are as palsied as those of a
nonogenarian, I am entering only my forty-third year. Two years ago my
hair was as black as it had been during the period of my youth, and, as
a result of several extended periods of travel, on foot and horseback,
in different parts of the world, I was the possessor of an excellent
physique.
My fondness for travel was developed at an early age, and shortly after
taking my degree at a well-known university I became a member of the
Geographical Society. I inherited a small fortune from an uncle and,
in a modest way, made a cruise among the South Sea Islands, and to the
East coast of Africa. There I joined a French exploring expedition,
with which I went through the territory lying between Zanzibar and
Victoria Nyanza. For the next ten years I found employment with
expeditions sent to remote sections of the world by universities and
learned societies in search of ethnological, zoological, archeological,
and botanical information.
In this manner I was able to indulge my taste for travel without
drawing to any great extent on my private income. The credit of all my
work has gone to those who employed me, and there are at least half a
score of authors of popular books of travel who are indebted to me for
much of the data which they profess to have collected themselves. But,
loving travel for its own sake, and craving neither fame nor fortune, I
was well content.
Shortly after my return to New York from an expedition to the sites of
some old Inca towns in South America, I was sitting in my room when my
servant brought to me a card which bore the name “Alfred Ferguson,”
who, I was informed, was waiting to see me. The name was unknown to me,
but I bade the servant bring the visitor to my room.
A few moments later my caller entered. He was a tall, long-limbed man,
of about twenty-eight years of age. His long face was almost as bronzed
as my own. He stooped slightly, and there was a slouchiness about
his clothes and gait that gave to him a “devil-may-care” appearance
that did not impress me favorably. His blue eyes were shrewd enough,
however, and as, throwing aside the newspaper I had been reading, I met
his gaze, I saw that he was looking at me with an expression that was
frankly earnest and critical.
“Mr. Ferguson?” I asked as I rose.
“Yes, yes, I’m Ferguson,” he replied, half-absently. “You are Forsythe,
the traveler, I believe.”
His accent was unmistakably that of an Englishman. I nodded and moved a
chair toward him. He seated himself deliberately and began to fumble in
one of the pockets of his coat. From this he drew a cigar-case, which,
when he had opened it, he offered to me. The cigars were large and as
black as the skin of an Ethiopian. Selecting one, I thanked him and
offered him matches.
Neither of us spoke again until our cigars were lighted.
“Well, now, Mr. Ferguson, what can I do for you?” I asked, pleasantly.
He did not answer at once. The expression of abstraction was still
on his face and, as I puffed on the strong cigar he had given me, I
watched him curiously. At length, in a voice that was so sullen that
the words seemed to be uttered against his will, he said:
“I want you to go with me to India.”
“To India!” I exclaimed.
“Yes. We’ll start to-morrow--on the _Camperdonia_. If we leave the ship
at Queenstown and cut across by the mail route to London, we will be
able to get the P. & O. liner that sails to-morrow week.”
“Indeed!” I murmured, coldly.
My visitor, apparently discomfited by my tone, looked at me anxiously.
“You have nothing else on, I hope,” he said, shortly.
“Why, no--nothing in the way of a business engagement,” I replied.
“But, before I take under consideration the proposition you have just
made, I must, of course, know something of the purpose of the journey.”
“I will explain it,” he replied, promptly. “You have been in India, I
believe.”
“Yes,” said I.
“While there did you visit the district of Nauwar?” he asked.
I told him I had not done so.
“In that district is a village named Rajiid,” he went on.
“I have heard of it,” I said. “It is there, I believe, that the statue
known as the Eyeless Buddha is to be found.”
My visitor looked at me coldly for several moments.
“True,” he replied. “It is in the temple of Rajiid that the Eyeless
Buddha is to be seen. The village is so remote from the routes of the
average traveler, however, that I was not aware that anyone outside
India knew of its existence.”
“The little knowledge I have of the place was obtained from an old
English colonel I met at Simla one Summer,” I explained.
“What did he tell you of the Eyeless Buddha?” asked my visitor,
carelessly.
“Why, as I remember it, he told me that the statue was of bronze
and about a thousand years old,” I answered. “It is said that the
eye-sockets, which are empty now, at one time held diamonds of great
value.”
“Did this Colonel tell you how they came to be lost?” asked Ferguson.
“They disappeared at the time of the Indian Mutiny,” I replied. “This,
I think, constitutes all the information which I have concerning Rajiid
and the Eyeless Buddha.”
Ferguson nodded, compressed his lips slightly, then rose and crossed to
one of the windows. As he looked out, I watched him curiously.
There was something in the aspect of my visitor that impressed me more
and more unfavorably, and I was attempting to formulate some excuse for
my inability to undertake the journey he had proposed when he turned to
me suddenly.
“Well, Mr. Forsythe, the situation is this,” he began. “In Rajiid there
are certain articles of exceptional archeological interest that I want
to acquire. I doubt not that these may be purchased readily and removed
from India by a man who already is known as a collector of such objects
for institutions of learning. In India there is no law prohibiting the
removal of art objects from the country, as there is in Italy, but in
order to acquire certain of these it is often essential first to obtain
the approval of the proper authorities. These authorities, in India,
are known to you, and, in view of the distinction which you have won
as a collector, they doubtless would grant to you privileges which it
would be idle for me to seek.”
“You have been in Rajiid?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “Not only have I not been in Rajiid, but I have never
set foot in India.”
“And yet you have reason to believe that this obscure village possesses
objects of exceptional interest,” I said.
He shrugged his shoulders, and, for the first time since he had entered
the apartment, I saw him smile.
“Yes,” he answered. “If you will aid me in getting possession of these
objects, you will be well paid for your trouble.”
“Ah, it is a speculative enterprise, then!” I murmured.
“So far as I am concerned, perhaps it is,” he answered quickly. “You,
however, will be sure of your reward. The task will occupy less than
three months. If you will give me your services for that period, I will
pay you ten thousand dollars to-day. Besides this I will place a like
amount in a package which I will deliver to you with the understanding
that you put it in a safe-deposit vault to which I am to have a
duplicate key. You will not tell me, however, where this vault is to be
found.”
“Why, then, do you require the key?” I asked suspiciously.
My visitor shrugged his shoulders.
“It may be that you will lose yours,” he replied, with a little laugh.
“It is not well to carry all one’s eggs in the same basket, you know.”
“What is your purpose in leaving the ten thousand dollars with me?” I
inquired.
“It will be yours when our work is done,” he answered.
“You are willing to leave it in my care with nothing more than a verbal
understanding?” I asked wonderingly.
“I trust you implicitly,” said he. “Your reputation is well-known to
me. I require no better evidence of your good faith than that. Are the
terms I propose satisfactory?”
I was thoroughly interested now. The enterprise promised to be more
remunerative than any in which I had engaged, but it was not this fact
that appealed to me so much as the nature of the adventure itself.
There was something in the personality of my visitor, too, that now
excited my curiosity.
“Well, Forsythe, what do you say?” he asked, as I hesitated.
I rose and for several moments I thoughtfully paced to and fro.
“In short, then, it is your design to try and recover the gems which
formerly constituted the eyes of the Rajiid Buddha,” I muttered.
“I have not said so,” he answered, coldly. “My object in seeking your
services has been pretty clearly stated, I think. Your purpose will
be to secure and bring out of India certain articles, possessing
archeological interest, which, from time to time, I will indicate.”
“I see,” I answered shortly.
“You will accompany me, then?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“And you will be prepared to sail on the _Camperdonia_ to-morrow?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“The vessel sails at noon,” he said.
Then, thrusting a hand into an inside pocket of his coat, he drew out a
package and continued:
“In this package you will find banknotes amounting to fifteen thousand
dollars. Of this sum, ten thousand belongs to you. The other five
thousand will defray the cost of your trip from New York to Bombay,
Rajiid and thence to Bombay again.”
Placing this on the table, he drew from his pocket a second package.
This, he explained, contained the second ten thousand dollars which
were to be mine on my return from India. He made me count the
banknotes, and, as these were of large denominations, the task soon was
completed. They amounted to the sum he had named.
In accordance with his instructions, I was about to put the package in
a box, which I took from my desk, when he asked me to slip into the box
a little cylindrical parcel, about six inches long and three inches in
diameter. Without questioning him as to the nature of the contents
of the parcel, I did as he requested. The box containing the second
ten thousand dollars and the parcel was then wrapped in a heavy piece
of brown paper. When this had been securely tied, Ferguson produced a
stick of sealing-wax and, sealing the knot and the sides of the little
bundle, he pressed a seal-ring to the soft wax. When he had finished,
he smiled gravely and placed the bundle in my hand.
“Upon our return I will ask you to deliver to me, unopened, the parcel
I have enclosed with the money,” he said. “It is only a trifle, but, as
it is all I am leaving behind, I will be extremely obliged if you will
see that it is cared for.”
I told him that I would place the bundle in a safe-deposit vault, and
would let him have a duplicate key on the following day.
“No, you will not do that,” he replied with a little laugh. “We will
not meet again until we are in India. Put the key in an envelope and
address it to me at my hotel--the Claymore. A district messenger will
deliver it.”
“But are we not to sail together on the _Camperdonia_ to-morrow?” I
asked with some surprise.
“Both of us will sail on the _Camperdonia_; but, in order that even
chance may not bring us together, you will go in the first cabin, and
I will go in the second. It is scarcely likely that you will see me
during the voyage. When you disembark at Queenstown, do not try to
assure yourself that I am among those who, like you, will take the
train and boat to Holyhead. Your movements must be entirely independent
of mine. When you get to London, secure first-class passage by the P.
and O. liner _Arran_ for Bombay. Though I will also be on the vessel,
it is altogether probable that you will not see me. Before we arrive
at our destination, however, we will be in communication.”
He held out his hand, and, as I took it, he bowed gravely.
“_Bon voyage_,” he said, with a smile. And a few minutes later I was
alone, pondering over my strange commission.
I began at once to make preparations for my departure. One of my first
acts was to deposit in a bank the ten thousand dollars that had been
advanced to me, and to place in a safe-deposit box the package that
had been sealed by my visitor. I obtained two keys to the box, and,
placing one of these in a pocket-book that I intended to take with me
on my trip, I sent the other by a messenger to the Claymore. My other
preparations for the journey, including the purchase of my steamship
ticket, were completed by nightfall.
It is unnecessary to relate any of the incidents of my voyage to
England, for none of these had any bearing on the mission on which I
had set out. Only once during that voyage did I find any evidence of
Ferguson’s presence on the vessel. This was about ten o’clock at night,
on our third day out. On this occasion I saw him standing alone on the
moonlit deck, in the second cabin section. As he turned to go below our
glances met for a moment, but he vouchsafed no sign of recognition.
Upon disembarking at Queenstown I saw my employer on the tender which
was to take us to the shore, but he was then looking in another
direction, and, in order to avoid him, I went aft. Though he doubtless
was on the train that carried me through Ireland, I did not see him,
and it was in vain that I looked for him on the boat that took me from
Dublin to Holyhead, and on the train from Holyhead to London.
The following day found me aboard the _Arran_, bound for Bombay. On
the second day out I became acquainted with Frank Blakeslee, a young
Englishman. He was an affable sort of chap, and though he, rather
than I, made the advances which resulted in our almost constant
companionship, I soon discovered that he had little disposition to
become acquainted with other passengers.
Moved by a curiosity which I found to be irresistible, I made several
quiet attempts to learn whether Ferguson was on the ship. As was the
case on the _Camperdonia_, his name did not appear on either the first
or second cabin lists, and, despite the instructions he had given to
me, I once went so far as to stroll through the second cabin saloons
and smoking-room in an attempt to reassure myself concerning his
presence on the vessel. All efforts to get a trace of him were vain.
It was not till we had passed through the Suez Canal that all my
doubts were set at rest. Then the revelation of Ferguson’s presence
came to me in a manner and from a source so wholly unexpected that the
intelligence fairly staggered me.
I was walking the deck shortly before luncheon, when I saw Blakeslee
approaching me. His face was grave, and I observed at once that there
was a nervousness in his manner that I had not remarked before.
“What is the matter, man?” I asked. “Is this heat knocking you out?”
He muttered two or three words incoherently, and glanced quickly to
right and left, as if to assure himself that we were alone. Then,
pausing beside me, he said in a low voice:
“Ferguson won’t join us at Bombay. We’ll have to look for him at
Aurungabad.”
I gave a start, and looked at him wonderingly.
“Then you know that----” I began.
“Yes, yes--I know everything,” he said, interrupting me impatiently.
“Is anything wrong?” I asked apprehensively.
“Yes--no,” he faltered. “Well, there’s a Hindu aboard who has just
committed suicide. They’ll be dropping him overboard presently, I
suppose.”
There was something in his manner--in his increasing nervousness and in
his eyes, which were gleaming with excitement, that caused a feeling of
foreboding to steal over me.
“Ferguson is aboard?” I muttered.
“Oh, yes--he’s aboard,” Blakeslee said, dryly, as he turned away.
When I found myself again alone I fell to wondering whether the dead
Hindu had been a friend or an enemy of Ferguson’s. That he was either
the one or the other I did not for a minute doubt.
I did not see Blakeslee again that day. From a steward I learned that
his meals were being served to him in his room. It soon became apparent
that if, indeed, a Hindu had committed suicide on the vessel, the fact
was being guarded as a secret.
We were then in the Red Sea, and the day was, I think, the most sultry
I had ever known. Only after nightfall did the passengers go out on
deck. When I turned into my berth, about ten o’clock, I soon found the
atmosphere of my stateroom so stifling that it was impossible for me to
sleep.
About eleven o’clock I rose, donned a light linen suit and went out on
deck. There I found scores of my fellow passengers tossing restlessly
as they lay on steamer chairs, and in a few minutes I was doing
likewise.
It was well after midnight when, waking from a brief and troubled
sleep, I saw that many of the passengers had left the deck. I rose
impatiently and, crossing to the rail, I leaned over it and gazed down
at the water. I had been in this position for several minutes when I
heard the sounds of low voices and shuffling feet on the deck below.
Suddenly these were stilled, and I saw a dark object being thrust
slowly over the rail of the deck.
In a moment the significance of the situation became clear to me. The
body of the dead Hindu was about to be committed to the sea.
All was over in a few moments. The board on which lay the shotted sack,
with its gruesome burden, was soon run out. There was a splash--a
little trail of bubbles moving swiftly astern, to be lost in the
white wake of the vessel, and the thing was done. None of the other
passengers on the deck on which I stood was aware of the fact that a
sea burial had now become one of the incidents of the voyage.
It was not until the following afternoon that I again met Blakeslee,
who, on this occasion, greeted me with much of his former cheerfulness.
“Well, how is our friend to-day?” I asked quietly, after we had
exchanged a few commonplace remarks.
An expression of sullenness crossed his face as he answered shortly:
“I don’t know.”
“You haven’t seen him since yesterday?” I persisted.
“I have not seen him since we came aboard the _Arran_,” he replied.
“But--well, then, how did you know about that Hindu they buried last
night?” I asked.
“Because it has been one of my tasks to watch all Hindus on this
vessel, and it has been no easy matter, I assure you. There are more
than thirty of them, but I think the one that died yesterday was the
only one we had to fear.”
For several moments neither of us spoke. I was the first to break the
silence.
“Are we likely to encounter others whom we will have to--fear?” I asked.
Blakeslee laughed unpleasantly.
“I’m afraid we won’t be altogether popular with some of the natives of
the country,” he answered. “Still, I don’t think there is much that we
really will have to fear. So long as we are successful in our attempts
to prevent the brown men from learning the nature of our business, I
daresay there will be no trouble.”
“Well, if you and Ferguson are as successful in keeping that secret
from those fellows as you are in your efforts to keep it from me, there
is little doubt that all trouble will be averted,” I said gravely.
Blakeslee shrugged his shoulders.
“Everything will be made clear to you soon enough,” he answered,
abstractedly. “The task that confronts us is comparatively simple, and
I doubt not that Ferguson has explained to you all that it will be
necessary for you to know in order that you may act intelligently. He
wishes you to purchase, and to get out of India, certain articles that
appear to have little intrinsic value, but which natives may try to
prevent us from taking away.”
“Our quest may prove hazardous, then,” I said.
“Oh, yes,” Blakeslee answered, cheerfully, “it is likely to prove quite
hazardous, but, from what I have heard of you, Mr. Forsythe, I should
infer that you are scarcely likely to balk at it for that reason.”
“I am not inclined to balk at it,” I retorted, “but, like most men,
I prefer meeting danger in the light rather than in the dark. A man
always fights better when his enemies and their methods are known to
him.”
Blakeslee was silent for several moments, then, with a sigh, he said:
“Well, Forsythe, India is a remarkable country, and some of its people
have peculiar mental qualities which enable them to do strange things.
That there is something concerning our enterprise that Ferguson has not
told you, I will not deny. Though he has implicit confidence in you, he
has excellent reasons for withholding the secret from you. In your own
interest, as well as his and mine, it is best that you should not know
it now. Believe me, if that knowledge was yours it would be difficult
for you to keep from revealing it to those persons from whom we have
most to fear.”
Despite a natural feeling of resentment, I affected to treat the matter
lightly, and the conversation soon turned to other subjects.
The city of Bombay was in sight before I received the promised
communication from Ferguson. This came to me through Blakeslee, who,
entering the stateroom in which I was packing my things, said in a low
voice:
“I met Ferguson last night, and I am afraid we have plenty of trouble
cut out for us. He will not accompany us to Rajiid.”
“He will not?” I exclaimed in a tone of disappointment. “The expedition
is off, then?”
“Not at all,” Blakeslee replied. “In order to give him an opportunity
to precede us, we will remain for three days at Bombay. This will give
you time to renew your acquaintance with the Indian authorities, and to
let it be known that you have come to India for the purpose of adding
to some American museum a collection of Indian curiosities. Make as
much stir about it as you like. The better known you are, the more
likely you will be to prove successful in your quest. As I have served
in the Indian army, and as I am familiar with the country’s language
and modes of travel, we may cause it to be understood that you have
employed me to aid you in obtaining certain data that you seek.”
To this plan I readily assented, and as soon as we were landed in
Bombay I at once proceeded to put it into execution.
Except for such incidents as might have befallen other travelers, our
journey to Rajiid was comparatively uneventful. It took us nine days,
and when we arrived at our destination we found a miserable little town
which, having been visited by a plague the year before, had been nearly
depopulated by death and desertion.
The temple was easily found, and, as Blakeslee was confident that we
soon would get some word from Ferguson, we established our quarters in
a dak-bungalow on the outskirts of the village.
With us we had brought eight native attendants, nearly all of whom were
Brahmins. We had fourteen sturdy horses, and we believed that two of
these would be sufficient to bear away all the articles which we would
have occasion to purchase during our sojourn in the village.
We were not long in discovering that, rapid as had been our progress, a
stranger, answering Ferguson’s description, had arrived at the village
two days before and, after visiting the temple, had disappeared. We
also learned that he had seemed to manifest little interest in what he
had seen.
Accompanied by Blakeslee, I visited the temple a few hours after our
arrival in the village. It was a small, unpretentious affair, and a
mere glance at the dilapidated structure was enough to convince me that
it had constituted only a small part of the original building. In it,
however, stood the idol known as the Eyeless Buddha.
In this figure the founder of the religion which bears his name was
represented as sitting cross-legged on a rug, with his folded hands
lying in his lap. The figure was of dark bronze, and measured about
eight feet from the top of the head to the top of the stone pedestal
on which it was resting. The heavy eyelids were partly lowered, and
under each was a dark orifice which, it was apparent, at one time had
contained some object that was designed to represent a human eye. These
empty sockets had given to the figure the name by which it now was
known--the Eyeless Buddha. The statue was more crudely molded than many
other images of Buddha I had seen, but the sullen features and eyeless
sockets of this gave to it a sinister expression which, for a few
moments, excited within me a sensation of awe.
Like all temples in India, this had its quota of persistent beggars
and fakirs. Among these we distributed a couple of handfuls of small
coins, but the money, so far from granting us immunity from their
importunities, caused them to thrust their disgusting hands still
closer to our faces and redouble their cries.
Apprehensive lest an exhibition of violence would excite the resentment
of persons whose favor it was desirable that we should win, Blakeslee
and I restrained our attendants, who were preparing to use sticks in an
attempt to drive off our annoyers.
Suddenly, however, the clamor of the mendicants grew still. The throng
drew back, and from it issued the figure of an old native, who wore a
white turban and loin-cloth. His face, almost as brown as mahogany,
was partly covered by a scanty white beard. His eyes were deep-set,
searching, and crafty.
I had little doubt that the man who thus challenged our attention was
a jaboowallah, one of India’s miracle-working fakirs, and such he
soon proved to be. He besought us to allow him to give an exhibition
of his powers, and though we had seen most of the tricks practised by
members of his class, we granted him the permission he sought. The
tricks he showed us are common enough to all visitors to India--tricks
which, though hundreds of thousands have seen them, never have been
satisfactorily explained to Europeans.
This jaboowallah was neither better nor worse than a score of others we
had seen before. We saw him plant a mango seed, and within six minutes
it had grown, flowered, and borne fruit before our eyes. Then we beheld
him seated cross-legged in the air, apparently without support, four
or five feet above the surface of the ground. Later he placed a ring
in Blakeslee’s hand. In a few minutes this was dust, then virgin gold
again.
When all was done, we gave a few coins to the jaboowallah, and, in
consideration of the fact that the payment was rather in excess of
that usually given by travelers, we asked him to keep the crowd of
mendicants away from us--a task which he performed to our satisfaction.
That night there came to the dak-bungalow a half-naked Parsee. This
man gave to me a letter, written in English, and bearing the name of
Ferguson. The letter was as follows:--
The bearer of this is Ahmed-Kal, a Parsee, the only person I have met
in this sun-baked land of snakes who can be trusted. Communicate with
me through him.
The articles I want you to purchase are the brazier and the two
green jade images in the shrine. Be sure to land the one with the
protruding tongue in the niche near the roof. This must be obtained
without fail, and, when you get it, keep a careful eye on it, but do
not let anyone suspect that you set any great value on it. Deliver
this to me outside of India, and the ten thousand dollars I left
with you are yours.
Offer only a small price at first for the brazier and images.
Brahminism has practically ousted Buddhism from this locality and one
easily could buy the Eyeless Buddha itself for little more than a
song, were it not for the fact that it is supposed that one day its
presence here will attract travelers.
I will send Ahmed-Kal to you to-morrow night to learn whether or not
you have secured the articles I have named. Be prepared to set out
for Calcutta early the following morning. I will not accompany you,
and I doubt whether I will see you in India.
Burn this note at once. Do not write to me. Ahmed-Kal will report to
me that he has seen you.
(signed) FERGUSON.
I nodded to Ahmed-Kal as I finished reading. He bowed profoundly, but
made no move to go. When I asked him why he waited, he replied in a
voice which, though respectful, was expressive of reproach:
“The sahib has not burned it.”
I quickly held the paper over a lighted candle, but not till the last
charred corner of the letter fell from my fingers did Ferguson’s
punctilious messenger withdraw from the bungalow.
On the morrow I visited the temple again, and had no difficulty in
identifying the objects which Ferguson had directed me to purchase.
The brazier was about three feet high, and was an admirable example of
Indian art.
The two jade idols, both of which stood in niches near the dilapidated
roof, were companion-pieces, about fourteen inches in height, each
measuring about eight inches across the shoulders. The figures were
grotesque, one being that of a big-bellied man, with a diabolical
leer; while the other, somewhat similar in design, had an impudently
protruding tongue. The grotesque appearance of the images was increased
by a large number of cracks, which indicated that they had been
shattered and their fragments cemented together.
As soon as I told the temple’s custodian that I was a collector of
jade idols, he hastened to remove these from their niches and began to
descant on their merits.
“But these are not for sale,” I remarked.
“The temple needs rupees, sahib,” replied the priest in a soft,
insinuating voice.
When I offered twenty silver rupees for the pair he demanded forty. We
finally agreed on twenty-five rupees. The brazier I obtained for thirty
rupees, and to this collection I added several small bronze and jade
images, which I thought might serve as paper-weights for my friends.
The priest and I then parted cordially, and several of my native
attendants, bearing my purchases, accompanied Blakeslee and me back to
the dak-bungalow.
Thus far my enterprise had been successful, and on the way from the
temple to the bungalow Blakeslee and I chatted cheerfully, but, owing
to the presence of our attendants, the subject of our quest was not
referred to.
As Blakeslee and I entered the bungalow, to seek protection from the
heat and blinding glare of the sun, I saw a change come over the face
of my companion. His features became suddenly haggard, and there was a
strange glitter in his eyes.
“Well, Forsythe, for better or for worse we’re in for it now,” he said
in a low voice that trembled slightly with emotion.
I looked at him wonderingly.
“What, in Heaven’s name, is depressing you now?” I asked, irritably.
“Have we not succeeded, almost without making a real effort, in getting
the articles we sought? As soon as we get word to Ferguson that we have
carried out his instructions, we will start for home. The letters which
I obtained from the government officials at Bombay will assure us safe
conduct.”
Blakeslee glanced at me half-contemptuously.
“My dear fellow, our fight is just about to begin,” he said,
thoughtfully. “Neither Ferguson nor I looked for trouble on the
journey here, nor did Ferguson fear that you would have any difficulty
in obtaining the articles which now are in your possession. To be
perfectly frank with you, the value of these is as unknown to me as it
is to you.”
With a glance toward the corner of the room in which lay, like a heap
of junk, the articles I had purchased that morning, I went to the
door and looked out. Our attendants were unsaddling and watering our
horses at the foot of the hill, and the space around the bungalow was
deserted. Turning back to the room in which Blakeslee, with his hands
clasped over one of his knees, was sitting on a rude table, I spoke.
“Ferguson is seeking those lost eyes of the Buddha?” I said.
Blakeslee gazed at me fixedly, but did not answer.
“Has it not occurred to you that they may be concealed in the two jade
images that our friend is so anxious to obtain?” I asked.
My companion’s gaze fell thoughtfully to the floor.
“It has occurred to me, of course,” he answered quietly, after a
pause. “But I have rejected the idea. I am inclined to believe that
Ferguson is using us simply as a blind to cover other movements that
he has afoot. The images do not appear to be any more important
than the brazier, which, as a mere glance at it will assure you, is
not constructed in a manner that will allow it to conceal anything.
Ferguson is a pretty clever strategist, and I have reasons to suspect
that, before we get through with this thing, we will find that he is
trying to attain his object by means of crossed trails.”
“What reason is there for crossing trails when my reputation and the
arrangements I have made with the government officials appear to give
us a clear course to Calcutta?” I asked.
Blakeslee shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m hanged if I know, Forsythe,” he muttered, abstractedly. “Ferguson
is a queer fellow, and he’s pretty deep. The thing that puzzles me most
is the fact that he is in India. For the last two years he has been
watched by spies. That was one of them they dropped overboard from the
_Arran_. If these two idols and the brazier were the only things he
wanted here, why did he not send us to get them, and keep away himself?”
“Well,” I began, but he stopped me with a gesture.
“We’ve got to cut out this sort of talk,” he said, impatiently. “We
have the stuff we sought, and now the thing is up to Ferguson. If we
continue to speculate like this on the subject, some long-eared native,
who may be lurking about, will overhear us and the game will be up.
The fight’s on now and we must make the best of it. Open eyes and
silent tongues constitute the order of the day, so we’d better bar the
talking.”
At noon we had our luncheon. Then, after telling our attendants to rest
for the remainder of the day, in order that they might be prepared to
take the road before sunrise on the following morning, Blakeslee and I
stretched ourselves on our rugs. After a brief period of restlessness I
fell asleep.
It was twilight when I woke. Blakeslee was still asleep, and I glanced
apprehensively towards where our morning’s purchases lay heaped
carelessly in the corner, with one of our saddles resting on top of
the pile. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed, but I resolved that
while Blakeslee and I remained in India one should keep awake while the
other slept.
An hour later we sat down to our evening meal, and then proceeded to
await the arrival of Ahmed-Kal.
It was nearly midnight, and all our attendants were asleep, when
Blakeslee and I, seated within the dak-bungalow, saw by the light of
the moon the figure of a native, in a half-crouching attitude, dart
towards the door.
“Well?” I demanded, rising quickly.
The man started at the sound of my voice, and, as he looked toward me,
I saw that our visitor was Ahmed-Kal. Drawing back a couple of paces,
he crossed his arms over his face.
Alarmed by the man’s strange attitude, I addressed him impatiently.
“Well, why do you not speak?” I asked.
With a low, sharp cry the Parsee, lurching forward, sank to the earth
and, crawling to my feet, he scraped up a handful of sand from the
ground and scattered it over his head.
Grasping him by one of his naked shoulders I shook him vigorously.
“Speak, man--your master--what has happened to him?” I demanded.
The Parsee gave utterance to a series of incoherent sentences, then he
again crossed his arms over his face.
Again I seized him and shook his shoulders.
“Where is the Ferguson sahib?” I asked, in a threatening voice.
“They’ve killed him,” whimpered Ahmed-Kal.
“Killed him!” Blakeslee and I exclaimed together.
“Even so,” moaned the Parsee.
The eyes that Blakeslee turned on me were dilated with horror.
“Dead--Ferguson!” he muttered. “No, no, no! This man----”
“Not dead, sahib--not dead, for he still speaks,” Ahmed-Kal interrupted.
We looked at the Parsee with expressions of bewilderment.
“You said he was killed?” I suggested.
“Even so, sahib. They have killed him, but he still speaks, and he bade
me summon you to come and see the end.”
“How the dev--” Blakeslee began.
“There’s no use standing here trying to get rational answers from the
fool,” I interrupted. “Let’s mount and follow where he leads.”
Our horses soon were saddled. Preceded by Ahmed-Kal and followed by two
of our servants, Blakeslee and I set out in search of Ferguson.
As we advanced in this manner, Ahmed-Kal, from time to time, manifested
signs of the most abject fear. His trembling, groans and sudden starts
at length had such an effect on my nerves that, like him, I fancied, at
times, that I saw dark figures flitting among the thickets we passed.
Once a piercing wail, coming from a point about a hundred yards distant
from the road, so startled Blakeslee and me that we drew in our
bridle-reins with a force that almost caused our horses to go down on
their haunches.
“It is only the cry of a jackal, sahib,” said one of our servants
reassuringly.
Even as the man spoke, we saw a small, wolfish form loping from one
thicket to another, but it was several minutes before the feeling of
creepiness passed away and our heartbeats again became normal.
At the expiration of a half hour we came in view of a little grove of
trees, among which the walls of a small temple gleamed white in the
moonlight. To this temple a narrow path led from the road by which
we approached the place. At the path Ahmed-Kal drew rein. Then, after
dismounting, he came to me.
“This ground is sacred, sahib,” he explained. “None save uncovered feet
may tread this path.”
I nodded; then Blakeslee and I alighted and, after directing our
attendants to await our return, we commanded Ahmed-Kal to lead the way.
“What are we in for now, I wonder?” Blakeslee muttered. “I’ve got this
trembling fool covered with my gun, and if he’s up to any of his Hindu
tricks it will be his last, I promise you.”
Following our guide, we had gone about a couple of hundred paces when
Blakeslee seized me by the arm.
“Look!” he cried.
We were now in a little open space in the grove that surrounded the
temple, and, glancing in the direction that Blakeslee had indicated,
I saw, in one of the corners of this space, a human figure seated
cross-legged on a white cloth. The figure was as immovable as one of
those statues of Buddha which are to be seen everywhere in India, and
the shadow cast by one of the swaying branches of a tree gave to it an
uncanny aspect that chilled my blood.
Blakeslee and I, followed by Ahmed-Kal, moved forward uncertainly.
“It’s Ferguson!” exclaimed Blakeslee in a hoarse whisper.
We quickened our steps, and in a few moments we halted before the
motionless and silent figure of our friend.
Neither by word nor sign did Ferguson bespeak a recognition of our
presence. His face was deadly pale, and there was an expression of
stupor in his eyes.
“Ferguson!” I said, in a low, awed voice; and, as I spoke, I was about
to lay a hand on his shoulder to rouse him from his apparent lethargy.
“Stop!” he commanded sharply. “Don’t touch me, Forsythe. Step round in
front of me. I cannot turn my head.”
“What’s the matter, old man?” Blakeslee asked. “What have they done to
you? That fool, Ahmed-Kal, told us that you had been murdered.”
Ferguson hesitated a few moments before he replied.
“Ahmed-Kal was right. I have been slain.”
“What madness is this?” I demanded, impatiently.
“It is not madness, but truth,” Ferguson answered, sadly. “I have been
slain.”
Blakeslee and I exchanged glances of horror. It was plain that our
friend had lost his reason.
“Come, come, Ferguson, you would not have us believe that we are
talking with your ghost,” said Blakeslee, indulgently.
“No,” replied Ferguson, deliberately. “But, to all intents and
purposes, I am a dead man. Were I to move my body, ever so slightly,
the next moment would find me a corpse at your feet. The fact is, I
have been decapitated. Though my head has been completely severed from
my body, it has been done in such a manner that, while no human skill
can save my life, I cannot die except by my own act.”
Turning his haggard face to mine, Blakeslee said, quietly:
“Come, Forsythe, we must get him out of this.”
Ferguson heard the words.
“Stop--Forsythe--Blakeslee!” he protested quickly. “Let there be no
mistake. Blakeslee, strike a match; then examine my neck and tell me
what you see.”
With trembling hands, Blakeslee drew out his matchbox and struck a
match. By the light of this we saw a thin, dark, threadlike line that
completely encircled the neck of our friend. From the line there had
exuded drops of blood which had trickled down to Ferguson’s collar.
With faces as pallid as that of our friend, Blakeslee and I drew back a
couple of paces. The silence that followed was broken by Ferguson.
“Well?” he asked.
“It’s bleeding a little,” Blakeslee replied, speaking thickly.
“It was good of you to answer my summons so promptly,” Ferguson went
on. “Brief as our acquaintance has been, I was overjoyed to learn
yesterday that chance had led you to India and that you were in this
neighborhood. I had intended to seek you yesterday afternoon, but,
before I could put my plan into execution, I met with the adventure
which Fate had ordained should be my last.”
As he paused, Blakeslee and I gazed at him searchingly. Was the man
mad, or was he playing a part? Were the words he was addressing to us
now reaching ears other than our own?
“What was the nature of the adventure?” I asked.
“Having been brought to India by certain business matters,” Ferguson
continued, “I was tempted to travel a bit through the country. Several
years ago I heard a traveler describe the Eyeless Buddha of Rajiid,
and tell its strange story. Being in this neighborhood, I decided, a
few days ago, to visit the shrine. It did not interest me greatly, and
I was continuing on my way when I was halted to-day by a company of
natives. These took me before a jaboowallah, who, on the day before,
had performed some of his tricks before me at Rajiid. This man charged
me with an attempt to find and take out of the country the lost
diamonds which, many years before, formed the eyes of the Buddha. I
protested my innocence, but to no avail.
“Professing to believe that I already had found the hiding-place of
the diamonds, and had obtained possession of the stones, several
natives, in accordance with the direction of the jaboowallah, searched
my garments, and then subjected me to the most excruciating tortures
in an attempt to wring from me information concerning the diamonds. In
this attempt they failed, of course; for, though I had heard the story
of the lost gems, the idea of attempting to find them never entered my
mind.
“At length my captors ceased their efforts, and, after granting me
a rest of several hours, they brought me here, where I was again
confronted by the jaboowallah. I was compelled to seat myself on this
cloth and was told to prepare myself for death.
“Taking a sword, the jaboowallah whirled it several times through the
air, and then--then I was reduced to the plight in which you find me.
“Though I felt the blade pass through my neck, I retained
consciousness. My head did not fall, and my gaze was riveted on the
mocking face of the jaboowallah as he drew back from me. He told me
then that, though my head had been severed from my shoulders, I should
not die save only by own act--that a single movement might result in
the extinction of life. Then, with a devil-like laugh, he told me I
might go when or where I listed.
“I replied that, since this was impossible, my only wish was that I
might be able to have my friends informed of my death. To this end, I
asked permission to send for you, who, as I had been informed in the
morning, were in the vicinity. He hesitated, but finally granted me
the favor that I asked.
“Ahmed-Kal, my Parsee servant, was standing near, and I bade him go
to you, after I had received the jaboowallah’s assurance that no
harm should befall you. And I thank Heaven that you and your friend
Blakeslee have come at last.”
There was a pause; then I asked, nervously:
“What is it you would have us do?”
“Merely report my death to Ormond Dulmer, my solicitor, in London. You
will easily find him. You will do this?”
I hesitated; then I turned to the trembling Ahmed-Kal.
“Bid our attendants come here as quickly as they can,” I said to him.
“They are armed and----”
“Stop!” cried Ferguson. “Ahmed-Kal, stay here.”
The Parsee, with a little cry, sank to the ground and crawled toward
Ferguson’s feet.
Drawing my revolver, I turned toward where I had left our attendants
in the road. Then, raising my voice, I called one of them by name,
intending to direct him to hurry to me with his companions.
“Stop--Forsythe--fool!” cried Ferguson desperately.
His words prevented me from hearing any response that might have been
made to my summons. Giving no heed to his protest, I called again.
The sound had scarcely left my lips when Blakeslee’s revolver flashed.
For a moment the report dazed me; then, as I saw Blakeslee being set
upon and borne down by four or five dark figures, who seemed to have
issued from the ground, I raised my own weapon. But it was too late.
Before my finger drew the trigger, a violent blow fell on my head. A
thousand glints of light flashed before my eyes; and, as I blindly
turned toward my assailant, a second blow felled me to the ground and
I became unconscious.
When I regained my senses, I was lying on the spot on which I had
fallen. My head was throbbing slightly, and, as I opened my eyes, I saw
the moon still was shining, but that the persons who had been around
me when I fell were gone. As I started to rise, I was conscious of a
pungent, sweet flavor in my mouth, and of a dull pain and sensation of
fullness in my throat. My breathing was quick and labored.
Rising to a sitting posture, I saw, only a couple of paces away, the
white cloth on which I last had seen Ferguson. He, like Blakeslee
and the natives, had disappeared; but in the middle of the cloth lay
something which, arresting my gaze, inspired me with fear and horror.
Rising to my feet, I moved toward it.
It was the severed head of Ahmed-Kal!
Breathing heavily, I took the path leading to the road in which
Blakeslee and I had left our attendants. As I walked on, the sensation
of fullness in my throat became more and more distressing. My tongue
was swollen, and I was tortured by thirst and hunger.
As I drew near the road, I saw our horses, with our servants beside
them. A glance at the little company revealed the fact that Blakeslee
was not there.
Turning to one of the natives, I attempted to ask him why he and his
companions had not responded to my call, but no sound issued from my
lips, and the effort to speak racked my throat.
At length I succeeded in whispering weakly:
“Blakeslee Sahib? Have you seen him?”
The native addressed shook his head negatively.
“The sahib has not returned,” he said.
As I glanced at the faces of the natives, I saw that a strange
sullenness had come upon them, and instinct told me they were not to
be trusted in an attempt to attack those who had obeyed the commands
of the jaboowallah. Accordingly, I mounted my horse and, with my
attendants, returned to the dak-bungalow.
In the bungalow I found things in the same order in which I had left
them. Despite my hunger, the condition of my throat made it impossible
for me to swallow anything else than biscuits soaked in beef-tea. When
this meal was finished, physical and mental exhaustion compelled me
to lie down before I had succeeded in formulating any definite plan
for the morrow. I knew that there was no English-speaking official
within forty miles of me, and it was doubtful whether, in my present
condition, I could accomplish such a journey over rough Indian roads in
less than a couple of days.
Scarcely had I lain down when one of my servants appeared.
“Will the sahib leave Rajiid before sunrise?” he asked.
“No,” I whispered. “We will wait.”
The man left the room, and I composed myself for sleep. I had just
sunk in a troubled doze, however, when I was aroused by someone who
was shaking me gently. As I opened my eyes, I saw, by candlelight, the
face of the jaboowallah, who, as I had good reason to believe, was
responsible for the misfortune that had befallen my friends and myself.
“The sahib need not rise,” said the jaboowallah gravely.
But, giving no heed to his words, I sat up on the blanket on which I
had been lying.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded in a whisper that caused my
throat to throb with pain.
“I have come to the sahib to warn him,” my visitor replied. “If he
returns to his own country at once, no further evil will come to him;
but if he tarries in India, or causes the white king’s soldiers to come
to Rajiid, he must die; and it is as easy for the holy men to kill him
in Calcutta as it is to kill him here.”
“Where is my friend--Blakeslee Sahib?” I asked.
“He attempted to slay those who had punished one who came to us to
desecrate our shrines--to take from us a priceless stone which did not
belong to him.”
“You miserable murderer--” I began, but, with hardening features, the
jaboowallah interrupted me.
“It was an evil hour that the man who came to steal learned that
Forsythe Sahib and his friend were traveling here,” he said. “But now
Forsythe Sahib must go his way alone, nor pause, except for rest, until
he is on the vessel which is to take him home. He cannot bring the
dead to life any more than he can recover that power of speech which
has left him. What is written is written, and what is done is done. By
sunrise the sahib must be on his way.”
As he finished speaking, the jaboowallah blew out the candle that he
held; then he passed out of the door.
I sank back on my blanket, and for several minutes I lay inert.
Convinced that the jaboowallah had spoken truth, and that my poor
friends were indeed dead, I realized my helplessness. I was alone among
strangers of another race, and there was little doubt that, in a sense,
the jaboowallah had justice on his side.
Ferguson had come to take from a sacred shrine a pair of precious gems
to which he had no claim. It was perfectly apparent that he knew the
adventure was fraught with peril. He had taken chances, and had failed.
With me, however, guilty though I was, the case was somewhat different.
The jaboowallah believed me to be innocent of complicity with Ferguson.
Why, then, had he caused me to be subjected to treatment which was
responsible for the loss of my voice?
When I had returned to the bungalow, I lighted a candle and, with
the aid of a pocket-mirror, examined my neck. There was nothing on
the outside of my throat to indicate that it had been wounded. I
then had fancied that my inability to speak had been caused by rough
treatment after the last blow had robbed me of consciousness; but the
jaboowallah, apparently cognizant of the nature of my injury, had told
me that my voice had gone forever.
At length, despite my mental turmoil, I succumbed to fatigue and
physical weakness, and slept.
Once again I was awakened by a hand that grasped my shoulder,
and I saw, bending over me, with a candle in his hand, one of my
attendants--the one who, a few hours before, had asked me whether I
intended to set out on my journey before sunrise. Before I had time to
ask him why he had awakened me, he spoke.
“The horses are saddled, sahib,” he said quietly.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Two hours before sunrise, sahib.”
As I looked at him searchingly, his gaze fell.
“Who bade you prepare for the journey?” I asked.
“The jaboowallah, sahib,” he answered.
Conscious of my inability to offer resistance to the power that had
robbed me of my friends and of my voice, I nodded and rose. Glancing
toward the corner in which had been heaped the articles which, in
accordance with Ferguson’s directions, I had purchased at the temple, I
saw that they were gone.
Apparently the man did not observe my glance, for he vouchsafed no
explanation, and I asked no further questions.
Before leaving the bungalow I ate more moistened biscuits, and then
went out to where the little company of attendants awaited me. These
were already in their saddles; and, when I was mounted, all of us moved
away from the bungalow.
As we came to the outskirts of the village I saw the figure of a man
standing beside the road. Drawing nearer, I recognized the jaboowallah.
As our eyes met, the wonder-worker quickly sank to the ground and
prostrated himself at the roadside as I rode by. He was still on the
ground when a turn in the road hid him from our view.
With the exception of two incidents, my journey to Calcutta was
uneventful. The first of these incidents occurred shortly after sunrise
on the morning I left Rajiid. Glancing behind me I saw four led
horses. The loads borne by three of these constituted, as I knew, the
impedimenta we had taken with us to Rajiid. The fourth load, however,
was covered, and I asked one of the natives what the pack contained.
The man looked at me with an expression of surprise as he answered:
“They are the brazier and the idols purchased from the priest at the
Rajiid temple.”
I made no answer, but an hour later I directed the servants to quicken
their pace, and for the next four days we moved even more rapidly than
we had done on our journey to Rajiid.
The second incident occurred three days before my arrival at Calcutta.
Ever since landing in India I had kept a diary in which I had recorded
briefly each day’s incidents, being careful, of course, to make no
mention of anything that had to do with the real object of my journey.
On the day I have mentioned, I just had finished making an entry when
an official returned to me my passport, which he had viséd. The date on
this was the twenty-seventh of the month, while the entry I had made in
the diary was dated the twenty-fifth. I called the man’s attention to
what I then believed to be his error. He smiled and shook his head.
“It is the twenty-seventh, sir,” he said.
I bowed, and he left me. Turning over the pages of the diary, I was
unable to find that I had made a mistake in dating the entries; then an
idea occurred to me, and I turned to one of the two attendants who had
accompanied me all the way from Rajiid.
“How long was I with the jaboowallah?” I asked abruptly.
“For two days the sahib was in the priest’s house near the temple,”
the man replied. “On the second night the sahib was placed in the same
position in which he fell, and the jaboowallah bade us retire and wait
for the sahib in the road.”
I attempted to question him further, but he was so reticent that I
learned little more. The next day he and his companion, who had been at
Rajiid, deserted me. For the remainder of the journey I was attended
only by servants I had picked up on the way to Calcutta.
Immediately after my arrival at Calcutta, I hastened to an English
physician and bade him examine my throat. As he did this, I saw an
expression of gravity settle on his face.
“How did this happen?” he asked sharply. “The vocal cords have been
cut.”
A cold sweat broke out on my forehead as I heard his words. Then I told
him all. When I finished my account of the misadventures of my friends
and myself, the physician shook his head gravely.
“Such things do happen occasionally in India,” he said, “but in almost
every case it has been proved that the natives have had justice
on their side, and the government, assured of this, rarely adopts
vigorous measures, for, in the circumstances, they would result in
serious disaffections in certain districts. It is better, perhaps, to
heed the jaboowallah’s warning and leave the country, rather than to
expose yourself to new misfortunes in an attempt to have your enemies
punished--an attempt which I fear, would fail.”
I decided, reluctantly enough, to take his advice, and five weeks later
I was in London.
I at once repaired to the office of Ormond Dulmer, the solicitor to
whom Ferguson had directed me, and to him I gave a full account of my
Indian adventures. Dulmer, who was an elderly, stolid sort of man,
listened gravely to all I had to say, but neither by word nor by the
expression of his face did he manifest the slightest degree of surprise
or emotion. In conclusion, I said:
“And now, Mr. Dulmer, since I have told you all, nothing remains for me
to do but to turn over to you the articles I purchased in Rajiid, and
to refund to you the ten thousand dollars which Ferguson instructed me
to deposit in New York until his return.”
The lawyer raised a hand protestingly.
“No,” he replied. “The ten thousand dollars are your own. The jade
images and the brazier should be retained by you, however, until you
receive from me other instructions for their disposition. Ferguson was
a peculiar fellow, and was very precise in his methods. In planning to
have you get the images out of India, it is more than probable that he
made arrangements for some person to claim them of you in the event
of his premature death. Be good enough, please, to carry out his
instructions to the letter.”
I looked at Dulmer searchingly.
“You do not believe that Ferguson is dead?” I asked.
Dulmer shrugged his shoulders.
“I know no more than you,” he replied. “Still, I scarcely think I will
open his will until you and I obtain more definite evidence of his
decease than is afforded by the testimony of your mutual enemy, the
jaboowallah.”
And so it came to pass that, a week later, I stood in my own room in
New York, gazing speculatively at a brazier and two grotesque jade
images that rested on the floor. My decision concerning these was
quickly made. I resolved to send them to a storage warehouse where they
might remain until some one authorized to claim them should receive
them from my hands. Having formed this resolution, I at once proceeded
to put it into execution. Accordingly, I locked my door and went to the
office of a storage company, where I made the necessary arrangements.
It was agreed that a wagon should be sent to take the articles away
early the next morning.
I returned to my room after an absence of a little more than four
hours. As I opened the door, however, I gasped with astonishment.
The brazier and the images were gone!
Thinking that, perhaps, the storage company had found it practicable to
call for the articles that day, and remembering that, as I went out,
I had told my landlady that I intended to send the things away, I was
partly reassured. I hastened downstairs to the landlady, and learned
from her that two Italians had come with a black, unlettered wagon, and
had told her that I had directed them to call for the articles.
I reported my loss to the police; but from that day to this, so far as
I have been able to learn, no trace of the articles has been found by
the detectives who were assigned to the case.
And now new dangers began to beset me. On the day following the
disappearance of the images, I became conscious of the fact that I was
under surveillance, and that no less than four men were employed for
the purpose. Whenever I left the house in which I lodged--whether I
walked or whether I rode in street-cars or cabs--some stranger would
persistently keep me in view. These persons, I doubted not, were in the
employ of some detective agency that had undertaken to watch and report
my movements. Why anyone should find it necessary to spy on me now I
could not understand.
I had been in New York only a week when, returning late to my room
one night, I found all my effects in disorder, and it was plain that
everything belonging to me had been carefully searched. Some of my
private papers were missing, tacks had been removed from the carpet,
which appeared to have been turned back in an attempt to discover the
hiding-place of some paper or other object. Despite all these facts,
however, I found the door locked as I had left it.
The next morning, before daybreak, I telephoned for a taxicab, and,
entering it almost before it came to a standstill in front of the
house, I directed the man to take me to the City Hall. Then dismissing
him, I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, and, for the first time in a week,
I congratulated myself that I had eluded the vigilance of the spies.
In Brooklyn I engaged a couple of rooms in a modest dwelling-house at
which I gave an assumed name.
I remained indoors all day, and at night I went to a neighboring
haberdasher’s to purchase articles of wearing apparel, for I had left
my room in New York with scarcely more than the clothes I wore.
Having made my purchases, I returned to the house I had left only a few
minutes before. I had just thrust my key in the lock, and was preparing
to turn it, when a hand fell on one of my shoulders. Turning quickly, I
was confronted by a dusky face which was partly covered by a scant gray
beard.
It was the face of the jaboowallah of Rajiid!
“The sahib will allow me to speak to him--in his room?” the strange man
asked gravely.
He wore a black derby and a suit of dark clothes; and, as I saw him
then, he had the appearance of an aged negro.
For several moments I was too overcome by astonishment and dismay to
reply.
“As you please,” I faltered as I turned the key.
Then, leading the way, I conducted my persecutor to my room on the
second floor.
I turned up the gas and faced my visitor.
“What brings you here?” I demanded abruptly.
“I seek the lost eyes of the Buddha, sahib,” the jaboowallah answered.
I looked at him wonderingly.
“Why do you come to me?” I asked.
“Because I have learned the Forsythe Sahib has them,” was the solemn
answer.
Utterly bewildered, I gazed into his burning eyes.
“Not only have the gems you seek never been in my possession, but I
have never seen them or heard anyone suggest a place where they were
likely to be found,” I replied.
“The sahib cannot deceive me,” said my visitor, sullenly. “Both gems
have been in his possession. One was in the body of the jade image
with the protruding tongue, which the sahib brought with him from
India, and the other was in the little parcel left with him by the
Ferguson Sahib on the day before he sailed for Europe.”
The room swam before my eyes, and for several moments I was speechless.
Then, with a trembling hand, I motioned to my visitor to sit down.
He remained standing, but I, overcome by conflicting emotions, sank
inertly on a couch.
“The sahib has these, has he not?” the jaboowallah asked.
“No,” I answered. “The image has been stolen from me, and the parcel is
in the safe-deposit vault in which I was directed to place it by the
man to whom it belonged.”
The face of the jaboowallah grew darker.
“Stolen!” he exclaimed.
“The loss was reported by me to the police, who say they are trying to
find the thief,” I explained.
My visitor hesitated.
“You will deliver the parcel to me?” he asked.
“No,” I replied, “but I will lead you to the vault, and you may take
it, if you will.”
The jaboowallah nodded gravely.
“Can you do this to-night?” he asked.
“It will be impossible for me to have access to the vault until ten
o’clock in the morning,” I explained.
“I will be here at nine,” the jaboowallah said.
He bowed profoundly, and then, without further words, he left me.
I passed a restless night. In the morning I had breakfast served in my
room. At nine the jaboowallah appeared.
I summoned a taxicab, and, accompanied by my tormentor, I went to
Manhattan. By ten o’clock we were in the office of the safe-deposit
company. The vaults were in the basement, and to them we at once
descended. There, giving a key to the jaboowallah, I pointed to the box
I had engaged, and bade him open it.
Glancing at the box as my companion drew it out, I saw that the seals,
which Ferguson had affixed to the bundle, were broken.
“Some one else has been here,” I whispered, fearfully.
The eyes of the jaboowallah blazed with anger.
“We will see,” he said, as he unfolded the wrapping paper.
Within he found a package of banknotes--nothing more.
As calmly as he had taken out the box, the jaboowallah returned it to
its place. Then facing me, he said, quietly:
“The sahib does not lie well. If the things have been stolen, the
sahib has stolen from himself. Only ten days remain to him in which to
restore the stones to the priests in whose keeping they belong. If they
are not returned in this time, the holy men will place the eyes of the
sahib in the empty sockets of the sacred image of Rajiid, and there
they will remain until the lost gems are restored.”
Stricken aghast by the awful threat, as well as by my helplessness, I
made no attempt to reply. My visitor turned, ascended the stairs, and
disappeared from my view; nor have I seen him since that hour.
All that remains of my terrible story may be briefly told.
My flight to Brooklyn had been in vain. Wherever I went I was watched
by spies. I notified the police, and, on two occasions, I pointed out
men whom I suspected of hounding me. They established their innocence,
and I was discredited. The police then began to suspect that I had
attempted to delude them when I reported the loss of the articles from
my room.
At length, convinced that the law would vouchsafe me no redress, I
turned one day on one of the spies and attacked him so vigorously that
I left him insensible on the pavement. I was arrested, subjected to an
examination, and pronounced to be a victim of delusions. When the court
directed that I be sent to an insane asylum, friends came to my aid and
had me placed in a sanitarium.
By this time the ten days allowed to me for the restoration of the gems
had expired; but, even though surrounded by madmen, I felt a sense
of security in the institution to which I had been committed until,
one morning, on looking through a window, I saw two strangers driving
along the road. In one of them I recognized one of the spies who had
been watching my movements in New York. Accordingly, I obtained an
interview with the superintendent and told him my story. He appeared to
give little credence to it, but two days later I learned that he had
been severely wounded in an encounter with a Hindu whom he had found
prowling about the grounds. The next night a mysterious fire consumed
the wing of the building in which I had my room.
Once more the superintendent sent for me, and in his presence and that
of two strangers I repeated my story. This was many months ago. A week
later I was released. Accompanied by the superintendent, I was taken
to a house in which I found Mr. Westfall. There I remained carefully
guarded and in seclusion, until I was taken to his yacht, which brought
me to this barge.
* * * * *
When the Whispering Gentleman finished his narrative, the Nervous
Physician pushed back his chair impatiently, and, rising, began to pace
to and fro.
“Absurd--utterly absurd!” he exclaimed, disgustedly. “Do you expect
me to believe--any sane man to believe--that this blundering friend
of yours continued to breathe and speak after the jaboowallah had
decapitated him?”
“I have not asked you to believe it,” replied the Whispering Gentleman,
calmly. “I merely have described to you certain things which I have
seen and heard.”
The Duckhunter, turning to the Hypochondriacal Painter, who sat beside
him, muttered grumpily:
“An insane asylum is the best place for him, after all.”
The Hypochondriacal Painter, making no reply, kept his wide, mournful
eyes turned to Westfall, who was in the act of taking from Driggs,
the servant, a large, covered, silver dish. This dish the host thrust
toward the middle of the table, and then removed the cover.
From that moment the voices of all Doubting Thomases were hushed. A
long-drawn sigh seemed to issue from the company as each guest gasped
for breath. By the removal of the dish’s cover, Westfall had revealed
a cushion of purple velvet on which gleamed, like the fragments of a
scintillating star, two diamonds as large as hen’s eggs.
“My friends,” said Westfall gravely, “for these gems most women--aye,
even those who wear queenly crowns--would sell their very souls. They
are the lost eyes of Rajiid’s Buddha.”
“In Heaven’s name--where--how did you come by these?” the Whispering
Gentleman asked, tremulously.
Westfall, laughing, shook his head.
“For several weeks both were in your possession, my dear Forsythe,” he
said.
“In mine?” exclaimed the Whispering Gentleman, who was now the
incarnation of bewilderment. “Did the jaboowallah----”
“No,” replied Westfall, interrupting him. “I obtained them from a
person who will now occupy the chair that has been reserved for the
ninth guest, and from whose lips you will hear the story of the
Decapitated Man.”
As he spoke, all eyes turned toward the doorway. The curtains were seen
to flutter; then the figure of a tall, gaunt man, with pallid cheeks
and burning eyes, moved slowly down the steps.
“Ferguson!” hissed the Whispering Gentleman, tottering backward as if
he were about to fall.
A moment later the bewildered guests were startled by a low, frightened
cry from the farther end of the table, and, turning, they saw the
Veiled Aeronaut sink back in her chair.
“Water--water--let’s have some water here!” commanded the Duckhunter,
as, bending over the inert figure of the young woman, he roughly raised
her veil. “Come, be quick--one of you! The lady’s fainted!”
The Fugitive Bridegroom, with a water-carafe in his hand, was hurrying
toward the end of the table when his gaze fell on the features which
the act of the Duckhunter had exposed to view.
Halting suddenly, the Fugitive Bridegroom grew pale as death, and, as
the carafe fell from his hand to the floor, an exclamation of amazement
escaped his lips.
“Paula--my wife!” he muttered.
The effect produced on the newcomer by the sight of the young woman’s
face was scarcely less extraordinary than that produced on the Fugitive
Bridegroom.
“Pauline!” he gasped. “At last----”
He was starting forward impulsively, when one of Westfall’s hands fell
on his shoulder.
“Stop!” the millionaire said sharply. “You forget that you promised me
that you would not speak to her until I bade you do so.”
“True, true,” Ferguson replied, sullenly. “But when I promised, I did
not believe that you could make good your word. I thank you, sir,
and--and, my promise will be kept.”
Harvette, the Frenchwoman, was quickly summoned, but by the time she
arrived the young woman had recovered and again lowered her veil.
Westfall hastened to her side and suggested that she go to her room.
The Veiled Aeronaut shook her head, however.
“I will remain,” she said, determinedly. “It is better that I should
know all now.”
Harvette retired, and the guests resumed their places at the table.
Then once more Westfall addressed them.
“We will now hear the story of the Decapitated Man,” he said.
The ninth guest, resolutely turning his eyes from the Veiled Aeronaut,
then began an account of his adventures.
CHAPTER V
THE EYES OF RAJIID
Though, for reasons which you will soon understand, I have been known
recently by the name of Alfred Ferguson, I am no other than Cecil, Lord
Galonfield, and am the possessor of one of the most venerable titles
and one of the most debt-encumbered estates in the United Kingdom.
I am now thirty years of age. Of the incidents of my early life there
were few that bore any relation to the adventures which have befallen
me in the last two years. I went through Harrow, and from thence to
Cambridge, where I took my degree when I was twenty-two. Until this
time I believed myself to be heir to a valuable and well-ordered
estate. I was soon undeceived, for only a few days after I bade
farewell to my student life, I was summoned to the presence of my
father, who informed me that, owing to the reckless expenditure made by
the last two holders of the title, a period of strict retrenchment was
necessary, and that for ten years, at least, it would be necessary to
rent our family seat in Yorkshire and our house in London.
My father, who never had made a secret of his desire to have me prepare
for a political career, was especially outspoken now on this subject.
“Young as you are, this period of retirement from the fashionable world
may be employed to much advantage,” he said. “If you will go to Paris
or Berlin, where you are unknown, you will be spared the humiliation
of being compelled to expose your poverty. There you can address
yourself to the study of political affairs, and thus acquire a fund of
knowledge which will be invaluable to you when the time comes for you
to enter into your own.”
Believing myself to be ill-fitted temperamentally for such a career,
I had little liking for the prospect which my father, formerly so
indulgent, thus pointed out to me. In his younger days he had served in
the army, eventually rising to a colonelcy, and I long had cherished
the hope that I might do likewise.
“There is no chance for me in the army, then?” I asked sullenly.
“No,” he answered promptly. “Your income, which, for some time, will be
limited to three hundred a year, would prove insufficient to support a
commission. Besides, as an officer, you might be ordered to India.”
There was something in his tone that caused me to look at him with
surprise.
“Why should that possibility be regarded as an objection?” I asked,
wonderingly.
Removing the eyeglasses he was wearing at the time, he turned to me
gravely, and, for several moments, he gazed at me thoughtfully.
“My son,” he said, at length, “I was well advanced in the period of
middle age when you were born, and, inasmuch as more than fourscore
years are behind me, I have not much longer to live. If you go to the
Continent, as I have suggested, I may not see you for several months,
and in that time much may happen. It is best, therefore, that I should
speak with you on a certain serious matter before you go.”
As, leaning forward, I watched him earnestly, I saw a strange, far-away
expression come into his eyes, and the hand that was toying with his
watch-charm began to tremble. After pausing for several moments, he
went on:
“In my breast there is a secret which I had hoped to be able to take
with me to the grave. But I shall not succeed in doing this, for
during the last ten years I have been aware of the fact that strange
influences are at work around me. It is a secret that has to do with
India, and which has caused me to view with suspicion every man who has
come to me from that awful country.”
Pausing again, he looked abstractedly at the wall; then, rousing
himself suddenly, he continued:
“Were I to go into all details, the story would be a long one, but I
will tell it as briefly as I may.
“As you know, my father had two sons, and of these I was the younger.
My brother, Robert--who, by the way, you resemble greatly in more ways
than one--entered the army shortly after he obtained his degree. He
soon became popular with his brother officers, and, as he displayed
considerable military ability, his advancement, due partly to his
father’s influence, was singularly rapid. At the age of thirty he held
a major’s commission.
“It was about this time that the Indian Mutiny began, and Robert’s
regiment was ordered to India, whither I--a twenty-two-year-old
lieutenant--already had gone with another regiment. Despite the fact
that on several occasions our respective regiments were only a few
miles apart, Robert and I did not meet.
“Having received, at the battle of Mungulwar, a wound that
incapacitated me for further service, I returned home. Six months
later Robert caused to be sent to this country the body of Lieutenant
Wortley, who had only a small income, and was almost friendless in
England. At Robert’s request, my father made arrangements for the
unfortunate young man’s burial in the parish church at Hetley, in
Northumberland, where his parents and sister were entombed.
“I had been in England only nine months when, upon entering my father’s
study one morning, I found him stretched lifeless on the floor. He had
lived an unbridled sort of life, and for several years he had suffered
greatly with the gout. His heart had been weak, and as, spellbound with
horror, I bent over his body, I doubted not that heart disease was
responsible for his sudden death.
“Quickly recovering my presence of mind, I summoned the servants and
directed one to go for a village doctor. As I became more calm, I
picked up from the floor two sheets of paper which appeared to have
been dropped by my father as he fell. One of these sheets contained two
verses of doggerel, in the handwriting of my brother, Robert. Without
reading the verses, I glanced at the second sheet. This I found to be a
letter addressed by Robert to our father. It was as follows:
MY DEAR FATHER: Within an hour after this is despatched to you, a
ball from my own pistol will have ended my life. Two days ago I fell
into the hands of a band of native fanatics, who, subjecting me to a
series of the most terrible tortures, mutilated me in such a manner
that I have resolved never to permit myself to be seen by those who
knew me before.
And so, farewell--to you, to my brother, to dear old England and all
I have loved. Distant as you are from where I will die to-day, you
will be the first to know that your oldest son is dead.
I enclose herewith some verses entitled “Stars of Destiny.” As
they represent the only literary effort I have ever made, it is my
wish that they be pasted on the back of the frame that holds our
genealogical chart. It is an absurd request, perhaps, but it is the
last that you may have from
Your unfortunate son,
(signed) ROBERT.”
Tears filled my father’s eyes as, in a broken voice, he added:
“And thus did I become the twentieth Earl of Galonfield.”
“My Uncle Robert’s body was never identified?” I asked.
“No,” my father said. “His colonel reported him missing. I never heard
of him again. The verses were only doggerel, written, I suppose, after
the poor fellow’s mind had been weakened by the tortures to which he
was subjected, but, with reverent hands, I pasted them on the back
of the frame, as he requested, and only once since then have I seen
them. This was on the day when, imbued with a spirit of heartfelt
thankfulness, I took down the chart to inscribe upon it the name of him
who was destined to be my only son.
“My father had died in 1859, and having inherited the Galonfield title
and estates, I found the latter heavily encumbered by debts contracted
by my father and grandfather. Your mother, however, brought me a large
fortune, and I was in a fair way to establish my affairs on a financial
basis when a series of strange adventures began to befall me. Since
then I have lived the life of a haunted man.
“The first of these incidents was my receipt of a letter from the
London branch of the Calcutta banking firm of Golphin & Faley. This
letter informed me that the firm had been authorized by the Rajah of
Nauwar to receive from me two diamonds that had been entrusted to the
keeping of my brother Robert during the Indian Mutiny, and which, the
bankers said, were then known to be in my possession. Naturally, and
truthfully, I asserted that I never had seen or heard of them.
“The bankers were insistent, and, finally, the Rajah brought suit
against me for the restitution of the diamonds. He attempted to prove
the delivery of the stones to my brother, but my attorneys soon showed
that his witnesses were perjuring themselves. Shortly after this the
Rajah died, and for several months I heard no more of the matter.
“At length, however, the affair assumed a far more extraordinary phase,
and you may easily imagine my astonishment when I began to receive from
India letters written, as were the addresses on the envelopes that
enclosed them, in the handwriting of--my brother!
“In each case the fluid used was India ink, and each letter consisted
of only a few lines--begging me--commanding me--to deliver the two
diamonds to Golphin & Faley without delay.
“In all, I have received no less than thirty of these letters during a
period that has extended over thirty years. The last came to my hands
three weeks ago.
“As I have said, your mother brought to me a large fortune. When she
died, four years after your birth, this was left to me unconditionally,
and most of it has been used in attempts to find my brother.
“The letters bearing Robert’s signatures were dated in various towns
in India--Calcutta, Oodeypoor, Allanhabad, Saugor, and Madras, and the
postmarks indicated that they were, in fact, sent from those places.
Some of these cities were so distant from one another, however, that
the territory which my agents found it necessary to search comprised
more than half of the Indian Empire. It is not surprising, therefore,
that the search was vain.
“That many persons, other than residents of India, believe that I have
these mysterious stones in my possession, is indicated by the fact
that, from time to time, dealers in precious stones have visited me and
have offered to purchase them at enormous sums. Scarcely a month has
gone by that has not found on my desk some letter threatening me with
death or financial ruin if I do not relinquish the gems.
“No house in England has been so frequently entered by burglars as has
mine, and I have been obliged to discharge scores of servants whom I
have found to be guilty of tampering with my private letter boxes.”
“Do you believe my Uncle Robert is still alive?” I asked.
“No,” replied my father with decision. “I do not doubt, for a moment,
that he died in the course of the few days following the despatch of
that last letter to my father. The letters I have been receiving, and
which purport to be from him, either are exceedingly clever forgeries,
or were written by him, while under duress, after writing to my father.”
“Well, it is plain that the Rajah and the others would not have made
such determined and costly efforts to get the stones from you had
they not an excellent reason for believing that, having come into the
possession of my Uncle Robert, they had been forwarded by him to you,”
I said thoughtfully.
My father nodded.
“That is unquestionably true,” he said. “But, despite all the inquiries
I have made, I have failed to discover why the stones were given to my
brother, or the identity of the person from whose hands he received
them. The Rajah asserted that the stones had been stolen from him, and
that the thief--a native--entrusted to my brother a commission to take
them to England, where they were to be offered for sale. The native is
dead, and, while the Rajah pretended to have documentary evidence of
the understanding which existed between my brother and the thief, he
failed to produce it.”
For several minutes we sat in silence; then, rising, my father laid a
hand on my shoulder.
“This, my son, is the secret that I have never, until now, asked you
to share. I hope and pray that the persecutions to which I have been
subjected may not pass to you with the title which you will inherit on
my death. If Robert still lives, I hope that he and I may meet again.
If he is dead, may his poor spirit rest in Heaven.”
The following week I bade farewell to my father, and set off for Paris.
I remained in the French capital for four years, and during that time
I succeeded in supplementing the three hundred pounds which I had
received annually from my father with a couple of hundred pounds for
services as Paris correspondent for a London weekly newspaper.
I regret to say, however, that, despite my profound regard for my
father, I devoted comparatively little time to the course of study
which he had suggested. Living in modest quarters, I found my income
sufficient to enable me to mingle with the laughter-loving denizens
of the Latin Quarter, and, devoid of all serious ambition, I was well
content.
But this irresponsible mode of life was brought to a sudden close when
I received from my father the following telegram:
In Heaven’s name come to me at once at Wercliffe. My life is no
longer my own. Insist on seeing me. Take no refusal.
(signed) GALONFIELD.
An hour later I was on my way to England. Arriving there, I hastened
to Wercliffe Hall, our country seat, where I was greeted by strange
servants. This fact caused me little surprise, for the Hall had been
rented to an American for a couple of years, and, naturally, our old
servants had dispersed.
When, however, a stranger, introducing himself as Dr. Tully, told me
that, as my father’s physician, he was compelled to ask me to delay my
visit to his bedside, my spirit was roused.
“I will go to him at once, even if it is necessary for me to knock down
a dozen men who bar my way,” I retorted, angrily.
His face grew livid, but whether this was the result of fear or anger I
could not tell. He stepped back, however, and, as I passed on, I heard
him mutter, sullenly:
“Well, the devil take you, then. I’ll not be responsible for the
consequences.”
Turning quickly, I addressed him again:
“What is the matter with my father?”
“He was stricken with heart trouble, ten days ago,” the man replied.
“Any excitement, however slight, is likely to prove fatal to him now.”
I hesitated, but it was only for a moment. The words of the message
flashed into my mind, and I knew that, in the circumstances, it was
more probable that my father would be more excited by my tardiness than
by my appearance. Accordingly, passing on, with Dr. Tully close at my
heels, I came at last to my father’s bedchamber.
As I opened the door quietly, I saw my father, wrapped in a
dressing-gown, seated in a chair near one of the windows. His face was
like a death-mask, and I shrank in horror from the change that had been
wrought in his appearance since I had seen him last, six months before.
But for only a moment did my gaze rest on the face and figure of the
invalid. Standing beside him, and bending over his chair, was a tall,
lanky, clean-shaven man whose features, it seemed to me, I had seen
somewhere before. This man was speaking, in a calm, low voice, but I
heard his words distinctly.
“So--so!” he was saying, musingly. “He was preparing to die. And his
last request had to do with some verses he had written. You read these
verses? Yes--ah, yes--they were sad things--about two stars--two stars
of destiny, and you pasted them on the back of a frame that held----”
A low cough behind me caused me to turn sharply. The sound had been
made by Dr. Tully.
But the cough had been heard by other ears than mine. The tall man
beside my father turned abruptly, and as, with kindling eyes and rising
color, he confronted me, I knew him in a moment.
It was Simon Glyncamp, an American, who, two years before, had created
a sort of furor in Paris by his mind-reading exhibitions.
“Why are you here?” I demanded--half in anger--half in wonder.
“As an assistant of Dr. Tully’s, I might, with more propriety, ask that
question of you,” he said, and he flashed an ugly look towards the
physician.
I was about to speak when a low, shrill cry interrupted me, and, with
outstretched arms, my father, trembling violently, rose from his chair.
“Cecil--Cecil, my son!” he cried in accents so pitifully weak that
they smote my heart. “Cecil, they are killing me--they have me in
their power. I am dying, and this man is robbing me of my soul. Fear
him--fear him--Cecil--I----”
He tottered toward me, then, as he fell in my arms, his figure became
inert. I bore him to a chair, and, as I laid him down, I looked into
his eyes. The lids were raised, but I knew that he never would see me
more.
Maddened by rage and horror, I seized Glyncamp by the throat and hurled
him toward the door. His head struck the wall and he fell like a bent
poker to the floor. I rang for a servant, and when the man appeared, I
bade him bring the old village doctor.
An hour later I had driven from the house Glyncamp, Tully, and every
servant who had been employed about the place. Among them there was not
one who did not know that I had murder in my heart. They went quickly.
The places of the servants were taken temporarily by some of the
villagers. That night two strangers, who were found loitering in the
park, were stoned from the grounds.
When I became more calm, I secured the services of two detectives, who
I directed to obtain evidence showing that Glyncamp and Tully were
responsible for my father’s death. A few hours later I learned that the
villains had crossed the channel.
For the two weeks following the funeral of my father, my attention was
absorbed by matters relative to the estate. These I found to be far
less serious than I had expected. The frugality of my father and the
excellence of his judgment were not without effect. Some debts were
still unpaid and there were several mortgages to be lifted, but it was
apparent that the financial crisis of the Galonfield affairs had been
passed successfully. I did not doubt that two more years would find
the estate, not only free from debt, but in such shape as to yield an
income of twenty thousand pounds a year. Having reached this gratifying
conclusion, I next addressed myself to a solution of the mystery which
enveloped the closing days of my poor father.
That a desperate attempt had been made to wring from my father some
sort of secret which his tormentors had believed him to possess
was, of course, perfectly apparent. What was it that this American
mind-reader had been trying to learn at the moment that my appearance
had interrupted his efforts?
I distinctly remembered the words I had heard on that occasion, and I
tried to understand their significance. It was plain that the American
was leading my father’s mind back to the time when he had read the
papers that had fallen from my dying grandfather’s hand. Why did
Glyncamp desire to know what disposition he had made of the verses he
found?
Then I suddenly remembered that, despite the fact that my father had
told me what he had done with these verses, I had not had sufficient
curiosity to look at them. Rising now, I left the study, in which I had
been seated, and, entering the library, I took down from the wall the
framed genealogical chart of the Galonfield family. Returning with this
to the study, I laid it on the desk.
The sheet containing the verses met my glance at once. It was yellow,
and covered with dust, but the India ink with which the lines had been
written had lost none of its blackness. The paste had dried, however,
and, as I touched the paper, it came off the wood to which it was
attached. The handwriting was small and almost femininely dainty, and I
read:
STARS OF DESTINY.
Rare as two angel-tears congealed
Are those that flashed their light
Just as great Buddha’s gaze revealed
Its splendors to men’s sight.
Immured within a human breast,
Down Tyneside one shall go.
’Tis only when the truth is guessed
Shall men behold its glow.
Let him who hath less haste than I,
Or deems himself less rich,
Seek that from which in fear I fly--
The treasure in the niche.
Encompassed by the very walls
Your temple-builders made,
Ere death unto the finder calls,
Seize fast the long-tongued jade.
I always have been a lover of poetry, but in this I found nothing that
appealed to me. The verses left the writer’s meaning so obscure that,
believing, as my father had done, they amounted to no more than mere
doggerel, I dropped them into one of the drawers of my desk. A few
moments later my solicitor entered the room to discuss with me some
matters that had to do with the settlement of the estate, and the
verses ceased to have a place in my thoughts. The chart was returned to
its place on the wall without the verses which, in accordance with the
writer’s wish, had been pasted on the back of the frame before my birth.
Five weeks after my father’s death, I received from another American an
offer for a lease on Wercliffe Hall, and, having decided to continue,
for two or three years at least, my father’s policy of retrenchment,
I promptly accepted it. A month later I established myself in an
apartment in London.
While arranging my papers in the desk in my new quarters, I found that
among them were the verses from the chart.
Despite my resolution to curtail my expenses as much as possible, I
yielded to the solicitation of an old family friend and joined a couple
of clubs which had had the names of Earls of Galonfield on their rolls
from the time of their foundation. It was at one of these clubs that I
first met Meschid Pasha who, little as I suspected it at the time, was
destined to play an important part in the history of my life.
Meschid Pasha, who had attained considerable prominence as an officer
in the Turkish army, was a man about fifty-five years of age, with a
pleasing address, thoughtful face and the physique of a man of thirty.
I was introduced to him by an old friend of my father’s, with whom,
however, I had only a slight acquaintance.
The Pasha explained that he had been in London only a few days, and
that twenty years had passed since his last visit. Courteously he asked
me for certain information concerning the town, and, as I was able to
give him this, we soon found ourselves conversing together in terms
of easy familiarity. There was something in the man that interested
me, and when he invited me to take dinner with him on the following
evening, I promised to do so.
He had told me that, designing to spend several months in London, he
had rented a furnished house in the West End. Thither I went, at the
time appointed, expecting to find a modest town house fitted up in
conventional British style. The house itself was modest enough, being
in the middle of a dingy brick block, but scarcely had I been admitted
to the hall when I became aware of the fact that the fastidious
Pasha had established in the heart of London a residence which, by
reason of its interior appointments, might have been transported from
Constantinople or Damascus.
In the dimly lighted hall I saw a Nubian, clad in Oriental costume,
steal like a shadow from a deep niche and noiselessly ascend the
stairs. The room to which I was conducted had the aspect of the corner
of a Turkish bazaar. The walls were hung with rich Oriental draperies,
and were further decorated with shields, simitars, yataghans and spears.
Meschid received me with marked cordiality, and, after a short
conversation, led me to an adjoining room where dinner was served.
Everything was cooked and served in Oriental fashion.
When dinner was finished we smoked, and, as we smoked, our talk was
of the collapse of Russia, the wrangles among Christian sects in
Jerusalem, the influence of sea power on history, and Parisian opera.
This brought us to a discussion of the relative merits of French,
German, Italian, and American singers, and so we talked of women. Then,
half-absently, Meschid said:
“My wife was an Englishwoman.”
I started, for I knew that among Mohammedans it is regarded as an
almost unpardonable breach of etiquette for men to speak of the female
members of their families.
“Indeed!” I murmured, faintly.
“My daughter, whose education was entrusted to an English governess,
has so long felt a desire to see her mother’s native country,
that, yielding to her wish, I brought her with me,” the Pasha went
on gravely. “I regret having done so, however, for her incessant
questioning almost drives me mad. I shall try to have her visited each
day by some discreet London woman, but your ladies’ ideas of a woman’s
life are so vastly different from ours that I am inclined to fear the
result.”
“Is your daughter’s English governess not with her?” I asked.
“No, my friend, her governess died last year.”
“Well, surely, among the wives of your English friends----”
“I have no English friends,” he interrupted. “To be perfectly frank
with you, I will confess that among my English acquaintances there is
none who is so well qualified to win my friendship as is the Earl of
Galonfield.”
“In view of what you have said concerning your daughter, that is most
unfortunate,” I said, laughingly. “The Earl of Galonfield has no wife,
mother, or sister.”
Smiling thoughtfully, Meschid nodded.
“It is most unfortunate,” he replied with a sigh. “But what would you
advise me to do? Is there any cultured and thoroughly responsible woman
you would recommend who----”
He stopped suddenly, and, glancing at me sharply, he slowly twisted one
of the ends of his black mustache. For the first time since I had met
him I was conscious now of a sense of embarrassment.
“Stop!” he exclaimed, as he saw that I was about to speak. “There is an
old adage that directs those who are in Rome to do as the Romans do.
We are in England, and, relying on your discretion, I will do as the
English do. My daughter shall be present at our council.”
He smote his sinewy hands together with a force that startled me,
and, responding to this sound, a corpulent negro, wearing a red fez
and a long black coat, entered the apartment. To this man Meschid
addressed several quickly spoken sentences in a language that I did not
understand. The negro bowed profoundly and left the room.
Meschid and I smoked in silence.
Strange as it may seem, I was not agreeably impressed by these
manifestations of extraordinary friendliness, and from the moment that
my host had first spoken of his daughter, I was conscious of a rapidly
increasing feeling of distrust. I was never known as a “woman’s man,”
and all my life I have been peculiarly insensible to flattery. Why had
this distinguished foreigner sought my acquaintance? Why was he now
manifesting toward me such startling evidence of his confidence?
My discomfiting reflections were dissipated, however, by the parting
of the curtains at the door, and the appearance of one of the most
remarkable figures on which I ever had gazed.
Clad in a long-sleeved, silken caftan of purple silk, the open folds of
which revealed a low, white, gold-embroidered vest, an orange-colored
sash and pale-green trousers, it was the figure of a woman. Her head,
however, was enveloped in a snowy _yashmak_, and through the slit
of this I saw a pair of dark eyes lighted with what appeared to be
curiosity and amusement. Her bare feet were thrust into dainty, jeweled
slippers of crimson leather, and the light from the diamonds set in her
rings and bracelets almost dazzled me.
Utterly bewildered by the suddenness with which I had been confronted
with this pearl of an Oriental harem, as well as by my ignorance of the
conventionalities which should be observed on such occasions, I started
to rise. A moment later, with a fluttering heart and trembling limbs, I
sank helplessly back on the ottoman on which I had been seated.
At a word from the Pasha, the young woman had raised her jeweled hands,
and, by two or three deft movements, freed her head from the veil.
I was face to face with a beautiful creature that might have been one
of those houris who, according to the promise made by Mohammed, await
the faithful within the gates of Paradise!
I am not a poet, so I will not attempt to describe the face I saw. It
was unnaturally beautiful. Nature had been lavish in her gifts, but
these were so supplemented by the work of human hands that the general
effect bewildered me. It was plain that nature had not given to this
fair woman’s lips all their redness, nor had it invested her lashes
and eyebrows with such blackness. Diamonds were shimmering in her hair,
many of the stones being so concealed by the dark tresses that I could
see only their light.
Without rising, Meschid said quietly:
“This is my daughter, and, with the exception of the members of my
family, your lordship is the first man before whom she has unveiled her
face.”
Rising clumsily, I took in mine the dainty, gem-covered hand the young
woman held out to me.
“I am glad that one of my mother’s countrymen is the first of your sex
that I am permitted to meet,” the young woman said, smiling graciously
and speaking in faultless English.
She glanced half-timorously toward the Pasha, as if to assure herself
that her words had met with his approval.
Meschid smiled grimly, but said nothing.
I stammered a few conventional sentences, then we sat down. As I did
so, I observed that a second person had entered the room. This was a
tall woman clad in a black gown and a _yashmak_ of the same color. She
seated herself in one of the corners of the room, and, with her head
slightly bowed, remained motionless for the rest of the evening. This,
I doubted not, was some withered Turkish duenna to whose care the young
woman had been consigned.
In a surprisingly short time I was again at ease. Had it not been for
her Oriental costume and cosmetics, this fair stranger easily might
have passed for a charming, vivacious young Englishwoman. As it was,
there were moments when I felt as if, as a guest at a fancy-dress ball,
I was sitting in a corner of an Englishman’s home, talking with a
couple of English friends.
In the course of the two hours that followed my introduction to
this beautiful young woman, we conversed on many subjects, and,
incidentally, I learned that her name was Pauline.
“It is not a Turkish name, you know,” she explained laughingly. “I was
named after a relative of my mother’s.”
It was ten o’clock when I took leave of my host and his charming
daughter. They invited me to visit them again on the second evening
following, and at the appointed time I was there.
For more than a month I made a practice of visiting Meschid’s house
twice each week, and on most of these occasions I was afforded an
opportunity to pass an hour in the company of Pauline and the sombre,
featureless duenna, who followed her like a shadow, but whose voice
I never had heard. And there were times when, as the duenna appeared
to be absorbed in memories of distant lands and days, Pauline and I
drew so near together on one of the large ottomans that our hands were
wont to meet, and I saw in her eyes those wondrous lights that the old
Persian poets, looking into others, had seen and sung about.
How much of this the old duenna saw, we never knew.
At length, however, there came a sudden awakening, and I visited
Meschid’s house no more.
Pauline and I were sitting on the ottoman together, about nine o’clock
one night, and talking in whispers that could not have reached the
duenna’s ears, when I, raising my eyes, saw Meschid, who was scowling
darkly, standing in the doorway. Pauline, following the direction of my
glance, saw him, too, and, with a little cry, raised her head from my
shoulder, on which it had been lying.
For several moments the silence that followed the discovery of
Meschid’s presence was unbroken. The Pasha was the first to speak.
“Well, your lordship, you see I trusted you,” he said bitterly.
“Nor have I betrayed your confidence,” I said calmly, as I rose.
“Before introducing me to your daughter, you told me that, being in
England, you were prepared to do as the English do. I have taken you at
your word, and, having obtained your permission to visit your daughter,
I have acted as almost any Englishman who loves a woman would act in
similar circumstances. In the English manner I have wooed her, and,
as an Englishman who is able to offer her both social position and
fortune, I now ask your permission to make her my wife.”
Meschid’s face was less clouded now. His gaze wandered from me to the
duenna at the farther end of the room, and then I saw that the somber
figure had risen as if prepared to receive the expected rebuke. This
was not forthcoming, however. Walking deliberately toward the center
of the room, Meschid addressed his daughter, whose colorless face and
frightened eyes were turned toward him.
“Leave us,” Meschid said with an imperious wave of the arm.
Pauline, hesitating, turned to me. Taking her hands I pressed them to
my lips.
“Whatever happens now, we shall meet again,” I murmured. “No earthly
power except your own can prevent me from making you my wife.”
With a little sigh, she turned to the door. Then, followed closely by
the duenna, she left the room.
“Let us smoke,” the Pasha said, and, taking a cigar-case from his
pocket, he opened it and held it toward me.
I took one of the cigars and we sat down together on one of the
ottomans.
“And so you want to marry her,” Meschid said, gravely.
“Yes,” I answered.
“You are asking me to yield to you the most beautiful woman in the
world,” he went on, thoughtfully.
“I am well aware of that,” I said.
“And you know that every pearl has its price,” he added.
A sudden chillness crept over me, and my heart sank. For the first time
in my life I knew the sensation of fear. I realized, too, that I was
dealing now with a true son of the Orient--a part of the world where
women are bought and sold for harems.
“Well, what is the price of this?” I asked him, sullenly.
“The most valuable pair of diamonds known to man,” replied the Pasha
gravely.
I started, and looked at him sharply.
All was clear to me now. This man had come all the way to London to
tempt me. So far as Pauline and I were concerned, he had left nothing
to chance. This house, with its Oriental furnishings, had been fitted
up for no purpose other than that to which I had seen it applied. It
was a trap set for me alone, and baited with--Pauline!
Almost unconscious of the Pasha’s presence, I rose and began to pace
the floor. In my brain was raging a fire that seemed to be consuming
all the respect for man and love for woman that I ever had felt.
Was it possible that this splendid woman--the fairest I ever had
seen--had been only playing a part? Was she nothing more than a blind,
unreasoning puppet that moved in obedience to this jewel-seeker’s
will? Or, ignorant of her father’s base designs, had she really learned
to love me?
While I still was tortured by these conflicting thoughts, it suddenly
occurred to me that my position was presenting a second, and no less
serious, phase. The shadow of the curse that had blighted my father’s
life now had fallen upon me! I was in the presence of one of the men
who, it was apparent, thoroughly believed that the mysterious diamonds
were in the possession of my family. How did he come by this belief?
Glancing toward Meschid, I saw he was watching me stolidly.
“The most valuable pair of diamonds known to man might not be too
precious to offer in exchange for such a gift,” I said. “But where am I
to get them?”
The Pasha shrugged his shoulders.
“Your lordship must find the way,” he answered, shortly.
“Do you believe they are already in my possession?” I asked.
“No,” Meschid replied. “But I have reason to believe your father knew
where they might be found. I doubt not that he communicated the secret
to you.”
“Have you reason to believe that they are in England?”
“No,” said the Pasha, smiling slightly. “If I knew the secret of the
hiding-place, it is probable that I would not find it necessary to come
to you.”
“How were you led to suspect that the secret was in the possession of
my family?” I asked.
“That is my affair,” he retorted.
For several moments both of us were silent. Then, having thought calmly
on the matter, I addressed him.
“For many years men have suspected that two valuable diamonds either
were in my father’s possession or that he had the secret of their
hiding-place,” I said. “Why they should think this always constituted
a mystery that he never was able to fathom. Independent of my interest
in your daughter, it is desirable that I find the gems. If they come
into my possession I gladly will relinquish them to you in exchange for
the gift that it is in your power to bestow on me. I would require as
a further condition, however, that publicity be given to the fact that
you have become the owner of the stones.”
“That responsibility I would assume most cheerfully,” Meschid replied
with a smile.
“I am perfectly willing,” I said, “to undertake the quest, provided
it is possible for me to find the clue which, though unknown to me,
appears to be identified with the property that I have inherited. If
you have any suggestion to offer that is likely to put me on the right
track, I beg of you to let me have it.”
Meschid shrugged his shoulders.
“I can give you no advice,” he said, half-contemptuously. “I have told
you on what terms I will grant you my consent to marry my daughter. The
rest is your affair.”
“How much time may I have in which to attain my object?” I asked.
Again the Pasha shrugged his shoulders.
“My daughter is twenty now, and a woman’s beauty does not last
forever,” he answered, sharply. “If, within two years from to-day you
deliver these stones to me, Pauline shall be your wife. If you fail to
do this within the period I have named--why, then she will become the
bride of a more determined suitor.”
“What is the history of these stones?” I asked him desperately. “Who
was supposed to have had them before they were delivered to my uncle?
All large diamonds have distinctive names. By what names are these
known? How am I to learn who had them last, and how they may be
identified?”
The Pasha shook his head.
“I have no information concerning these details,” he said. “As I have
said, it is your affair.”
Meschid moved toward the door suggestively as he spoke, but I, standing
in the middle of the room, still hesitated.
“Will I not be permitted to see your daughter again before she leaves
London?” I asked.
“No,” he answered with decision. “I will start for Constantinople
to-morrow, and she will go with me.”
I bowed and left the room. Meschid, contrary to my expectation, did
not accompany me. As I passed through the dimly lighted hall, however,
a strange thing happened. A shapeless figure suddenly appeared, then
flitted to a doorway. On the wall opposite this doorway was an oval
mirror in a massive gold frame, and as I passed it, something in the
glass attracted, then riveted, my attention.
It was a human face from which had fallen the folds of the yashmak
that had concealed from my view the features of the duenna, and, as I
looked, I recognized the long, angular face of Glyncamp, the American
mind-reader!
Involuntarily I stopped. For several moments the mirrored eyes gazed
steadily into mine, then the face disappeared, and I passed on.
A black-garmented negro, gliding from a niche, met me as, descending
the stairs, I made my way to the lower hall. He opened the street door
for me, and, stepping out, I found that the city was enveloped in a fog
as thick, murky and gloomy as my thoughts.
On the following day I learned that Meschid, Glyncamp, and most of
the members of the Pasha’s household had left London for Dover. The
servants who remained behind were engaged in the task of packing
furniture.
The next week I gave much time to the examination of my father’s
correspondence, hoping to find therein a clue to the identity and
whereabouts of some person who might know something more of the
mysterious gems than I had been able to learn. My search was vain,
however, and, brooding over my failure, late one night, my thoughts
were diverted by the entrance of a servant who gave to me the card of a
visitor.
As I glanced at the card, an exclamation of pleased surprise came to
my lips. I pushed back my chair and hurried to the hall to welcome
the one man in all the world for whom, since my father’s death, I
had entertained feelings of real affection--Frank Blakeslee, an old
classmate, who, having obtained a commission in the army, had been
serving in India, Africa and Malta, and whom I had not seen for more
than four years.
I am not an emotional man, but now my heart seemed to rise to my
throat. Since Blakeslee and I had parted last, I had seemed to be
living a life of isolation, and during this period there was none I
regarded as a confidant. Now, when I saw the smiling bronzed face
of my old friend in the hallway, I gave no heed to the hand that
he held out to me, but, grasping him by the shoulders, I shook him
violently--insanely, like a very fool. My words of welcome fell
incoherently from trembling lips, but he read their meaning in my eyes.
Startled by the strangeness of my greeting, my friend looked a little
alarmed at first, then, smiling, he said, in his brusque, English way:
“Well, Cecil, how are things with you? I was sorry to hear of your
governor’s death. I knew it must have cut you up a bit.”
We talked for a while on various subjects of interest to us both. Then,
coming back to my affairs, I told him all that had befallen me since my
father had revealed to me the strange secret of his life.
Blakeslee watched me intently as I proceeded with my narrative, and,
from time to time, the shrewd questions he put to me showed that the
last few years had not clouded the keen perceptions that had inspired
me with admiration in our college days. I brought the narrative down
to the very moment that the servant had placed my friend’s card in my
hands.
When I finished, Blakeslee slowly settled back in his chair and puffed
vigorously at his pipe. I watched him curiously, anxious to learn what
effect my recital had upon his mind. At length he spoke.
“How’s Cummings?” he asked, absently.
Cummings, an inconsequential fellow, was an old classmate of ours, of
whom I had lost sight. His life had never interested me.
“I don’t know anything about him,” I replied, shortly, and a feeling
of resentment sent the blood to my face as I realized that my friend’s
thoughts already had wandered from the subject I had found so vital.
“A helpless sort of duffer, wasn’t he?” said Blakeslee, meditatively.
For several moments he smoked silently, then he went on: “But, I
say, old man, you haven’t showed me that doggerel--those verses, you
know--that your uncle wrote.”
I hesitated. Blakeslee had disappointed me. As he sat now, thumbing
tobacco deeper into the bowl of his pipe, there seemed to be something
impertinent in his complacency. Dominated by a spirit of irritation, I
made no reply to his suggestion. He flashed toward me a look of earnest
inquiry.
“If you happen to have them anywhere about you, Cecil, I’d sort of like
to have a look at them,” he persisted.
Half-reluctantly, I opened a drawer of my desk, and, after a little
fumbling, found the sheet and handed it to him. He read the verses
deliberately.
“Humph--not bad!” he muttered, as he finished reading; then, laying the
sheet on one of his crossed knees, he lighted his pipe. “What have you
made of them?”
“Nothing,” I answered, sullenly.
“But the possibility that they might afford some sort of a clue to the
mystery of the diamonds naturally occurred to you,” my friend said
thoughtfully, as again picking up the sheet he looked at the back of it.
“The idea did occur to me, but there seemed to be nothing in the
character of the lines to encourage it. Accordingly, I dismissed it.”
“And you didn’t look for an acrostic or cryptogram or--or anything of
that sort?” he went on musingly, as, with his elbows on his knees, he
studied more carefully the lines on the sheet.
“No,” I replied.
For nearly five minutes the silence was unbroken. Puffing deliberately
at his pipe, Blakeslee kept his gaze on the sheet he was holding before
him.
“Well, Cecil, there’s something here,” he drawled, at last.
I stiffened suddenly. All my resentment left me now.
“Do you know, Cecil, I always had a fancy for this sort of thing,” said
Blakeslee, with a chuckle. He paused, then added: “He’s talking about
gems--two of them--that’s plain enough.”
“He calls them stars--stars of destiny,” I protested.
“Figuratively--figuratively, I suppose they are,” he said,
abstractedly. “But they are gems, for the writer plainly indicates
that the objects were capable of being handled--and one does not
handle stars, you know. Now, let us see. Listen to this: ‘Rare as two
angel-tears congealed--’ There were two of them, you see. ‘Are those
that flashed their light--’ Diamonds are the only gems that really
flash. But now let’s see what he means by ‘just as great Buddha’s gaze
revealed--’ That ‘just’ signifies the time the stones were there--that
they were--well, some place, I suppose. ‘Its splendors to men’s sight.’
Now it’s clear that the ‘its’ refers to the gaze and not the flashing
of the diamonds. In short, then, the diamonds flashed when Buddha
gazed.”
I rose irritably.
“Oh, that’s all nonsense!” I exclaimed. “If you are going to undertake
the thing at all, you’d better get on another track.”
“Nonsense!” Blakeslee repeated, in an injured tone. “There’s nothing
nonsensical about it, old top. I’ve been in India, and I’ve seen images
of Buddha that used to have necklaces of precious stones around their
necks. Sometimes the images were veiled. The withdrawal of the veil
would reveal the gems and the face of the image at the same time,
wouldn’t it?”
I went back to my chair. There seemed to be some method in the madness
of my friend, after all.
“Well,” Blakeslee went on, “let us see how this first verse goes when
the lines are taken together.
“‘Rare as two angel-tears congealed
Are those that flashed their light
Just as great Buddha’s gaze revealed
Its splendors to men’s sight.
Immured within a human breast,
Down Tyneside one shall go.
’Tis only when the truth is guessed
Shall men behold its glow.’
That’s clear enough, too--in a way.”
“Clear enough!” I exclaimed in disgust. “It seems to me that it makes
everything more obscure than it was before.”
“Not at all,” replied Blakeslee, calmly. “It plainly indicates that
one of the stones was to be taken from the land of Buddha to England.
That’s all.”
“Come, come, Blakeslee, you are letting your imagination carry you too
far from the field,” I said. “The last four lines of the stanza, more
than all the others, have convinced me that my poor uncle really was
in a sentimental mood when he wrote of the ‘Stars of Destiny.’ They
refer to the death of a comrade--Lieutenant Wortley, who, while serving
with my uncle in India, was killed in a skirmish with natives. Wortley
belonged to a comparatively humble family in Northumberland. The family
and its fortune were about extinct at the time of his death. My uncle’s
affection for the poor devil was so strong, however, that he had the
body embalmed and sent to England, paying all the expenses of the
funeral himself.”
“From what part of Northumberland did Wortley come?” Blakeslee asked
sharply.
“From a little village named Hetley,” I replied.
“And he was buried at Hetley?”
“Yes--in the family vault in Hetley churchyard. The town is on the
river Tyne, and the lines in the ‘Stars of Destiny’ that read ‘Down
Tyneside one shall go’ doubtless refer to this circumstance.”
There was a pause, then Blakeslee said musingly:
“I have heard of men swallowing diamonds in order to hide them--though
the act nearly always proved fatal, but stars--never, Cecil--never!”
For several moments I was speechless, and I felt drops of perspiration
gathering on my forehead.
“Great Heavens, Blakeslee, you don’t think--” I began.
“I’m only guessing, Cecil,” he answered gravely. “Listen:
“‘Immured within a human breast,
Down Tyneside one shall go.
’Tis only when the truth is guessed
Shall men behold its glow.’
I’m only guessing, boy--I’m only guessing.”
“But--if these diamonds are all that the Pasha believes them to be,
each must be almost as large as the Kohinoor. No man would attempt to
swallow such a stone.”
“Perhaps he didn’t swallow it,” said Blakeslee. “It may be that he died
before the idea of ‘immuring’ it occurred to your ingenious uncle.”
With an exclamation of horror and impatience I rose.
“The very idea is atrocious!” I said.
“Not at all,” Blakeslee protested, complacently. “If men go through
life with gold teeth and aluminum jaws in their heads, and silver pipes
in their chests, what is there revolting in the idea of a man going to
the grave with a diamond in the place formerly occupied by his heart?
It was a good thing for the Lieutenant, I should say. Had it not been
for that diamond his bones would now be lying in an Indian trench. As
it is, he has found burial among his forefathers. There will be no
difficulty in getting permission to open the tomb, I suppose.”
“No,” I murmured. “In view of the fact that members of my family had
the body brought from India, I dare say the matter readily may be
arranged.”
Blakeslee nodded.
“Well, there’s one of the gems accounted for,” he said. “Now let’s see
to the other one.”
He again picked up the sheet containing the verses, and began to study
the lines attentively. I gave him little attention. Trembling with
excitement, I paced the floor with nervous steps. At length a little
chuckle from Blakeslee caused me to halt abruptly.
“As an exponent of practical expression, this old chap was a veritable
Wordsworth, Alfred Austin, or Walt Whitman--too simple to become
great,” he said. “We don’t require any of the literary acumen of a
woman’s Browning club to decipher his meaning. Listen to this:
‘Let him who hath less haste than I,
Or deems himself less rich,
Seek that from which in fear I fly--
The treasure in the niche.
Encompassed by the very walls
Your temple-builders made,
Ere death unto the finder calls,
Seize fast the long-tongued jade.’
All that’s plain enough, isn’t it?”
“Now that the mystery of the first verse has been cleared away, I
confess that the lines of the second become more significant,” I
replied. “The lines, ‘The treasure in the niche’ have, from the first,
encouraged in me the suspicion that the writer might, indeed, be
referring to the hiding-place of precious stones. But, while a certain
temple undoubtedly is referred to, the lines, ‘Your temple-builders
made,’ and ‘Seize fast the long-tongued jade’ have baffled me. There
is nothing to indicate where the temple may be found, and, as ‘jade’
undoubtedly signifies a woman, it is scarcely probable that she has
been living all these years. These reflections have led me to believe
that the language was only figurative, after all--that ‘The treasure
in the niche’ was Truth, and that the ‘long-tongued jade’ who must be
seized before Death calls to the ‘finder,’ was Opportunity.”
Throwing back his head, Blakeslee laughed loud and boyishly.
“And so they are--so they are,” he said pacifically, as he saw the
anger in my eyes. “But let us look at the thing from a distinctively
material viewpoint. Briefly, then, the writer tells us that having
discovered the hiding-place of the stones, and succeeded in getting
away with one, he finds himself compelled to seek safety in flight.
Others, less fortunate than he has been, may return for the treasure
in the niche, if they will, but, so far as he is concerned, the game
isn’t worth the candle. Besides telling us that the treasure is in the
niche, he also says that the seeker will find it within ‘the very walls
your temple-builders made.’ The ‘very’ indicates that the walls are the
same that had been reared by the builders of the temple in which the
stones were at the time of their disappearance, ‘your temple-builders’
undoubtedly being the builders of the temple in which you are
especially interested--in short, the temple originally associated with
the gems.”
Fairly gasping for breath as the force of this interpretation became
impressed upon me, I voiced my last protest.
“But the jade--the jade--” I began.
“That line is at once the most important and intelligible of all,” he
said. “The word has, of course, several meanings--a tired horse, a
woman, and a certain kind of stone that is plentiful enough in India.
Many jars, idols, and other ornaments are made of this stone, and the
line in the verse apparently refers to a piece of jade carved in some
form that shows a long tongue. In this stone you doubtless will find
Diamond Number Two. But the writer warns us that the possession of this
is likely to prove fatal to the finder, for he says: ‘Ere Death unto
the finder calls’!”
“That is all very well,” I muttered moodily, “but how are we to know
where to look for this temple?”
“My dear fellow, this sagacious, plainly spoken uncle of yours had so
little confidence in the perception of his prospective nephew that he
left nothing to chance,” replied Blakeslee laughingly. “He has told
you.”
“Told me!” I exclaimed as I took the sheet that Blakeslee held out to
me.
“You said, I believe, that you tried to find an acrostic in the lines,”
Blakeslee went on.
“I tried the first verse only, but I failed. The first letters of the
lines are ‘R-a-j-i-i-d-t-s’--a combination that is devoid of sense.”
“There is no ‘t,’” protested Blakeslee. “The seventh line begins with
an apostrophe. The word, therefore, is Rajiid’s. In the second verse
the acrostic is plain--‘Lost eyes.’ Thus we have ‘Rajiid’s Lost Eyes.’
Taking these words in conjunction with the idea expressed in the first
four lines of the poem--namely, that the diamonds flashed ‘just’ as
Buddha gazed--it is easy to infer that the diamonds served as the eyes
themselves. Therefore, the diamonds are the lost eyes. Now, as temples
often are designated by the names of the towns in which they stand, it
is reasonable to assume that the Rajiid mentioned is the name of the
town in which we are to find our temple. Have you an Indian Gazetteer
among your books?”
I had one, and quickly placed it in his hands. Blakeslee turned the
pages deliberately. At length he stopped and, taking his pipe from his
mouth, read aloud:
“‘Rajiid, Nauwar: population, three hundred and twenty-five. Shoorgai,
forty miles.’”
As he passed the open book to me, he added:
“Well, there’s your temple, laddie. And now give me a place to turn in,
won’t you? When I got to London it was too late for me to get a train
out to the mater’s place, so I thought I would come up and smoke a pipe
with you. I won’t be up to town again for a week or so--unless--well,
I’ll see that thing through with you at Hetley, if you like.”
That night Blakeslee shared my bed with me. He was soon asleep, and
it was not long before he had the bed to himself; for, after tossing
restlessly for a couple of hours, I rose and, donning my bathrobe,
paced the floor of the library until after daybreak. At breakfast
it was arranged that I should communicate with the rector of Hetley
Church, and that, as soon thereafter as might be practicable, Blakeslee
should go with me to the vault where our gruesome task was to be
performed.
When Blakeslee left me, I at once proceeded to formulate a general plan
for the intended undertaking.
All his life my father had been watched by spies. In Glyncamp, who had
so nearly succeeded in obtaining from him the secret of the mysterious
verses, I recognized a powerful enemy. Was he working in the interest
of Meschid or in his own? Were his interests or those of Meschid allied
with interests of the native Indians who had attempted to get the
stones from my father? If not, how many independent jewel-seekers were
to be numbered among my persecutors?
I saw at once that it was all-important that I should move with
secrecy. Glyncamp was the man I most dreaded, and I shuddered when I
reflected what might happen to me, now that the mystery lay open in my
mind, if Glyncamp should succeed in getting me in his power. How easily
this might be effected was shown by my experience in that dimly lighted
house of the Pasha’s, when, in the guise of a veiled Turkish woman, he
had sat, unrecognized, in the room with me for hours.
In less than an hour I had decided to abandon the policy of
retrenchment that had been inaugurated by my father. All my energies,
financial and otherwise, now would be directed to the task of obtaining
these diamonds. I would win Pauline, and, by publicly transferring the
gems to other ownership, I would remove the curse that had pursued my
father to his grave and now was casting its shadow over me.
Sending for the head of one of the most prominent private detective
agencies in London, I directed him to secure all possible information
relative to Glyncamp’s past life, and to locate him and keep him under
surveillance. Some of this information reached me quickly.
I learned that the man was a native of Ohio, and that, having won
considerable celebrity as a mind-reader in the United States, he
had gone to Paris, where his performances had excited extraordinary
interest. Impressed by his singular ability, the Russian government had
offered him a large sum to go to that country and give his services
to the secret police. He had about decided to accept this offer when
a proposition coming to him from Turkey caused him to change his
plans. He went to Constantinople, and his arrival in the Turkish
capital was followed quickly by the discovery of the secret plans
of a revolutionary society. This resulted in more than a score of
executions. Then Glyncamp’s trail was lost, only to be found again when
he appeared in England with Meschid Pasha. Upon leaving London with
the Pasha, the mind-reader again had disappeared.
Convinced of the correctness of Blakeslee’s interpretation of the
mysterious verses, I decided that the sooner the tomb in Hetley
churchyard was opened the better would be my chance of keeping the
proceeding secret. I saw that I must do one of two things. Either
I would have to write to the rector, or I would have to see him
personally. I realized that writing on such a subject would be unwise
in the circumstances, but I reflected that, if I made two visits to
Hetley, I would take a double chance of exciting the suspicion of spies.
In the end, I came to the conclusion that the better plan would be to
summon Blakeslee, and, accompanied by him, get to Hetley about the
middle of some afternoon, and, after obtaining the rector’s consent to
the proceeding, go to the churchyard at night and perform the necessary
task.
I selected as the date of our visit to Hetley the second day of the new
moon, hoping that in the darkness our visit to the churchyard would be
unobserved by villagers.
Fortunately, all weather conditions were in our favor. Blakeslee and I
arrived at Hetley in a driving rain. We found our way to the rectory
without trouble, and were there greeted by the Rev. John Wivering,
the rector. To him I explained who I was, and I told him that the
purpose of my visit was to obtain from the inside lining of Lieutenant
Wortley’s coat a paper of the greatest importance which had been placed
there by my uncle. The fact that this was there, I said, had been
revealed by a document which I found among the papers of my father.
Though a little startled at first by the nature of my purpose, the
rector assented readily enough to my request. The key to the vault
was in the sexton’s room in the church, but the sexton himself was
confined to his bed by an attack of quinsy. The rector offered to
summon a couple of villagers to give us any assistance that we might
require, but we assured him that the task was so comparatively simple
we needed no aid.
Convinced that I was the person I represented myself to be, and that
my purpose was perfectly legitimate, the rector readily promised to
maintain the strictest secrecy concerning the proceeding. We had
tea with the good man and his wife; and, soon after darkness fell,
Blakeslee and I, carrying a satchel that we had brought with us,
repaired to the churchyard.
The task of conquering the rusty lock occupied more than ten minutes,
but it yielded at last. The rust-encrusted iron door moved inward, and
a rush of damp air passed our faces.
Stepping quickly inside the vault, I drew a dark lantern from the
satchel and bade Blakeslee close the door. A few moments later the
lantern’s fan-like ray was sweeping the floor, roof, and walls.
In the general aspect of the vault there was nothing to inspire an
average man with a sense of morbidness. The open space was about ten
feet square. The walls were of sandstone, and in these were set slabs
of yellowish marble on which were inscribed in black letters the
epitaphs of the persons entombed behind them. The slab bearing the name
of Lieutenant Wortley was almost level with the floor.
From the satchel we took chisels and mallets. The plaster surrounding
the slab was easily crumbled, and, working quietly and quickly, we
succeeded in releasing the slab in about twenty minutes. Behind this we
encountered a row of bricks. These were soon removed, and, at last, we
beheld the side of the box we sought.
Without pausing, we addressed ourselves to the most formidable part of
our task--that of withdrawing the box from the niche into which it had
been thrust. But the efforts of our perspiring, muscle-strained bodies
told at last. Then, with fingers quivering as a result of the violence
of our efforts, we produced a couple of screw-drivers and began to
remove the screws from the cover of the box. The raising of this
disclosed the top of a casket covered with black cloth.
Once more we returned to work with our screw-drivers, and the second
lid soon was lifted. Beneath this was a coffin, crudely fashioned
of lead. Fearing that this was sealed with metal, we examined it
carefully, and were relieved to find that, like the others, the cover
was only screwed down.
At length, Blakeslee and I, having worked our way around the gruesome
box, came together. My companion was withdrawing the last screw. In a
few moments the result of our quest would be known to us.
“Well, Cecil, let’s have it off,” said Blakeslee after a brief period
of hesitation, during which each of us looked at the pale face and
questioning eyes of the other.
Bending, Blakeslee grasped one end of the lid and I took the other. As
we lifted this, I kept my gaze on the metal cover until we laid it on
the floor. Then, for the first time, I turned my eyes to that which its
removal revealed.
“By Jove!” Blakeslee gasped, and stopped.
Well might we have been astonished at the object that now presented
itself to our view--the body of a soldier, clad in a scarlet jacket and
blue trousers. The head was large, and on the young, handsome features
there was an expression of dignified serenity that one might have
expected to find on the face of a sleeping Charlemagne.
“Why, the man looks as if he might have been alive this morning!” I
gasped.
Kneeling beside the still figure, Blakeslee began to unbutton the
jacket with such gentleness that one would have thought he was afraid
of waking the sleeper.
“They cut his head a bit,” mused Blakeslee, as he glanced at the dark
hair critically.
He had scarcely spoken, when, throwing back the folds of the jacket, he
exposed the bare torso of the still figure.
“That’s what did it, though,” whispered my soldier friend, pointing to
a round, bluish hole in the middle of the chest. “He was facing the
brown devils when he fell--one of the Queen’s own lads was this one,
Cecil.”
But my gaze had wandered lower. There I saw two lines--one
perpendicular, the other horizontal--that formed a cross, made, as I
knew by the embalmers. These lines had been roughly stitched, but some
of the catgut threads had been torn away.
Blakeslee gave utterance to a little exclamation of dismay.
“Some one has been here before us,” I muttered between chattering teeth.
“Give me the scissors,” directed Blakeslee grimly.
I passed them to him, then, with trembling limbs, I, too, knelt beside
the box.
A few moments later, when my friend again closed the scarlet jacket
over the cold breast, I, sitting limply on the floor, thrust into the
inner pocket of my coat a hard, oblong object that was sewed in a
little bag of oiled silk which exhaled the odor of fragrant spices--a
bag that I did not attempt to open then.
I tottered to my feet, and, as Blakeslee took one of the dead man’s
hands, I grasped the other.
“Good-night, old chap,” Blakeslee murmured, addressing the dead
soldier. “Perhaps, some morning, the same bugle music will wake us
both.”
As carefully as we had opened the three boxes, we closed them again. We
made no undue haste to leave the place. To the dead we gave all that
was its due. Every screw that we returned to its place was well driven,
and when the big box had been thrust back into the niche, we replaced
the stones as well as we were able. I resolved, however, that more
expert hands than ours soon should be entrusted with this task.
It was after nine o’clock when, after thanking the rector, we returned
to the railway station, just in time to catch a train for London. It
was six in the morning when, sitting at my desk, with Blakeslee at my
side, I severed the threads that had closed the little silken bag.
Within the bag I found a roll of chamois-skin, and in this a roll--a
diamond.
Not until I shall lie in that deep sleep that sealed the eyes of the
red-jacketed hero I saw at Hetley shall I cease to feel a thrill of
fear and wonder as I recall the effect produced by the object that the
unfolding chamois-skin disclosed to my view.
Catching, holding and multiplying the rays of the lamplight that fell
upon it, the marvelous gem suddenly seemed to become the focal point of
ten thousand dazzling beams--a whiteheated thing that was being slowly
consumed in its own blaze of glory--a self-damned soul on which Heaven
and hell had heaped their fires.
As I tottered backward, Blakeslee grasped my arm. Looking at him then,
I knew that his long face mirrored the lividness and horror of my own.
“Cecil, we must stop it!” he gasped, faintly. “If it is seen----! Come,
come, man--we must put it out!”
We glanced around us with apprehensive, searching eyes. The shades
were lowered and the doors were closed, but we asked ourselves whether
it was possible that no eyes other than our own should have seen this
outburst of supernatural radiance.
For several moments my courage seemed to fail, and I could not bring
myself to the point of touching the dazzling stone. At length, however,
I reached for the chamois-skin, and, after dropping this over the gem,
I placed the diamond in a drawer of my desk.
“You can’t keep it there,” said Blakeslee in a hoarse whisper.
“No,” I said. “To-morrow--to-day----”
“If spies are hovering around you the way they hovered around your
father, England is too small a place for that. You must get it
somewhere----”
“I’ve thought all that out, old man,” I answered, firmly.
“What are you going to do with it?” my friend demanded, curiously.
“I won’t tell you that,” I replied.
An expression of wonder leaped into Blakeslee’s eyes.
“You--you mean you dare not trust me!” he exclaimed.
“Yes,” I answered, promptly. “I do not trust myself. If it is known
that you and I possess this secret, there is one who may have it in his
power to get it from us. When we find the other stone we will see them
together. Meantime, both you and I must be ignorant of the hiding-place
of these.”
Blakeslee nodded.
“You’re afraid of Glyncamp, then,” he said, meditatively. “Well, you
are right. It is best that neither of us should know. But how are you
going to manage it?”
“I’ll be out of England within the next twenty hours.”
Blakeslee frowned.
“You are going to the Continent?” he asked.
“No,” I answered, shortly. “But if you are willing to join me in my
search for the other stone, we will set out five months from to-day.
Until that day we must not meet.”
“How long will we be gone?” Blakeslee asked.
“Three months.”
“I can get a furlough for that period, I suppose,” he murmured,
musingly. He paused; then, with a little shrug of the shoulders,
he held out both hands to me, as he added: “All right, then,
Cecil--furlough or no furlough, you can count on me.”
I grasped his hands.
“And you are going to give the gems to the Pasha for the girl?” he
murmured, dubiously.
I nodded.
“Well, Cecil, either the girl is indeed an houri, or you’re a fool,”
Blakeslee muttered as he turned away.
Ten hours later I boarded a west-bound Cunarder at Queenstown. In a
belt I carried one of the lost eyes of the Rajiid Buddha.
During the six days occupied by the voyage, I formulated my plans for
the quest of the second diamond and the protection of the first.
Several days before Blakeslee and I had gone to Hetley, I had seen
in an English newspaper an account of some of the adventures of an
American traveler named Forsythe. This man had made travel a vocation,
and, in the employ of scientists and institutions of learning, he
had brought from various parts of the world objects of interest that
now formed parts of famous collections. He was described as a man of
fertile resource and unimpeachable integrity. I had heard of him
before, and there was something in his personal characteristics and
mode of life that had appealed to my imagination, and sometimes I had
even gone so far as to envy him his experiences.
I now reasoned that, taking advantage of this man’s resourcefulness
and reputation, I might cause the diamond to be removed from India in
a manner that would prevent anyone from suspecting the real purpose
of a visit to Rajiid. More than this, I also conceived the idea, not
only of keeping Forsythe in ignorance of the fact that he was to
have the second diamond in his possession, but compelling him to be
the temporary, and unsuspecting, custodian of the stone I had found
at Hetley. After having Forsythe conceal the Hetley stone, I would
arrange with Dulmer, my solicitor, to have an agent remove the sealed
package containing it from the place in which it might be kept by the
absent Forsythe. Not even should Dulmer know the nature of the packet’s
contents.
My instructions to Dulmer also bade him be prepared to have in the
United States a man who, as soon as he should receive the word to do
so, might take forcible possession of all objects that I might cause
Forsythe to take to that country. The signal for these double thefts of
my own property would be a report of my death to Dulmer. Each detail of
the plan was thought out carefully.
To most persons this plan, with all its elaboration of details, might
have appeared not only unnecessary, but altogether absurd. But the
strange power of Glyncamp had impressed me with so much respect and
alarm that, with so much at stake, I resolved to leave nothing to
chance. I was resolved that no man in the world should fall into
Glyncamp’s power, who in sickness or in health, would be able to form a
mental picture of the true custodian of the Hetley stone or the place
in which it might be concealed.
Upon arriving in New York, I engaged a room in a house occupied by a
family that was in reduced circumstances. Assuming the name of Alfred
Ferguson, I allowed my beard to grow, and, dressing only in cheap
garments, I kept out of the streets as much as possible. Inquiries
which I made concerning Forsythe revealed that he still was in South
America, and probably would not return to the United States for two
months.
I next proceeded to address myself to a task which I had set for myself
while I still was on the steamer. Obtaining some plaster of paris I
made a cast of the Hetley diamond. Then, taking this cast to a Maiden
Lane lapidary, I directed him to supply me with two paste counterfeits.
I had thought that this was a comparatively simple undertaking, but I
was soon undeceived. The lapidary told me that the work would have to
be done in Switzerland, and that it would be impossible for me to have
the imitation stones in less than two months. I gave the order, left a
deposit on it, and went out of the shop.
I had been in New York only ten days when I received from Blakeslee,
the only man who knew my address, a cipher despatch that read as
follows:
Parson says Glyn knows Hetley affair. Burglars have ransacked your
London apartments and spies are watching the house. Keep close where
you are, and look sharp. I am not suspected.
(Signed) B
The three weeks that followed were uneventful, and I spent most of my
time in my room. I heard that Forsythe was on his way to New York, and
I wrote to my solicitors to arrange to have fifty thousand dollars
placed to my credit in a Philadelphia bank. Two weeks later this sum
was at my disposal.
At last my patience was rewarded. The daily newspapers reported
Forsythe’s arrival, and from the Maiden Lane lapidary I received the
two paste stones that had been cut for me in Switzerland.
The lapidary appeared to be enthusiastic over the merits of the
imitations when he greeted me.
“Were there two such real diamonds in existence, they would be worth
millions, sir,” he said.
To give the lapidary his due, I must confess that the paste gems were
so excellently wrought that they filled me with astonishment, for I
never had suspected that the art of counterfeiting precious stones
could attain such wonderful results. A man would, of course, have been
little better than a fool to have been deceived by these paste baubles,
but I scarcely had expected to see any brilliancy at all. The forms of
the stones and a superior quality of material were sufficient to meet
all my requirements.
I expressed thorough satisfaction with the manner in which the work had
been done, and willingly paid the price that had been agreed upon.
I next had a tinsmith make for me a cylinder six inches long and three
inches in diameter. In this I placed the Hetley diamond, carefully
packed; then, in accordance with my instructions, the tinsmith sealed
both ends. This done, I shaved off the beard I had been wearing,
provided myself with twenty-five thousand dollars, and called upon
Forsythe.
The incidents connected with that interview, as well as those that had
to do with Forsythe’s journey to and from Rajiid, have been related
by that gentleman himself. I, therefore, will restrict myself to a
relation of my own experiences subsequent to that interview.
Upon receiving from Forsythe’s messenger the key to the unknown
safe-deposit box, I delivered it to a New York lawyer who had been
named by Dulmer as his representative. Meantime, however, a detective,
who was unknown to this lawyer, in accordance with my London
solicitor’s directions, had kept a careful watch on Forsythe and had
followed him to the office of the safe-deposit company. This detective
then sent the name and address of the company to Dulmer, who, it will
be remembered, knew nothing whatever of any diamond in which either my
father or I had been interested.
Embarking on the same vessel that took Forsythe to Europe, I spent
nearly all my days and nights in my stateroom in the second cabin. I
was in my stateroom on the _Arran_ when Forsythe boarded that steamer.
Blakeslee, having obtained his furlough, secured a stateroom near
the second cabin quarters on the _Arran_. For weeks he had been
indefatigably working in my interests, without causing any of the spies
who were following me to suspect that he was in any way interested in
my movements. To him three detectives, in his employ, had described the
appearance of several of the spies who had been seen lurking around my
former haunts.
On the _Arran_ were several Hindus. One of these conformed with the
description of a Hindu to whom certain spies had reported. Apparently
this man, having failed in his mission to London, was returning to
India without the knowledge of the fact that I was on the same vessel.
Chance, however, led me in his way one night when I had determined to
have a few words with Blakeslee.
My friend saw that I was recognized, and in obedience to a warning
signal from him, I retreated. That night the Hindu died under
mysterious circumstances. He was only an unknown Hindu, so the officers
of the _Arran_ made no investigation. All happened very conveniently.
The discovery of this spy caused me to change my plans. Despite what I
had told Forsythe--and I must confess that my representations to that
gentleman were sometimes rather far from the truth--I had intended to
let him go to Rajiid alone, while Blakeslee and I took another route. I
now decided, however, to have Blakeslee and Forsythe follow me.
At Arungabad I found two brothers--Parsees--who, like other members of
their sect, had little respect for Buddhism or its disciples. The elder
of these brothers was named Ahmed-Kal. The younger was Bunda. I had six
servants, but of these the two Parsees were the only ones whom I felt I
could trust.
I felt reasonably certain, until I drew near Rajiid, that I was
successful in keeping clear of spies. Upon my arrival at Rajiid, I
visited the holy well and its temple, as any other traveler might have
done. I watched a jaboowallah perform his tricks, and then passed on
my way. While in the temple I was careful not to display any undue
interest, but I had little difficulty in marking the jade idol in a
niche near the ceiling.
After leaving Rajiid, I proceeded to a village about ten or twelve
miles beyond. Here, pretending to be ill, I halted to await the arrival
of Forsythe and Blakeslee at Rajiid. In due time this was reported to
me.
Thus far I had believed myself to be free from suspicion, and already
I had begun to laugh at the fears which had caused me to make such
elaborate preparations for my quest for the hidden gem. I had little
difficulty in convincing myself that, without Forsythe and Blakeslee,
I might have purchased the jade idol and made my way out of India.
Satisfied, then, that my purpose was not suspected, I despatched
Ahmed-Kal to Forsythe with a note directing him to purchase certain
articles and return home by way of Calcutta. By the time Ahmed-Kal
returned, however, I was undeceived. Scores of native, cat-like eyes
had been watching me for hours.
It was Bunda who first told me this--Bunda, the brother of Ahmed-Kal.
From one of my alarmed native attendants he had learned that I had come
to Rajiid to take from their place of concealment the lost eyes of the
bronze Buddha.
When Bunda told me this, I laughed at his fears, but I put in his hands
a little parcel wrapped in khaki-cloth, and bade him take my horse
and set out for Bombay. I told him that fortune awaited him there if
he delivered to a certain man, whose name I gave, the parcel that I
entrusted to his keeping. I explained also that if he betrayed his
trust the soldiers of the White King would flay him, for that which I
had given to him was the White King’s own. The parcel contained the
imitation gems.
When I saw that the man believed me, I provided him with funds for his
long journey, for as fast as one horse succumbed to speed he was to
purchase another--the fleetest he could obtain. When Bunda left me I
awaited, with all the calmness I could command, the hour that would
bring to me the report of Forsythe’s departure from Rajiid.
But, before that hour came, the blow which I dreaded had fallen,
and it had come from an unexpected source. Bunda was scarcely more
than a dozen miles from Rajiid when I was suddenly set upon, beaten
insensible, and bound by my own attendants. It was in vain that
Ahmed-Kal tried to defend me, and even he suspected for a time that his
brother, knowing of the danger, had sought safety in flight.
When I recovered consciousness I was bruised and bleeding, and was
in the temple grounds where Forsythe found me. Before me stood the
jaboowallah who had exhibited his skill as a wonder-worker when I was
leaving the Rajiid temple. Addressing me in excellent English, he
questioned me shrewdly concerning the object of my journey to India,
and my reasons for visiting Rajiid. I told him I was a traveler, bound
for the military station at Shoorgai. His eyes flashed ominously while
I was speaking. When I finished he said:
“The sahib lies. He is Lord Galonfield, and he has come to us to
profane and rob our shrines. Unless he tells us where we may find the
sacred gems that were once the eyes in Buddha’s image, he will speak no
more.”
I shrugged my shoulders as I answered:
“I have told you that my name is Ferguson. The hiding-place of the lost
eyes is unknown to me. But if, doubting what I say to you, you find
courage to shed my blood, there will come to Rajiid men with coats as
red as the blood you now design to spill.”
“The White King’s soldiers will come in vain,” the jaboowallah
answered, calmly. “Though I shall cleave the sahib’s head from his
shoulders, yet shall he not die except by his own act, nor shall the
soldiers find him. Has the sahib any wish to express before he dies?”
I hesitated.
“Yes,” I said. “I am informed that, since I left your temple, another
traveler has come to Rajiid--Forsythe Sahib. Let him see my body, that
he may report my death to my friends in England. It is better that they
should know that I am dead than that they should spend their fortunes
seeking me.”
I saw the light of craftiness playing in the jaboowallah’s eyes. I knew
his thought, and that Forsythe would be brought to me before I died. I
knew, too, that I would not be allowed to die till they had the secret
from me.
“It shall be as the sahib has said,” the jaboowallah replied, but, as
he spoke, my heart grew still, for he unsheathed a sword.
At the feet of the jaboowallah several natives now spread a square
piece of white cloth, and eight or ten brown, sinewy hands forced
me to sit on it in a cross-legged position. This done, the natives,
retreating, left me sitting alone, at the jaboowallah’s feet.
“If the sahib wants to count the minutes and hours that precede the
coming of his friends let him sit still as the great Buddha on his
throne,” the jaboowallah said.
His eyes now gleamed like fiery coals, and, as they bent their gaze
upon me, I felt my will go out. The jaboowallah raised his arm, and
thrice in the moonlight I saw the flashing of his swift-circling blade.
A keen pain quivered in my neck and set every nerve in my body tingling.
“And so shall the sahib await the coming of his friends,” said the
jaboowallah as, sheathing his sword, he turned from me.
A few minutes later the sound of retreating feet died away. I was alone.
I was not deceived. The wound I had received was nothing more than
a mere scratch, however, which this strange man’s art had caused to
completely encircle my neck. It marked the beginning of the series of
tortures to which I was to be subjected in the course of an attempt to
wring my secret from me.
I saw Ahmed-Kal, trembling with fright, mount and ride away in the
direction of Rajiid. For more than an hour, conscious of the fact that
I was watched by scores of unseen eyes, I sat there, never stirring.
At length, from over a rise in the road, there came to my expectant
ears the welcome sounds of approaching hoofbeats. Then a little
cavalcade came into view. At its head rode Forsythe, Blakeslee, and
Ahmed-Kal.
I heard the horses stop in the road, and a few minutes later I saw my
friends approaching me.
I knew no word that might pass between us would escape the ears of
spies who were concealed in the foliage around me, but I was resolved
that Forsythe and Blakeslee should not be suspected of being the real
custodians of the precious gem that was concealed in the jade image.
But, shrewd as my friends usually were, this mysterious situation
now disconcerted them. They thought that I, believing myself to be
decapitated, had lost my reason. Despite my protests, Forsythe called
to his attendants, and Blakeslee drew his revolver. A score of armed
natives leaped upon them. Forsythe went down, but Blakeslee, fighting
like a very demon, shot four men and broke away. He got to where the
horses had been left, and, mounting his own--an animal that had been
carefully chosen--he made off in the direction of Shoorgai.
Ahmed-Kal, who had attempted to defend himself, was beheaded. Forsythe
was borne away insensible.
An hour later, while strung up to a beam by my hands, and with heavy
stones bound to my feet, I confessed--confessed that I had found the
lost diamonds under the coping of a well near which I had encamped, and
that Bunda, the Parsee, was bearing them to Bombay.
Further tortures were now suspended, and I was imprisoned in a
dingy cave, scooped in the side of a hill. From one of my guards I
learned that Forsythe had been released, and had left Rajiid. Why the
jaboowallah caused his vocal cords to be cut I cannot tell. I suppose,
however, it was the brown devil’s method of punishing him for calling
to his attendants while he was in the sacred precincts of the temple.
I knew that, as a result of my pretended confession, riders and
telegrams were being despatched to many villages in an attempt to head
off the fleeing Bunda. A week passed, however, before I was summoned
to the presence of the jaboowallah and there confronted with the paste
stones I had obtained from Switzerland.
I was asked whether or not these were the stones I had found in the
wall. I replied that they were.
Never have I beheld such a picture of chagrin as was presented by the
jaboowallah at that moment. He believed that the famed eyes of the
Rajiid Buddha had been nothing more than the imitation stones that now
lay before him.
I was told that I was free. Two hours later I was in the act of
mounting the horse which was to bear me away from Rajiid when I was
again assaulted. Once more I was thrust into the foul cave, and
there, deprived of food and water, my sufferings soon became almost
unendurable. In a week I felt that I was on the verge of becoming a
raving maniac, then they gave me water and I was led out into the
light. Something--whether it was the sun or a flash of burnished
copper--suddenly dazzled me, and I fell.
When I recovered consciousness, I found myself sitting on the floor of
a squalid room, and muttering incoherently.
“Give the sahib food,” a voice was saying.
The speaker was the jaboowallah, and, as he passed out of the door in
which he had been standing, I saw a European approach him. A moment
later the stranger disappeared, but my single glance was enough.
The stranger was Glyncamp!
Had I betrayed my secret? Whimpering and laughing like a foolish child,
I cried for food.
It mattered not how much the American mind-reader had learned from me,
the knowledge came to him too late.
A week later, shattered in health and mind, I crawled out of the dark
cave in which I had been confined. Where were my guards, and why had
no one brought me food? As I stood, blinking the warm sunlight, I saw
a man in khaki. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. The man was still
before me, sitting on a stone, with a rifle across his knees. I called
to him, and he turned. He shouted and discharged his gun in the air,
and then ran toward me. It was a British soldier whom I never had seen
before.
“Are you Galonfield?” he asked.
“Yes--yes--I’m--” I began falteringly.
The man, bringing his heels together, saluted me as if I had been an
officer.
“Your friend, Lieutenant Blakeslee, is here, sir,” he said.
Sky, trees, and distant native huts seemed to be flung together in
a mighty mass, and I was dazzled by the whirling colors. I tottered
forward, and, as I fell, the soldier caught me in his arms. When I came
to my senses, I was lying on a camp cot, and Blakeslee was bending over
me.
“What has happened?” I managed to gasp.
“I got to Shoorgai, and brought down the boys,” he said. “For two weeks
we’ve combed the district in our search for you. You are twenty miles
from where I saw you last. The jaboowallah fled--saw the game was up, I
suppose.”
“And Glyncamp?” I asked anxiously.
“Oh, Glyncamp hasn’t been here, old man.”
“Yes,” I muttered, weakly. “Glyncamp has been here and has learned all
I knew.”
As soon as I was able to make the journey, Blakeslee and I returned to
England. There I learned that my plans had not miscarried. The jade
image and the cylinder were safe in New York.
Meantime, Forsythe had been incarcerated in an American insane asylum.
Not knowing anything of the manner in which he had been persecuted,
I did not suspect that he was at that moment perfectly sane and the
victim of the jaboowallah’s spies.
The very thought of the gems themselves was hateful to me, and I
resolved to get rid of them at the earliest possible opportunity. To
this end I sent to Meschid a letter that read as follows:
YOUR EXCELLENCY: Having succeeded in performing the task which you
set for me when we last met in London, I am now prepared to deliver
to you the articles which you demanded in exchange for the honor I
then sought at your hands. If, therefore, you will meet me in London
or Paris with the person who constitutes the third party to our
understanding, all the conditions of our compact will be promptly
executed.
Three weeks passed before I received a reply. The Pasha said that,
in order to fulfil the conditions we had agreed upon, it would be
necessary for me to present myself at his residence in Constantinople
and there deliver to him the articles which, as had been stipulated, he
should receive.
But I was still a marked man, and there were strong reasons for my
hesitation to go beyond the pale of English law and the protection
which it affords even to the humblest of England’s sons and daughters.
I now sent to an attaché of the British embassy at Constantinople a
letter in which I explained that I was betrothed to Meschid’s daughter,
Pauline. I also said that, owing to my failure to get in communication
with her, I desired to have agents employed to discover her present
whereabouts. The answer I received to this was a telegram that read:
Pauline is Meschid’s stepdaughter. He married her mother, the widow
of the late Prince Maranotti, of Basselanto, Italy. The mother died
two years ago. Pauline fled to her stepbrother, the present Prince
Maranotti. Her whereabouts are unknown to us.
At the end of a fortnight I was in Italy. Leaving Naples, I started
for Basselanto. I had covered only a portion of the journey, however,
when, in a newspaper that came to my hands, I saw a startling piece of
intelligence.
Prince Maranotti had been murdered at Basselanto only a few hours
before!
The dead man’s body, bruised and scratched, apparently by human hands,
had been found at the foot of a cliff over which, it was thought, it
had been hurled by the murderer.
Two men were suspected of having committed the crime. Of these one was
a man with a singularly grotesque face, whom no one in the vicinity of
Basselanto remembered having seen before the day on which the Prince
had met his death. A few hours before the body was found, however, he
had been seen hurrying to the station, apparently in a great state of
agitation.
The second person under suspicion was an American college
professor--Pietro Maranotti--a cousin to the man who had been slain.
Arriving at Basselanto, I made inquiries concerning Pauline. From
servants I learned that she had not been seen at Basselanto since, as
an infant, she had been taken away by her mother, an Englishwoman, who,
having been married to the former Prince, had fled from his cruelty.
Despite all the privations to which I had been subjected since I had
undertaken the quest of the Rajiid diamonds, my love for the beautiful
young woman to whom Meschid had introduced me, had been strengthened
rather than diminished. I asked myself why, if she was in trouble, she
had made no attempt to communicate with me. I resolved that to the
solution of this mystery I would address myself with even more energy
than I had displayed in my search for the gems which, as it had been
arranged, were to constitute the price of Meschid Pasha’s consent to
our marriage. I was determined to employ all my time and whatever
fortune I could command in finding the woman I loved.
Once more I had recourse to detectives. These I directed to trace the
movements of Pauline from the time she escaped from Meschid’s harem.
It was not long before these men reported that they were crossing the
trails of other detectives who were engaged in a similar search. Then
I learned that the employer of these was no other than the mysterious
Glyncamp, of whom I had seen or heard nothing since I saw him in India.
My available funds were growing low, and I decided to sell the diamonds
for which I had risked so much and for which Meschid Pasha had nothing
to offer now. By doing this I would attain two objects. First, they
would yield to me a sum sufficient to enable me to liquidate all the
debts I had contracted, and, secondly, I would cease to be an object
of the persecution of the unseen enemies who still threatened me.
Having arrived at this determination, I sailed for the United States.
Upon my arrival in New York I went to the best-known jeweler in that
city. To this man I told the history of the Rajiid stones, and offered
them for sale. He replied that he was unwilling to buy such costly gems
as a matter of speculation, but that he would try to find a purchaser.
A few days later he wrote to me, requesting me to call on Hewitt
Westfall.
It was with Mr. Westfall that I went to the vault in which the cylinder
and the jade image were deposited, and it was in his study that the
cylinder was opened and the jade image broken. There, for the first
time since the Indian Mutiny, the wonderful gems flashed together, and
it is to Mr. Westfall that they now belong.
To the purchaser of the lost eyes of Rajiid’s Buddha I told the story
of my quest for them. Strangely enough, he appeared to have heard
something of one or two of the persons I had mentioned, and he offered
to cooperate with me in my search for Pauline if I would consent to
submit to him certain reports that I had received from my agents. This
I did not hesitate to do.
Two weeks ago Mr. Westfall invited me to this dinner, and at that
time he expressed the belief that he would be able to number among
his guests the young woman whom I had known as Meschid’s daughter. He
has kept his word, and now, in the presence of those who have heard
the story of my adventures, I offer to her who inspired me with the
determination to undertake them the love, name, and fortune which, many
months ago, I offered to her in the London house of Meschid Pasha.
As the Decapitated Man finished speaking, he rose from his chair and
gazed earnestly toward where the Veiled Aeronaut sat with bowed head,
at the foot of the table. But from the unseen lips of the heroine of
his romantic tale there came no sound.
The silence was broken at length by Hewitt Westfall, who, rising, said:
“It is unfortunate that the endings of many true love stories should
be so uncertain that we have to guess at them, but in this so much yet
remains to be told that the story may be said to be scarcely more than
begun. Even the lady to whom his lordship just has addressed himself
has much to learn from others before she will be able to tell him
whether or not joy or sorrow will crown the efforts he has made to win
her.”
The Fugitive Bridegroom, whose face now wore a grayish pallor, half
rose from his seat. Glaring at the Decapitated Man, he asked, in a
voice that trembled with emotion:
“Do I understand, sir, that the lady to whom you have referred as
‘Pauline’ is--is my wife?”
“Your wife!” exclaimed the Decapitated Man, looking wonderingly at the
Veiled Aeronaut.
“No,” said the Sentimental Gargoyle, in a tone of decision. “Though the
lady may have given our friend, the Fugitive Bridegroom, some reason to
believe that he was her husband, I protest that she is not his wife.”
“And I maintain, sir----” began the Fugitive Bridegroom, impatiently.
“Well, well, let the lady tell her own story,” interrupted the Nervous
Physician, pettishly. “Until then----”
“Stop, gentlemen,” said Westfall, calmly. “All of you shall be heard in
good time, and it will be from the Veiled Aeronaut that we will hear
next. But, as it is now well after midnight, we shall be compelled
to wait until we reassemble in the evening. Meantime, according to
our arrangement, there must be no discussion of the subjects that are
reserved for after dinner.”
The guests thereupon rose, and, with bewildered faces, made their way
to their respective staterooms.
Breakfast was not served until nine o’clock. The One-eyed Duckhunter,
accompanied by the Decapitated Man, went out after ducks, while the
Whispering Gentleman, the Homicidal Professor and the Hypochondriacal
Painter sat down with Westfall to a game of bridge. The Fugitive
Bridegroom and the Veiled Aeronaut remained in their staterooms, and
the Sentimental Gargoyle found employment in writing verses on a little
table that was placed for him near the sarcophagus containing the mummy
of the Princess Tushepu, of the Twentieth Dynasty.
At three o’clock all except the Veiled Aeronaut sat down to luncheon.
Dinner was served at half past seven, and, when this was finished,
Westfall announced that the Veiled Aeronaut was prepared to relate the
story of her adventures.
The guests then seated themselves in comfortable attitudes and the
Veiled Aeronaut began her story.
CHAPTER VI
A WANDERER FROM ARABY
Incredible as my assertion may appear to you who have just heard Lord
Galonfield relate his remarkable adventures, I may truly say that not
at any time since the night on which his lordship told me that he loved
me have I believed that his conduct on that occasion was inspired
by any motive other than a desire to obtain a fortune which, I was
assured, he believed would go with my hand.
Despite the fact that Meschid Pasha introduced me as his daughter,
there is not a drop of Moslem blood in my veins. My mother was the
daughter of Sir George Bridwell, a member of the British House of
Commons. When she was only twenty years of age, she became the second
wife of Prince Maranotti, the head of one of the noble families of
Italy. By his first wife Prince Maranotti had a son--Victor--who was
seven years old at the time of my mother’s marriage.
I was born a year after my mother became the Princess Maranotti. For
several months prior to my birth, the Prince’s unreasonable jealousy
had caused him to treat my mother with a degree of cruelty that was
almost inhuman. After I was born the Prince’s conduct became so
unbearable that, when I was only five months old, my mother, with me
in her arms, and accompanied only by a maid, fled from Italy. Her
brother had been serving as an attaché to the British embassy in
Constantinople, and it was to him she fled now for protection.
Upon our arrival in the Turkish capital, my mother learned that her
brother, having obtained leave of absence, had set out for England
only a few days before. The funds then in her possession were little
more than sufficient to take her and her infant and maid to England.
This course, however, she hesitated to follow. Her father was a man
dominated by a strong sense of duty, and she feared that he would
compel her to return to Prince Maranotti, whose vengeful disposition
was likely to cause him to inflict some terrible punishment upon
her. Despite her fears, she finally decided to go to London, but she
resolved that if Sir George reproached her with her conduct she would
seek refuge with relatives of her mother.
We were stopping then at a hotel in Pera, and, in order to elude Prince
Maranotti, or such agents as he might have employed to seek her, my
mother assumed the name of Mrs. Andrew Fenchurch. When her preparations
for her journey were completed, she sent for a couple of carriages
to take us and our luggage to the vessel on which we were to embark.
Entering the first carriage, with me in her arms, my mother directed
the maid to seat herself in the second, which contained articles of
value, and to meet us at the quay.
As the two carriages drew away from the hotel, my mother, though
wearing a thick veil, still feared discovery, and so drew down the
curtains of the vehicle in which she was seated.
At length the carriage stopped, and my mother, raising one of the
curtains, looked out. Instead of the entrance to the quay, she beheld
the richly carved walls of a splendid courtyard. Throwing open the
door, my mother called to the driver. The man made no reply, but a
few moments later four negroes, seizing her by the arms, forced her
to alight and enter a door which was opened at her approach. A fifth
negro, closely following the others, carried me in his arms. When the
negroes released my mother, she found herself in a sumptuous apartment
which, she was informed, was one of a suite in the harem of Meschid
Pasha.
Too terrified to question further the black-skinned men who were
stationed outside the door, my mother spent nearly twenty minutes of
nerve-racking suspense. Then there entered the apartment a man about
thirty-five years of age, with pleasing features and a sturdy figure.
He was clad in Turkish dress, and in him my mother recognized one of
the passengers who had been aboard the vessel that had brought her from
Naples.
To my mother this man then made the most ardent protestations of
affection. Because of the black garments she had worn since her
departure from Italy, he had thought her to be a widow, and had hoped
to win her consent to become his wife. My mother indignantly spurned
the affection that he offered her, and demanded her liberty.
Apparently thoroughly crestfallen, Meschid retired. On the following
day he told my mother he suddenly had been ordered to join the army
in one of the Arabian provinces. This assignment, he said, would
necessitate his absence from Constantinople for several months. He
informed her, however, that during this period she would be treated
with the utmost respect by the members of his household, but that she
was not to make any attempt to regain her freedom. My mother, who was
now a prisoner, resolved to submit to the conditions which the Pasha
had imposed upon her until such a time as her brother might return to
his post.
Each week English and French newspapers were brought to my mother’s
room by respectful attendants, and by means of these she learned that,
shortly after his return to London, her brother had married and retired
from the diplomatic service. More important than this, however, were
reports that Prince Maranotti, believing that there had been ample
grounds for his jealousy, was convinced that his wife had eloped with
one of her admirers. Accordingly he had divorced her.
When Meschid returned to Constantinople, his wooing of my mother was
resumed. This time he did not sue in vain. The light came back to
her eyes, and among the first of my memories were the songs she used
to sing while the infatuated Pasha, standing beside the piano he had
brought to her from Paris, turned the sheets of music that lay before
her. In the years that followed she bore to Meschid three sons and two
daughters.
Perhaps it was my mother’s many evidences of affection for me, the
child of her first marriage, that caused my stepfather to dislike me.
But, though I knew I would never share the love that he bestowed upon
my brothers and sisters, I never feared him. In his way he was kind
to me. When my mother expressed a wish that I might have an English
governess who should prepare me for that world that lay beyond the
walls of the harem, her fond husband readily consented.
My education was as strange as were my early associations. I was taught
English, French and Turkish, and soon became proficient in music and
drawing. In my early youth I was inordinately fond of fairy tales. I
was taught to read the Bible and the Koran, and of these the Koran
was my favorite. But of all the books that were placed in my youthful
hands, those which pleased me most were the works of the old Persian
poets, whose lutes were attuned to the praise of Oriental loves, the
songs of birds, the splashing of fountains and the voices of angels,
peris and genii who lurked amid whispering trees and fragrant, nodding
flowers.
After her marriage to the Pasha, my mother was free to leave the house
whenever she listed. But, whether she walked or rode through the crowded
streets, there was none among those she passed who would be bold enough
to imagine that the bright eyes that looked through her _yashmak_, or
the graceful form that was enclosed by her _farendje_ were those of a
daughter of Old England, who, having been an unhappy Italian Princess,
was now the contented wife of a distinguished Mussulman.
Despite the indifference of my stepfather, I think I should have been
content to remain in that luxurious, song-haunted harem forever, had
not, when I was eighteen years of age, a terrible misfortune befallen
me. This was the death of my mother.
Then all light suddenly went out of my life. The songs which had made
the harem seem to us like a corner of the Prophet’s paradise were heard
no more, except when, like spirit voices, we heard them echoing faintly
in the dim-lighted, rose-scented chambers of our memories. No more did
Meschid enter the harem with smiling lips and expectant eyes. His face
had become more stolid--his gaze more abstracted and severe.
Two of my half-brothers--Abdul and Ildebrin--no longer made their
quarters in the harem, and, after the departure of Ildebrin, then
fourteen years of age, the place became more cheerless than before.
When I was nineteen, my English governess died. I felt that I was quite
friendless now.
Fond as I was of dress and jewels, with which I was well supplied,
vanity never had been numbered among my faults, but there came a time
when the praise of plain-spoken women visitors brought to me the
knowledge that my physical attractions were far greater than those of
my dark-skinned half-sisters, who resembled their father, rather than
their mother. These comparisons were always displeasing to me, for I
saw that my sisters were becoming less and less disposed to mask the
aversion with which I inspired them. For the first time I realized that
I was living on the bounty of a man to whom I was bound by no ties
of blood. Meschid was a devout Mussulman while I--half English, half
Italian--had not a drop of Moslem blood in my veins.
At length there reached the harem a rumor that Meschid Pasha, who
during the lifetime of my mother had no other wife, was about to wed
again. I knew that he or his daughters had no love for me, and I
wondered what would be my position in the harem when the new wife was
placed at its head.
The star of my destiny had risen, however. Meschid had seen it, but not
I.
And so it came to pass, while I was preparing to go out among the shops
one morning, that Meschid entered the harem, and, by a gesture, bade me
accompany him to one of the rooms where we might be alone.
After we seated ourselves, Meschid looked at me long and thoughtfully,
without speaking.
“Pauline,” he said, at length, “what is your faith?”
It was the first time he ever had spoken to me on the subject of
religion, and I colored with embarrassment.
“My mother died a Christian, did she not?” I murmured.
Meschid nodded.
“Yes--she died a Christian,” he answered, with a sigh. “She made me
promise I would not make you change your faith. That promise shall be
kept.”
Then, after a little pause, he added, gloomily:
“Your father is a Christian, too.”
I did not reply to this, and for several minutes Meschid sat looking
abstractedly at the floor.
What had my stepfather come to say to me? With a fluttering heart I
looked around at the walls that once had constituted a part of my
mother’s home. I knew that the time was at hand when I should say
farewell to them forever.
“Most Moslem girls marry before they are sixteen,” Meschid said,
musingly. “You are nineteen, I believe.”
The gates of Dreamland seemed to be opening their portals to me now,
and I felt as if peris, standing at my side, were pointing to where the
heroes who so often had visited my girlish fancies were gazing on me
from the mystic city’s walls.
“Yes--yes, I know,” I faltered.
“If you are to remain a Christian, you must have a Christian husband,”
Meschid said.
A great fear smote me. Would there come a time when, like Giaour women,
I would have to appear with my face unveiled in city streets?
“And I have one in view,” Meschid added.
I was trembling violently. For better or for worse, my fate was sealed.
There was nothing I might do of my own volition--nothing I could say.
Meschid rose.
“We will start for England to-morrow,” he said.
Involuntarily I clapped my hands.
“For my mother’s country!” I exclaimed, half-joyfully. “Ah, it must be
very beautiful in England, for my mother loved it so.”
A frown settled on the Pasha’s face, and he looked at me darkly.
“Yes,” he said, sighing as he turned away. “Yes, your mother loved
it--once. But, sometimes, I fancied she was happy here.”
He left me then, and, with feverish haste, I began my preparations for
the long journey on which I was to set out on the morrow.
When we had embarked on the steamer that was to take us from the
Bosphorus to Naples, I laid aside my _yashmak_, but, in obedience to
the command of Meschid, I had all meals served in my stateroom, which I
never left without a heavy green or gray veil over my face. At Naples
we boarded a train for the north, and, in due time, we arrived in
England.
In London a house was in readiness for our occupancy, and I marveled
much when I saw how greatly its appointments resembled those of Turkish
homes. It had its harem and its selamlik, but here I had less liberty
than in Constantinople, for, under no circumstances, was I permitted
to leave the harem unless I was accompanied by my stepfather. We took
several drives together, and on these occasions I wore one of the
French gowns that constituted part of my traveling wardrobe, but I
was not permitted to raise my veil, which, unlike a _yashmak_, had no
opening for the eyes.
While I was in this London house I suddenly was summoned to the
selamlik and there found myself in the presence of Lord Galonfield. My
stepfather bade me remove my veil, and, for the first time since I was
ten years old, my face was revealed to a man who was not a member of my
stepfather’s household.
Scarcely had I acknowledged my introduction to Lord Galonfield when I
became conscious of the fact that a strange person had followed me into
the room. This person was clad in a black gown and _yashmak_, but whose
face it was that was concealed by the _yashmak_ I did not attempt to
guess.
Believing that in Lord Galonfield I beheld the man who was to become
my husband, I studied him critically. His marked admiration for me,
his gentle manner and apparent manliness were not without effect. He
pleased me, and I told myself that I would be content to be his wife.
When Lord Galonfield left the house, I asked my stepfather whether or
not my surmise was correct. He answered, coldly, that nothing had been
decided, but that it was more than probable that Lord Galonfield would
ask for my hand.
I then sought information concerning the black-garmented woman I had
seen.
“It is a lady in whom I have the most implicit confidence,” Meschid
replied. “In no circumstances are you to see Lord Galonfield except in
her presence. If he asks you who she is, you may tell him that she is
Ayesha, a Moslem woman to whose charge you have been confided during
your residence in England. Discourage all further questioning on the
subject, and abstain from it yourself.”
Lord Galonfield’s visits now became frequent, and, when he called, my
stepfather arranged matters so that his lordship, the mysterious Ayesha
and I were left together for an hour. It was only at these times that I
saw Ayesha at all.
Each visit found Lord Galonfield’s regard for me increasing, and at
length he threw aside all restraint and, telling me that he loved me,
he asked me to be his wife. I inquired whether he had obtained the
consent of my stepfather. He replied that he had not, but would try to
do so. Again he asked me if I loved him, but, just as I was in the act
of confessing that I did, my stepfather entered the room. Meschid, to
my great surprise, bitterly rebuked his lordship for thus declaring
his sentiments to me, then he ordered me to return to the harem. I was
on my way thither when the idea occurred to me to address the strange
woman who had attended me. Turning suddenly to do this, I saw that my
companion, believing that I was on the point of entering the apartments
of the harem, had removed the _yashmak_. The face that was revealed by
this action was one of the most extraordinary I had ever seen--a face
with long, masculine features--the face of a man about fifty years of
age, and who, wearing a dark, trailing gown, at once reminded me of
descriptions I had read of old astrologers.
This singular person did not perceive that I had seen him, and, almost
terrified by my discovery, and fearful of the consequences of the act,
I hurried into the harem and closed the door.
Having a premonition that, late as it was, my stepfather might desire
to see me after Lord Galonfield left, I made no preparations to retire
for the night. I was not mistaken. Twenty minutes later Meschid entered
the harem.
My stepfather appeared to be greatly agitated. After severely
reproaching me because I had permitted Lord Galonfield to place an arm
around me while he was declaring his love, he told me that if I had
been so unfortunate as to let the young Englishman find a place in my
heart I must banish all thoughts of him from my mind at once.
“I had thought that he would have found your charms sufficient dowry,”
he added, bitterly. “But the heathen dog would have me rob my own
children by yielding to him with you one-half of my estate.”
My heart grew cold, and a sense of desolation entered it. Then,
suddenly, a wild rush of anger and indignation choked me. It was not
I, but the dowry he sought, that had appeared so beautiful to his eyes.
“Are all men so base as that?” I gasped, as my wounded pride fluttered
in my bosom like a frightened, half-stifled dove in a smoke-filled cage.
“No,” said Meschid, thoughtfully, “but young men are much the same.
An older man makes a more affectionate and indulgent husband. But
let us have no more of England. You have seen how gray and fog-bound
it is, and what we have to expect of its people. Shall we return to
Constantinople to-morrow, and forget that we ever have known this
grasping man they call a lord?”
“Yes--yes,” I murmured, eagerly.
And the next morning we set forth for the distant Orient.
Tortured as I was by outraged love and the bitter pangs of a proud
woman’s humiliation, the journey homeward seemed like one long
nightmare. Arriving in Constantinople, I found no one in the house
of Meschid Pasha to bid me welcome. My sisters regarded me coldly or
with sneers. The man to whom I had been offered as a wife had seen and
rejected me.
During the month that followed my return, I saw little of my
stepfather. Most of this time, a prey to bitter reflections, I remained
in my room, reading or engaged in needlework.
One day there came a knock on my door, and Meschid entered.
“Here is something that may interest you,” he said, carelessly, and,
as he spoke, he handed me a French newspaper. Around a paragraph which
consisted of five or six lines a pencilled circle had been drawn.
I saw that the article was an announcement of the death of Prince
Giuseppe Maranotti--my father.
If Meschid had expected to read in my face any sign of sorrow or
satisfaction, he was disappointed. I thanked him coldly, and laid the
paper aside. The announcement scarcely had interested me.
On the following day Meschid visited me again. This time, to my
utter amazement, he bade me put on my veil and accompany him to his
selamlik--an apartment in which Turkish men receive their male friends,
and which no female member of the family is supposed to enter.
Upon entering the selamlik, I perceived the figure of a man standing
beside one of the windows. As the visitor turned toward me and I saw
his face, I started and an exclamation of alarm escaped me.
The man before me was the one who, in the guise of a Turkish woman, had
been present at my interviews with Lord Galonfield!
In a low, brusque voice, my stepfather bade me remove my veil. With
trembling fingers I did so.
“Pauline,” said Meschid, “this is Mr. Glyncamp, an American, who has
honored us by asking for your hand.”
With a little cry of pain, I shrank from the burning eyes and
outstretched hand of the long, grim-featured man who now approached me.
“No--no--oh, God, no!” I exclaimed. “Do not tell me that! I
cannot--I----”
My stepfather laughed mirthlessly, and then said:
“It is a little sudden, you must admit, Mr. Glyncamp. Even Galonfield
disappointed her, for all her dreams of a husband have had a fairy
prince for their subject. But, Pauline, my dear, you dreamt better than
you knew. Your future husband has powers which are commonly attributed
only to fairies. He will make you happy and, taking you without a
dowry, he will give to you a home to which you will have a better
claim than that which you now have on mine.”
I was now trembling so violently that, I think, I should have fallen,
had not my stepfather’s next words assured me that I should have a
respite, at least, from the terrible fate that thus confronted me.
“Mr. Glyncamp is going on a long journey to the East, and he will not
wed you until his return,” Meschid went on. “It was such a journey that
I made when your mother rejected my suit. When I returned, your mother
was more favorably disposed. May it be so with you.”
I bowed to Glyncamp, and, summoning all my fortitude, I weakly thanked
him for the honor he had done me. He smiled as he told me that, having
seen me, the memory of my face would be ever with him on his travels
and that, therefore, I would find him looking younger on his return.
Hurrying back to the harem, I entered my room, locked the door and
flung myself down on an ottoman. Convinced that life held nothing more
for me now that was worth the having, I abandoned myself to despair,
and thought of suicide. Then, suddenly, a new idea entered my mind.
I would flee from Meschid as my mother had fled from my father.
But to whom should I turn for aid? My mother’s father and brother were
dead, and I knew nothing of her other relatives. Then my thoughts
turned to the Maranottis--to Victor, now the head of the house. Was he
like his father? Did he, too, share the belief that my mother’s flight
had been due to another cause than the cruelty of her husband? Perhaps
family pride would impel him to come to my relief. I would send for him.
With the marks of my tears still upon my face, I seated myself at my
writing desk and wrote to the young Prince a long letter in which I
told him all that I had suffered since the death of my mother. When I
finished writing, I read the letter over carefully, then thrust it into
an envelope and addressed it to him at his country seat at Basselanto.
Four miserable, heart-breaking, nerve-racking weeks passed, and, as I
failed to get a reply to my pitiful appeal, I again resigned myself
to despair. But, shortly after leaving the house one day to visit the
cemetery in which my poor mother now slept amid the cypresses and
flowers, I felt a hand fall on my shoulder. Turning quickly, I beheld a
woman who wore a _yashmak_.
“You are Pauline?” the stranger asked, in English.
The accents were soft and gentle, but I hesitated.
“You are Pauline Maranotti?” the woman asked again.
“Yes, madame,” I answered, faintly.
“Let us walk on,” the other said in a low, confidential voice. “I am
from the Prince--your half-brother.”
With a little cry that was almost a sob, I grasped her arm.
“He is here--in Constantinople?” I asked eagerly.
“No, he is not here,” the woman answered. “He was unable to come
himself, so he sent me to take you to him. There is a carriage awaiting
us in yonder street. Let us hasten to it. We can talk better there.”
Once more fear gripped my heart.
“How am I to know that you----” I began, but the veiled stranger
interrupted me.
“Come with me to the carriage,” she said quietly. “You shall be
convinced before you confide yourself to my care.”
When we were out of view of Meschid’s house I saw a closed carriage
with two horses standing in the street that my guide had mentioned. At
the step of the carriage my companion paused and took from her pocket a
little leather case. She pressed a spring, and a cover, flying open,
disclosed within a beautiful miniature surrounded by a lock of dark
brown hair. It was an exquisite portrait of my mother, painted before
my birth. I had heard her speak of this gift that she had given to the
Prince on her wedding day, and I knew that the lock of hair was her own.
With a little sob, I turned to my guide.
“You may take me where you will,” I said.
The woman who had come to my rescue was Mrs. Woodson, an American,
who, with her artist husband, long had lived in Rome. She was a few
years older than my mother, whom she had known prior to her marriage to
Prince Maranotti.
A few days after my flight from Constantinople, Prince Victor Maranotti
welcomed me in Rome. I found my brother to be a singularly kindly and
handsome young man, and the moment I looked upon his face, I knew that
a merciful fate had led me at last to a natural protector.
After listening to my story, the Prince informed me that, in the
circumstances, it would be better for me to remain incognito in Rome
until the following week, when it would be necessary for him to start
for the United States where he had extensive business interests.
“In America, for a time, at least, you will be safe from the
persecutions of Meschid and his friend, Glyncamp, of whose strange
performances I often have heard,” he said. “There are several reasons
why it is better that you should not assume the title of Princess
Pauline Maranotti now.”
What the reasons were, he did not tell me, but I suspected that,
despite his friendliness, his family pride prevented him from publicly
acknowledging as his sister the daughter of a woman who, having
deserted his father, became the inmate of a Turkish harem.
Little did I think when I saw the shores of America rise from the
western horizon that here awaited me a new and no less alarming series
of misfortunes. I had been fleeing from persons and circumstances which
threatened my undoing, but the objects of these fears were known to me.
Now, however, I was about to be confronted by conditions which, though
constantly threatening me, were involved in mysteries which no art of
mine would enable me to fathom.
A few hours before we sighted land, the Prince, seated beside me in a
corner of the deck that we had to ourselves, gave to me a clearer idea
concerning his plans for me than he had vouchsafed before.
For many years my father had been heavily interested in the development
of American mining properties, some of which had yielded him large
profits. He had not made these investments in his own name, however,
and his principal representative in these transactions was a man named
Trevison, who now was well advanced in years, and childless.
Assuring me that it was in my interest that I should not assume the
name of Maranotti, the Prince suggested that, as Paula Trevison, I
should be known as Mr. Trevison’s daughter. Then he added:
“If you are believed to be the daughter of this old man, who is now
pretty close to the grave, you will find yourself in a well-defined
position, from which, by reason of your natural charms and your various
accomplishments, you may steadily advance. Nearly all the large fortune
which Trevison is handling over here, and which really is mine, is
believed to belong to him. I will so arrange matters that, after his
death, it will appear that you have inherited from him a sum sufficient
to give you a comfortable income. Meantime, whenever I visit the United
States, I, assuming the name of Trevison, as I am doing now, may be
recognized as your brother.”
“You will be known by a false name over here, only in order that you
may aid me?” I asked, suspiciously.
The Prince laughed gaily.
“Oh, no,” he said. “Even if I had not brought you with me I would have
to be known as Trevison.”
“I am afraid I do not understand,” I murmured, wonderingly.
“Well, then, I will explain,” the Prince went on more gravely. “I am
only doing what was done by my father, but in a slightly different
way. On his visit to this country he always represented himself as
old Trevison’s brother. The reason for it was this: Poor as it is,
Italy still retains much of its ancestral pride, and it has not been
confronted with the spectacle of the head of a noble family engaging in
commercial pursuits. Yet, for more than a quarter of a century, such
pursuits have made the house of Maranotti one of the most influential
in the kingdom. But the Maranotti who followed these pursuits has been
known in America as a Trevison. In the United States his identity was
unknown. In Italy, none of the nobles know the name of Trevison.”
On the day of our arrival in New York, my brother and I, who were
registered at our hotel as ‘Thomas Trevison and Paula Trevison,’
met the man who had a rightful claim to the surname. He was very
old--almost eighty I should say--and his face had an almost unearthly
pallor. In a shaking voice, he greeted my princely brother with a
familiarity that startled me.
“Well, Tom, the old man beat me out in our race for the grave,” he
said. “But I reckon I’ll be spry enough to let out a few links that
will make him think he’s standing still, after I catch up with him on
the other side. Are you going West this trip?”
Shocked by this old man’s gruesome jocularity, I was glad to escape
from his presence. That evening, however, we dined together in a
fashionable restaurant where the irreverent patriarch seemed to be
perfectly at ease. He was frequently addressed respectfully by men who
passed our table, and to several of these he explained that I was his
daughter.
“She’s just back from Europe where she’s had a few foreigners
completing her training,” he said. “Most people think Europe’s the
best place to get female metal out of our Western ore, so Paula’s been
passing through the mill over there. Doesn’t look as if it did her much
harm, does it now?”
My brother smiled as if he saw some humor in this sort of thing, but I,
shocked almost beyond the power of expression by the roughness of it
all, felt my face flush hotly as I heard the person addressed chuckle
good-naturedly and mutter compliments which, while frank enough,
perhaps, were devoid of delicacy.
The following day my brother told me that, as he found it desirable
to visit the West, where some of his mining properties were situated,
he had arranged that I should spend a few weeks in the Adirondack
Mountains, with a widowed niece of Trevison’s. He had been assured that
it was a delightful retreat, and that its isolation was of a nature to
commend it to us.
Having determined on this course, our preparations soon were made for
the journey. As we were passing along the station platform, between two
waiting trains, a strange thing happened. The click of a car window,
suddenly raised, attracted my attention and a man’s head and shoulders
were thrust out.
With a little exclamation of alarm, I drew back. The man’s face was the
most grotesque I had ever seen. His eyes, turned suddenly to mine, held
my gaze. In the very ugliness of this stranger there was something that
fascinated me.
“What is the matter?” asked my brother, who observed that I had stopped.
Quickly recovering my presence of mind, I laughed nervously, and said:
“It is nothing, but I never expected that I would see a live gargoyle.
In those wonderful mountains to which you are taking me, I shall not be
surprised to encounter peris and genii.”
My brother, whose quick eyes had by this time discovered the face that
had caused me such consternation, laughed lightly as he replied:
“By Heaven, you are right! The man is a veritable gargoyle.”
I heard the window close with a slam, but I did not look over my
shoulder to assure myself that the strange creature was no longer
there. All during that long journey to the mountains, that weird,
unearthly face haunted me. I saw it staring at me from the shimmering
waters of the Hudson. It took form among the giant boulders and wooden
summits of the Catskills, and, at eve, I saw it lurking among the great
cloud-curtains that folded in the sunset.
Not until near the close of the second day of our journey did we arrive
at our destination, and, ah, how may I describe the splendid spectacle
that then revealed itself to my eyes?
Alighting from a “buckboard,” one of the most torture-inflicting
vehicles in which man ever traversed rough mountain roads, I found
myself on the pebbled margin of a turquoise lake that was dotted
everywhere with lily-pads, whose white and yellow flowers sifted
into the virile, pine-odored air a perfume that was as fragrant and
langorous as the breath of love.
Walled in by great mountain slopes, from the sides of which rose
larches as lofty and majestic as cathedral spires, I felt as if I were
standing in an enchanted valley. The mountainsides were thickly wooded,
and here and there great seams of granite were visible through rifts
in the deep, green foliage, so that the valley had the aspect of a
crystal-bottomed basin wrought out of a single emerald that had been
inlaid with silver tracery. Among the trees fluttered birds unlike any
I had ever seen before, but their sweet, full-throated songs seemed to
be no more than the pattering of raindrops on the surface of a sea of
silence--a silence so weird and illimitable that, appalled, I felt as
if I were standing in the vestibule of infinity.
Dazed by the wild splendor of my environment, I felt as the Emperor of
China might have done when from his window he for the first time beheld
the splendid palace which genii hands had wrought for Aladdin in a
single night.
I was roused from my trance by the sounds of strange voices. Then I saw
two strangers, clad in rough garments of countrymen, approaching to
take charge of the horses that had drawn our two buckboards through the
mountains.
As I looked around for the house which was to be my home for the next
two weeks, I saw a large, squat structure built of logs. In the door
of this stood a portly woman, with gray hair. Despite the charms and
reassuring isolation of this mountain retreat, a suspicion that this
log-house was the dwelling to which I had been consigned filled me
with alarm. I had been told that among these mountains deer, bears
and other wild animals were numerous, and the general aspect of the
building recalled pictures I had seen of assaults made by Indians on
the houses of white settlers. Were there Indians here?
The motherly face of the elderly woman, who was now approaching, partly
reassured me, and I saw that the men who were busying themselves with
the horses were honest-featured, sturdy and marvelously self-possessed.
The woman--whose name I was informed was Mrs. Seaver--welcomed me with
the dignity of a princess in the doorway of her castle. As she led me
into the log-house, I gazed about me with the most lively sensation of
pleased surprise. The place was as carefully kept as a palace hall,
and in the charming rooms through which she led me I beheld all the
luxuries of Western civilization--a piano, pictures, shelves of books,
the heads of animals which I had seen only in picture form, comfortable
chairs, soft rugs, cosy ‘dens’, and beds which I thought were the
whitest and neatest in all the world.
Clapping my hands with delight, I laughed as I had not done for many
months.
Fanned by balsam-breathing breezes, I slept that night as, I think, I
never slept before. I had never thought that in all the world was to be
found a place that was capable of inspiring such a sense of ineffable
peace as this.
The next day my brother left. But, however kindly I had come to regard
him, I was not now conscious of a feeling of loss. The wilderness had
taken me into its heart, and, thoroughly enamoured, I was happy there.
Little by little I conquered the pleasurable fear with which the dark
recesses of the wood-clad slopes had inspired me. In the course of
the first three days an uncontrollable desire to see wild animals in
their native haunts took possession of me. I learned to use the paddle
of a canoe, and I acted like an overjoyed child when, by my efforts, I
succeeded in sending the frail craft out over the shimmering surface
of the lily-dotted lake. Turtles, chipmunks, sportive minnows and
long-leaping water spiders filled me with delight, and how shall I
describe the sensations that overwhelmed me when, as I looked out of my
open window late one moonlight night, I saw three deer steal from out a
leafy covert and move down to the waterside to drink?
I had been in the Adirondacks a little more than a week, when a new and
greater wonder presented itself to my view. Upon awakening, early one
morning, I rose and stepped to my window, as was my custom, to steal a
glimpse at the great tree-crowded amphitheatre and to inhale the fresh,
balsam-laden air before dressing for breakfast. My lips were framing a
prayer of heartfelt thankfulness that, here in the heart of this vast
wilderness, I was so far from all I feared, when something that was
pinned to one of the swaying white curtains of the window attracted
and held my attention. As, with wondering eyes, I leaned toward it,
I saw that it was a delicately tinted, square envelope on which were
inscribed the words: “For Paula.”
The only person who had thus addressed me since my arrival in America
was the Prince, and though the handwriting before me now was apparently
that of a man, I was certain that my brother was not the writer.
The envelope was unsealed, and, thrusting in my fingers I drew out a
sheet of notepaper on which were written the following verses:
TO PAULA
Sleep,
And the starlight shines,
Like Faith, among the pines,
To all revealing
Thy trust in man and maid.
And while from out the shade
Of Earth are stealing
Thy thoughts that dreamward go,
I, keeping vigil, know
Love’s bells are pealing.
Wake,
And the starlight dies,
For then, athwart the skies,
Thy glances, streaming,
Do prove thou art the sun.
Now that his vigil’s done
And thou art beaming,
Fond Hope doth close his eyes
But, as in sleep he lies,
Of thee he’s dreaming.
Tingling with pleasure, I re-read the lines. These were the first
verses I had ever read in the handwriting of their author, and a great
wonder filled me as I asked myself whether, indeed, it was I who had
inspired them. But this question quickly gave place to one of still
greater import.
Who had written them?
I now found myself thoroughly bewildered. Except the Prince and Mr.
Trevison, there was no person in the United States with whom I had
exchanged more than a few, perfunctory words prior to coming to the
mountains, and in my new home Mrs. Seaver and the servants were the
only persons who, so far as I had been able to learn, were within
many miles of me. That the lines had been written by one of the
rough-mannered and illiterate manservants, was, of course, impossible.
But what other man had been in the neighborhood? Who was it who had
come to my window while I slept?
Once more the old fears took possession of me. Had I been followed from
Europe by someone who----? But, no, this, too, was impossible. While
there I had only two suitors--Lord Galonfield and Glyncamp. The first
had sought me only for the wealth he believed me to possess, and the
second had gone to Asia. Thus, except Meschid, Prince Maranotti and
Trevison, all men were strangers to me.
I was only a child of the harem, however, and in Moslem harems many
superstitions that would be laughed to scorn in Western households
are deeply rooted in all minds. And so, assured that there was no man
about me who could have written these lines, I fell to speculating as
to whether or not the verses had come to me through some supernatural
agency.
At breakfast I again inquired of Mrs. Seaver whether any of the
neighboring valleys was inhabited.
She shook her head gravely.
“No,” she replied. “We are many miles from any other house. Even
the sportsmen who come to the Adirondacks for deer and bear seldom
penetrate so far as this. That is one reason why I like it so.”
I resumed my breakfast, and for several minutes the silence that
followed remained unbroken. Mrs. Seaver was the first to speak.
“Perhaps, my dear, it is better that you should know something else,”
she said, hesitatingly. “What I have told you is the truth, as I
understand it. I know of no other habitation than ours, but there are
times when rumors reach us that some strange persons occasionally
are to be seen about Deadwood Lake--a body of water that lies in the
valley immediately north of ours. Who they are we never have been
able to learn. My men have seen these strangers on several occasions,
but they never succeeded in getting close enough to them to describe
them accurately. One undoubtedly is an aged Indian, while the second
is a white youth, who, if the rumors are to be credited, is strangely
handsome. These two are always together, but a third--a white man of
patriarchal appearance, is sometimes observed. It is scarcely likely
that you will see them, but, if you do, it is just as well, perhaps, to
avoid them as much as possible.”
My breath came quickly. So far from exciting my fears, this information
stimulated my curiosity. Who was this mysterious young man whom my
prosaic hostess had described as “strangely handsome”? If these three
men were the only persons in our neighborhood who were unknown to me,
one of them doubtless was the author of the verses I had received.
Assuredly, the Indian had not written them, nor was it probable that
the “man of patriarchal appearance” had done so. But the other--ay, it
might have been this other.
The stream which filled the lake I had come to love so well, entered
our valley from the north. This fact indicated that the clear waters
over which my canoe daily glided were the outflow of Deadwood Lake.
Then, I remembered that one of the menservants had told me that our
lake was merely one link of a beautiful crystal chain that extended
well back into the mountains.
When breakfast was done, I left the house and, singing as I went,
I made my way to where my shining, green canoe was drawn up on the
pebbled shore. One of the menservants, who was painting a fishing punt,
smiled and nodded a “good-morning” as I drew near.
“You are going out to-day, Miss?” he asked.
I felt my cheeks flush slightly as I answered:
“Yes, I am going to gather some lilies for my room.”
The man rose, and, as he started toward my canoe to run it down the
beach, he glanced toward the southwest, and hesitated.
“I wouldn’t go out far or stay too long, Miss,” he said, thoughtfully.
“The sky looks bad over yonder, and one who is down in the valley
can’t see a bad blow coming till it’s on us. The weather’s been pretty
respectful-like since you’ve been here, but there ain’t no other hell
on earth that’s quite so bad as an Adirondack storm. Does the missis
know you’re going?”
“No,” I answered, coldly. “Mrs. Seaver has never required me to report
to her anything which it pleases me to do or not to do.”
The man shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, I meant no harm,” he said, almost curtly. “But when thunder once
begins to bellow up here, it’s mighty seldom a strong man can drive
a boat inshore before he gets a soaking, and a soaking is the least
of it. Small as this lake of ours is, it can kick up waves on shorter
notice than the Atlantic can.”
Realizing that I had unkindly slighted one whose only fault had been
over-zealousness in manifesting a regard for my safety, I laughed
reassuringly and said indulgently:
“You are right, I know, so, though I see no storm clouds, I will not go
too far from the shore.”
And, as my canoe glided over the shimmering lake to where the lilies
were, I was resolved to keep my word. But the dancing sunlight lured
me on and on, and my promise, dying like the song of a bird, went to
mingle with the lily-scented airs.
The valley in which Mrs. Seaver’s log-house stood was about three miles
long and two miles wide, and the lake covered three-fourths of its
bottom. Well out in the lake were five or six tree-covered islets,
and on one that lay furthest to the south I had discovered a little
leafy nook to which I sometimes went with one of the volumes from Mrs.
Seaver’s shelves.
But it was not to the south that I turned this morning. At first I kept
the head of my little craft toward the center of the lake, then, as my
glance continued to stray curiously toward the north, I found, at last,
that, half-unconsciously, I was moving in that direction.
For the first time since my arrival in the Adirondacks, I was dominated
by a desire to see the stream whose waters filled the clear lake in our
valley. The sun was still shining brightly, when, suddenly determining
to give rein to my curiosity, I brought the bow of the canoe directly
to the northward, and, in response to the determined paddle-strokes,
the little craft moved swiftly over the gleaming waters.
As I approached an indentation in the northern shore I marveled that
I never had been inspired with the desire to visit it before. Here
the lily-pads seemed to form a great green, white and yellow rug, and
the perfume of the blossoms so filled the air that it was no longer
possible for me to identify the odor of the pines in the breezes which,
rushing down the great mountain slopes, seemed to dally in love-rapt
idleness among the langourous spirits of the flowers.
I had been singing as I left the log-house, and I was singing now, but,
as I kept glancing to right and left to find places in which to thrust
my paddle without breaking lily leaves or blossoms, I was singing a
song that had been sung by no human lips before. It was a song in
which the words of the verses I had received that morning had adapted
themselves to an Arabian air that, in the harem of Meschid Pasha, had
been one of the lullabies sung by my mother to each of her little ones.
Thus singing and moving slowly through the lilies and their wide-spread
leaves, I suddenly found myself at the very stream I had been seeking.
At its mouth it was about a hundred feet in width, but, as I looked
up along the course, I saw that it narrowed perceptibly. Laying my
dripping paddle across the canoe, I stopped singing and listened.
The very air seemed motionless. Within a distant leafy covert on the
mountainside at my right a single woodlark was piping its clear, sad
notes. All else was so still that the very perfume that filled the air
was eloquent.
For several moments a feeling of fear and awe stole over me, and I
looked at the sky. There the blue hue had given place to a pinkish
tint, but the sun still was shining and there was scarcely a ripple on
the clear, gleaming waters over which I had passed.
Should I go back, and return some other day to explore this unknown
watercourse? Surely, I could find no fairer day than this. I would do
it now.
Owing to the fact that the beauties of the lake and dingles so often
caused me to give no thought to the flight of the hours, it often had
happened that the hour for luncheon found me far from the hospitable
table in the log-house. Thus it had come to pass that, whenever I left
the house in the morning for a stroll or a canoe trip, I took with me,
in a little net-work bag, sandwiches, cake and fruit. Fortunately I had
done so to-day.
Glancing at my watch, I now saw that it was only a few minutes after
ten, then, with a sigh of pleasurable anticipation, I again picked up
my paddle and, more reckless concerning the fate of leaves and blossoms
than I had been before, I forced the canoe into the sluggish current
of the mysterious stream.
As I proceeded, my progress became less and less impeded by sprawling
lily-pads. I was now at the feet of two lofty mountains at the bases of
which the stream pursued a winding course.
At length, with a little sigh of excitement and pleasure, I saw that
the splendors of a second valley were being unfolded to my view.
But, ah, how different was this valley from the one I had just left
behind me. The ruggedness of its lofty, bare granite precipices filled
me with a half-defined sense of alarm. Over the bosom of this shining
stream I seemed to have passed from one of Nature’s pleasure gardens to
the vast portal of one of her towering, deserted and crumbling abbeys.
A chillness seemed to enter the air. The arms of the giant pine trees
appeared to be gently beckoning and nodding to the unseen spirits of
the valley.
But, though the valley’s lofty walls thus were revealed to my eyes,
of the mysterious lake I saw nothing. Ahead of me was a great expanse
of tall rushes through which the stream had cut its way. Around
me, however, the waters seemed to have lost their lustre. Like the
mountains whose images they reflected they appeared to be dark, sullen
and forbidding.
The speed of my canoe was gradually abating for, half-overcome by
distrust, I was paddling mechanically.
Darker and darker grew the waters, then a greater chillness smote me. I
was about to raise my eyes toward the sky when I beheld something that
riveted my attention.
Before me lay the waters of Deadwood Lake and, as I looked, I shrank
back in affright. Trunks and roots of fallen trees that had been wrung
from the mountainsides by tempests or great avalanches were rotting on
the narrow, gray pebbled shores. The waters were of a brownish black,
and the hundreds of white-trunked birches that they reflected near
their margin gave to them a weird, ghostly effect.
I was not yet clear of the masses of high rushes that grew out of the
water, and the channel between them was so narrow that I could touch
each green wall with my paddle. Deciding to return at once to the other
valley, I was about to reverse my position in the canoe, when I beheld
something so startling that I almost dropped my paddle, and for several
seconds I seemed to lose the power to breathe.
What I saw was a canoe, fashioned out of the bark of birch trees, and,
as I looked, it moved slowly across the thin screen of rushes that
separated me from the clear surface of the lake. In this canoe were two
human figures, but the appearance of each was so extraordinary that I
suspected that they were indeed more than men.
The face of the figure that sat in the stern of the canoe was of a
brownish-red color and, despite its wrinkled forehead and cheeks,
there was something sphinx-like in its expression. The eyes seemed to
be looking fixedly into a storied future that they might live to see
embodied in the storied past. But the figure in the bow--ah how shall I
describe what then appeared to me to be the head and body of a god?
Though I have heard enthusiastic women describe certain men as
“beautiful,” I never believed until that moment that such an adjective
could be used appropriately to describe a man’s appearance. But here
was a man, scarcely older than I, whose head and shoulders would have
put to shame those of the far-famed Apollo Belvidere. His slightly
curling black hair had the gloss which shines on the plumage of birds,
and though his skin was bronzed by exposure to the weather, it had the
rich, transparent coloring of youth. Never had I thought it possible
that a human brow, nose or chin could be so exquisitely formed and, at
the same time, be so expressive of intellectual and physical vigor. But
it was the expression of spiritual virility and omniscience that gave
to the classic features a suggestion of divine perfection.
“Is it god or man?” I whispered, and at that moment I seemed to have my
answer from the skies.
In the distance I heard a faint, rumbling sound, then, suddenly, a
terrific crash of thunder directly above my head filled me with the
most indescribable sensation of awe and fear. The mountains seemed to
shiver with the sound and, glancing above me, I saw great towering
clouds, like enormous, gray-wreathed icebergs drifting swiftly toward
the north. Among these advancing monsters lightning was glowing
sullenly, at first one point and then another, then there came a flash
that almost blinded me, and as, with a low despairing cry, I hid my
face in my hands, a second peal of thunder rocked the dreadful valley.
Turning again toward where, only a few moments before, I had seen the
birchbark canoe, I saw it had disappeared. But through the screen of
reeds I beheld a sight that was scarcely less terrifying than the
lightning and the thunder.
The waters of Deadwood lake had assumed an inky blackness, and were
covered with great strings of froth that looked as if they had dropped
from the mouth of a gigantic rabid hound. From over the mountain tops
came a dull, quivering, humming sound that I knew was the voice of the
advancing storm.
Half choking with fear, I reversed my position in the canoe, then,
seizing the paddle, I started back toward the lake from which, in an
ill-omened hour, I, a helpless woman, had been tempted by curiosity.
As my paddle-strokes fell quickly and nervously to right and left, I
prayed--to God, to Christ, to Allah, and to Mohammed, the Prophet of
Allah. Then, with closed eyes and bowed head, I, paddling blindly,
became once more a mere child of the harem, for I prayed to the two
genii I had seen in the birchbark canoe.
As a child had I not learned that the appearances of genii often were
accompanied by peals of thunder and vivid flashes of lightning? Did
not one of the stories of the Thousand and One Nights tell how the
Sultan of the Genii assumed the form of a handsome young man when he
appeared to Zeyn Alasnam, the young Sultan of Bussorah? And were not
those appearances invariably attended by such displays as I had seen
just now, while, terror-stricken, I sat in my canoe among the reeds of
Deadwood Lake?
Then, in a wild burst of self-reproach, I told myself that I was to
blame for the very storm itself--that, by trespassing on these waters
frequented by the genii, and stealing a view of two of them, I had
invoked the wrath of Heaven.
No drop of rain yet had fallen, but the wind was growing stronger every
moment. Around me the high reeds began to lower their heads as if they,
too, were inspired by the fears which were overwhelming me. Like men
struggling in the grip of engulfing quicksands, the reeds, tugging at
their roots, seemed to be making desperate efforts to get to the shore,
and, as they swayed and bent low, the little channel through which I
had passed was completely hidden from my view.
Half sobbing with fright, and bitterly repenting the folly that had led
me there, I succeeded in getting the bow of the canoe turned toward the
shore on my right--a low, narrow strip of beach and shingle that lay at
the foot of a lofty precipice. This strip I saw over the now low-lying
reeds. It was only thirty feet away, but the craven reeds, huddling
closer together as they sank lower and lower to the surface of the
water, threatened to hold my canoe like a fish in a net.
At length, however, my desperate efforts were rewarded. I felt the bow
of the canoe grate on the stones of the beach. Rising from my seat, I
reeled forward and, laughing hysterically, I leaped ashore just as a
dazzling flash of lightning illumined the valley, which was almost as
dark as the last five minutes of twilight. I was raising my trembling
hands to my eyes to shut out the glare when a nerve-racking clap of
thunder drove me almost to the verge of madness.
Half blinded by the lightning and deafened by the thunder, I plunged
into a cluster of young pines, hoping to find shelter there from the
rain which I now knew to be imminent. The lightning was beginning to
crackle and hiss in a manner which showed it was dangerously near,
when, having suddenly found myself at the inner edge of the cluster of
evergreens, I stood at the very base of the precipitous mountain wall.
Then, as I looked, I saw something that steadied me, and, despite my
agitation, filled me with wonder.
Set in the very face of the cliff was the wall of a log-house--about
twenty feet wide and twelve feet high. In this wall were two
glass-paned windows and a door.
Running quickly to the door, I knocked. As I waited for an answer,
something smote one of my hands. I perceived it was a large drop of
water, then other drops began to fall around me, and there came
another gleaming lightning flash.
The crashing, rolling thunder made it seem impossible that any one who
might have been in the shelter of the log wall should hear my continued
knocking, so, without further hesitation, I laid a hand on the knob of
the door. The knob turned, and, with a cry in which terror and relief
were blended, I ran inside.
The light that entered the dust-covered panes was so feeble that it
was only when the lightning was playing that I was able to see the
whole interior of the apartment I had entered so unceremoniously. This
I perceived to be nothing more nor less than a small natural cave to
which the hand of man had given a front of logs. Broad at its mouth,
the cave tapered back like the end of a canoe, the roof and side walls
coming to a point a few feet above the bare ground in the rear. At
this point a curious bunk had been roughly hewn out of the massive
gray granite and on this bunk lay a soiled mattress and a dilapidated
oil-skin coat. Near one of the windows stood a table, the under part
of which was rounded and still holding some of the bark of the tree
from which it had been taken. Near the table stood two old chairs and
a campstool. Against one of the walls leaned an easel which supported
a canvas on which an artist had begun to paint a view of Deadwood Lake
from almost the very point from which I first had seen it.
The cave was about twenty-five feet in length, and its rough aspect,
as revealed by lightning flashes, was not altogether of a nature to
reassure me. Still, it afforded shelter from the torrential rainpour
that was now thundering down in the valley.
Convinced that I was alone in the cave, I wiped away some of the dust
that darkened one of the window panes. As I looked out I saw what
appeared to be a vast wall of water under the weight of which the very
earth seemed to tremble.
And now the crashes of thunder became less violent, the lightning
flashes less keen, and, despite the enormous volume of falling water,
the atmosphere assumed a brighter hue.
At length the rainfall began to abate. I could distinguish the outlines
of the pines through which I had fled to this place of refuge. I
scraped from other panes some of the grime with which they were
encrusted, and once more surveyed the apartment.
It now became apparent that this cave once had afforded shelter to a
painter. Besides the easel and the campstool, I saw several maulsticks,
palettes, paint tubes and torn canvases lying around the place.
As I have said, the canvas on the easel revealed a view of Deadwood
Valley. The picture was scarcely more than one-fifth done, but the
instruction that I had received in drawing and painting was sufficient
to enable me to recognize the work of a master. Satisfied of this,
and thinking to find another example of his work, I turned to a piece
of canvas that lay on the ground. Like everything else in the place,
it was covered with grime, but, as I turned it over, a little cry
of astonishment escaped me. The partly obliterated face which was
painted upon it was that of the white man, or genie, I had seen in the
birchbark canoe!
I had scarcely more than recognized the features, however, when an
object moving on the floor about two paces from where I stood caused
me to shrink back in affright. It was a dusty brown thing, and looked
at first like a piece of stout rope. But no rope moves of its own
volition, and one end of this strange object slowly rose, then, with
a sudden jerk, the thing assumed the form of a coil. A triangular head
moved back, and two beadlike eyes regarded me fixedly, while a broad,
dark thread darted in and out of a closed, hideous mouth.
I was confronted by a serpent--a serpent which, by the description I
had heard of it, I knew to be a copperhead!
For several moments horror held me spellbound, then a feeling of
creepiness stole up my back and settled among the roots of my hair.
Breathing heavily, I retreated slowly, rapidly gathering courage as I
saw that the reptile made no move to follow me.
Glancing quickly around me, my gaze fell on an iron frying-pan that
stood on a wooden stool. Taking hold of the long handle of this,
I moved slowly forward toward the dark coil which, except for the
nervously darting tongue, still was motionless. When I was three or
four paces away from this, I hurled the pan at it and darted backward.
The pan fell upon the coil, and a moment later the reptile, with its
tail beating the air, lay writhing on the floor. All fear left me
now, and, seizing the stool from which I had taken the pan, I ran
forward and hammered the triangular head until it lay flattened at my
feet. Then, panting as a result of my exertions, I looked around me
apprehensively. Might there not be other serpents lurking here?
And now a rich, mellow light began to filter into the gloomy
rock chamber, through the dusty window panes. Hurrying to the door, I
flung it open. The terrible storm, as if by enchantment, had changed
into a gleaming sunshower, and the air was charged with the fragrant
odors of the moistened wilderness. Then, once more, my superstitious
fancies took possession of me. The death of the serpent had changed
all, and once more I stood at one of the portals of Eden.
The shower, too, soon passed, and as, leaving the gloomy cave
behind me, I stepped out into the warm sunshine a great feeling of
thankfulness entered my heart. Looking at the watch that was fastened
to my waist, I saw that it was half past twelve.
But, as I glanced toward the reeds from which I had so narrowly
escaped, a new fear fell upon me. Their mattered masses were now
almost covered by the swollen flood which the mountain streams were
momentarily reenforcing. Somewhere in that vast tangle of muddy green
sticks and leaves was my canoe. How was I to make my way afoot over the
soggy ground and flooded banks to Mrs. Seaver’s log-house?
I saw that for a woman to make such a journey without boat or guide
was impossible. But, after all, my position was not altogether so
unfortunate as it seemed at first. There was little doubt in my mind
that, as soon as the lake grew more calm, Mrs. Seaver would send her
manservants to seek me. Her log-house commanded a full view of the
lake, and it was quite unlikely that the movement of my canoe toward
the north shore had been unobserved. The men would look for me here.
Finding consolation in these reflections, I now decided to walk as far
as possible in the direction of the lake in the lower valley, hoping
that I might succeed in getting to some point from which I might be
able to signal to those who came to seek me.
But, alas, I soon found that at a short distance below the cave the
swollen waters had risen to the very base of the precipice. I returned,
therefore, to the shelter afforded by the pines, for, despite the fall
of the temperature that had accompanied the terrible storm, the sun
now was blazing fiercely.
Hour after hour I waited in the shadow of the pines, but no human
voice came to my ears. Then I began to fancy that, owing to the matted
condition of the reeds, the passage of a boat up the stream that
connected the two lakes would be impracticable.
At length twilight fell, and, while I watched and prayed, its shadows
deepened into night, and the sky was flecked with the stars; then, over
one of the dark mountains, the full moon flooded the valley with its
light.
A new thought came to me. Several times during the afternoon I found
myself repeating, or singing to the air of that old Moslem lullaby,
the words of the verses I had found pinned to my window curtain in the
morning. In one of these verses the writer had written:
“And while from out the shade
Of Earth are stealing
Thy thoughts that dreamward go,
I, keeping, vigil, know
Love’s bells are pealing.”
Were these words no more than the mere expression of a poet’s fancy, or
did they reveal a truth? If the writer had kept vigil near the windows
of my room in which I lay unthreatened by danger, was it not possible
that he might be near me now in this hour of my distress? Whether he
might be man or genie, I would put his fidelity to the proof.
Then, rising from my seat among the pines, I walked down to the margin
of the swollen stream, and, after murmuring a prayer that, lurking
somewhere in this mighty, moonlighted wilderness, my unknown lover
would hear my voice and come to me, I sang his words to the sweet music
of the old Turkish lullaby.
Never before had I been afforded an opportunity to test the full power
of my voice, and, as I heard it rising among the lofty crags, I half
forgot the object of my effort. A spirit of exaltation seemed to seize
my very soul and lift it up so far above the mountain heights that I
felt as if I was singing where only angel-voices had been heard before.
At length I came to the close of the last verse:
“Now that this vigil’s done,
And thou art beaming,
Fond Hope doth close his eyes,
But, as in sleep he lies,
Of thee he’s dreaming.”
As the last note left my lips, I stood and listened. Then I started.
Was it an echo that had repeated “dreaming,” or was it a human voice
which, far, far among the dark shadows of the great wilderness, had
called “Pauline”?
While, trembling with anxious expectancy, I continued listening,
hoping that I might hear the sound again, my gaze wandered nervously
to my left whence had come a sound like the snapping of a dry stick.
Then my heart seemed to leap to my throat, and, gasping with fear and
astonishment, I beheld him whose presence I had evoked--the white man
I had seen in the canoe--the genie to whom, when under the influence
of childish superstitions, some of my incoherent prayers had been
addressed.
Half in the shadow of one of the pines, the strange, beautiful face
of the young man was turned to mine, but on that face there was an
expression of wonder that I could not understand.
Twice or thrice I tried to speak, but the words would not leave my
lips. Why did this stranger remain standing thus, regarding me with
such a steady, searching and unfathomable gaze? Did he not see the
plight to which the storm had brought me? Why did he wait for me to
speak?
At length the stranger advanced slowly toward me. His lips moved,
but before the words they framed were spoken, the old Indian darted
suddenly from a shadow and seized him by the arm. The white man turned
impatiently.
“Your hand is on me, Glenagassett,” he said.
Though he spoke quietly, there was an unmistakable note of imperious
rebuke in the clear, musical voice, and the hand of the Indian fell.
“Is this a woman?” the young man asked, turning to the Indian, who,
standing beside him, was bending on me a gaze that seemed to flash
anger and defiance.
“Yes,” replied the Indian, gravely.
The white man turned again to me.
“What brought you here?” he asked, almost roughly.
“I came this morning in my canoe, but, in the storm, it was lost
somewhere in that mass of reeds.”
“Why do you not get it out?” he demanded, shortly. “Go--get it now.”
I looked at him in wonder. Was I talking with a madman?
As I hesitated, he shrugged his shoulders.
“Ah, yes, I remember now,” he said. “You women are too weak to do such
things. Glenagassett, bring out the canoe.”
The Indian hesitated, then, with stooping shoulders, he turned and
moved quickly to the waterside.
The white man, reaching out one of his hands, firmly grasped my arm and
turned me so that the moonlight shone upon my face.
“And so you are one of those creatures which men kiss and love, and for
which they sell their foolish souls,” he said. “I have read about you,
but I never saw you. You talk with the voice of man, but your brain is
that of the devil. I have never been told, however, that women sing
like the angels. And so I see Nathan has again deceived me.”
Suddenly realizing that I was in the clutches of a victim of insanity,
I began trembling violently.
“You will sing again?” he asked.
“Not now,” I faltered.
“But I bid you,” he said, sharply.
“I cannot sing,” I answered.
“Even now I watched and heard you,” he retorted angrily. “In this
valley I am lord. I am Rayon Demain. You will sing.”
I saw that I must humor him, and, nodding humbly, I drew back. He
watched me curiously as, raising my head, I sang, as earnestly as I had
sung the other air, Arthur Sullivan’s beautiful “Lost Chord.”
Not once while I was singing did I look upon the man who had so excited
my fears. When the song was done, however, I turned to him.
He was standing as if he had been turned to stone, and the look of
wonder on his face was deeper. For several moments he was silent, then,
passing a hand across his eyes, he murmured:
“If all devils are like you, it is small wonder that men confuse them
with the angels and give their souls into their keeping.”
A sound from the waterside caused me to glance quickly in that
direction. Something was moving in the reeds, and, as I looked, I
fancied I saw an enormous bird swimming to the shore. One end rose,
like a great head and neck, and then I saw that the Indian, having
waded out among the reeds, had found my canoe and was bringing it to
the bank.
My heart leaped within me, for I felt that the hour of my deliverance
was at hand.
“You will send me home--to the log-house in the valley below?” I asked
eagerly, turning to the man who called himself Rayon Demain.
He, looking at me earnestly, was about to reply when the tall figure of
a man, with flowing white hair and beard, strode quickly from the shade
of the evergreens.
“Rayon!” exclaimed the newcomer, sharply.
The young man turned quickly to the speaker.
“You have lied to me again,” he said, angrily. “The valley in which you
have kept me is so narrow and high walled that Truth, like the sun,
finds me only at noonday. I will go to where it rises and it sets, and
will see and know all that lies between. In the books that you have
given to me are songs that poets have sung to love, but I have known
no love and, therefore, know not how to sing. And yet--to-night--I’ve
heard----”
He stopped, and once more I saw him pass a hand over his eyes in that
same bewildered manner I had observed before. Then, with his gaze
resting on the ground, he went on, half-abstractedly:
“To-night I heard a voice that seemed, at first, to come to me from
Heaven, but, as I listened, I knew that it was rising from the earth,
and, following the sound, I came here thinking to find an angel
singing. But the song was a song of love, and Glenagassett told me that
the singer, so far from being an angel, was only one of those creatures
which, as you have taught me, are two-thirds devil and one-third man,
without a single attribute of divinity. And now I know that the harp
of life which you have suffered me to play all these years is nothing
more than a mere child’s toy, after all--that from it many chords are
missing, and that the chord it most sadly lacks is that lost one of
which this strange creature sang to-night--the chord of earthly love.”
“Come!” commanded the graybeard in a hoarse, broken voice. “You
have much to learn, and of this knowledge that which has to do
with devil-snares is not the least. Come, like Adam in the garden,
you have been subjected to the greatest temptation that can befall
mankind--fruit of the forbidden tree that is offered to you by one
of the daughters of that Eve whose angel beauty and diabolical mind
brought shame and sorrow to thousands of generations of men.”
Trembling with shame and horror as the graybeard, pointing one of his
long fingers at me, branded me as one of the most despicable of God’s
creatures, I shrank from the strange, searching gaze that young Rayon
fixed on me while his mentor spoke.
My falling gaze decided all. In it the young man seemed to read a
confession of my unworthiness. When I raised my eyes again, Rayon and
the graybeard were gone, but in the place where they had been standing
I saw the Indian, Glenagassett, who held my canoe paddle toward me.
“Go,” the red man said, and, as he spoke, he pointed imperiously toward
where the bow of my canoe was drawn up on the shore.
With trembling fingers, I grasped the paddle the Indian was holding out
to me. The redskin, turning from me abruptly, strode quickly toward the
cluster of evergreens and disappeared from my view.
From the great wilderness around me there came no sound. Deserted by
him to whom my song had been addressed, I stood alone in the shadow of
the great, dark precipice.
The story of the fall of man constitutes part of the Mohammedan story
of the creation of the world, and I have often thought that in the
Koran it is more beautifully told than in the Bible, but this was the
first time in my life that I had been brought to know that living men
believed that women of their own period were cursed with the frailities
of the Eve from whom they are descended. Then it seemed to me that the
moonlight lost its splendor, and each star became a stern, accusing
eye, while the nightwinds, sighing softly in the pines, seemed to be
pitying me because, in my ignorance, I had not known that when men come
alone to this great wilderness they find earthly Edens, but when woman
enters them their glories begin to fade. Then the forest trees are hewn
into boards for summer hotels and bungalows, and the sounds of raucous
dance-music and the inane songs of music halls still forever the great
hymns which Nature is ever singing in her summer solitudes. The lake
yields its lilies to women’s idle whims, and the lily plants, sooner or
later, die like bereaved mothers. The gay-plumed singers of the forest
no more voice the carols of the Spring, for the daughters of Eve, not
content with their own charms, must enhance them with hats on which
the feathered choristers are crucified like Him whose death agonies
inspire with sorrow those wearers of stolen plumage when they assemble
in Christian churches on Easter morning.
And so, beautiful as I might be, I was only a woman, after all--a
prettily-tinted reptile that was an enemy to the flowers and birds--or
a flame at which things that loved light and life would find
destruction!
With a little sigh I had just started to walk down to my canoe when,
once more, a sound coming from the evergreens attracted my attention.
It was the sound of a tenor voice that was softly singing the verses
I had found in my window, and the air was that to which I had put
them--the air of the old Turkish lullaby.
I started, and, fearing to meet again this strange, young man whom the
graybeard had induced to leave me, I took a couple of steps in the
direction of my canoe.
“Paula!”
The word was so softly spoken that I half believed I had been deluded
by my fancy.
“Paula!”
I turned again to the evergreens, but no human figure met my view.
“Well?” I asked, abruptly.
“Go to the canoe and take the forward seat, leaving the paddle behind
you,” said the voice. “If you do not look behind you, you will be home
in an hour. If, however, you turn to see your boatman, evil will result
to you and him. Will you promise?”
I hesitated.
“Yes,” I said.
That I was in an enchanted valley I did not now pretend to doubt.
The magnificence of this stupendous wilderness, the flashing of that
terrible lightning, the awe-inspiring thunderpeals, the rush of those
mighty winds, the sullen rumble of the falling flood, my encounter
with the serpent and my extraordinary adventure with the three men
united to put to flight all the materialistic impressions that European
civilization had made upon my mind during the few weeks I had been
under its influence. Once more I was a child of the Orient, as the
heroines of the Thousand and One Nights had been. I, Princess Pauline
Maranotti, was being confronted by a situation that was no more
wonderful than those which confronted other princesses--Badoura, the
Princess of China, who became the wife of Camaralzaman; Perie-Zadeh,
Princess of Persia, whose brothers were transformed into black stones;
and Nouronnihar, Princess of India, whose beauty had caused her three
royal cousins to have extraordinary adventures.
Thus resigning myself to the superstitions of the people among whom
nearly all my life had been spent, I believed that it was the voice of
a genie that had come to me from among the evergreens, and that it was
the genie that was to be my boatman on my journey home. But so great
was the confidence with which the kindly voice had inspired me that
I no longer feared to do its bidding, and, as I walked down to the
waiting canoe, I resolved to guard against any incautious movement that
would cause me to see the forbidden face.
I entered the canoe resolutely, and, in obedience to the instructions I
had received, I sat down on the forward seat.
I had not long to wait. The crunching of the gravel and the snapping of
dead reed-sticks soon apprised me of the mysterious boatman’s approach.
A few moments later the canoe began to move forward, then it tilted
violently from side to side as the boatman entered it.
As the little craft moved on I saw that a way had been cleared for it
to the channel of the stream. A more materialistic mind would have
suspected that this had been done by the Indian who had brought it to
the shore, but, versed in Eastern lore, I knew that the magic of my
genie boatman was accomplishing all that.
Having arrived at last at the channel, the bow of the canoe was quickly
swung around and, with a speed which, in other circumstances, I would
have thought incredible, the little craft, gliding over the swollen
current, moved in the direction of the lower lake.
My trip up this stream had occupied nearly twenty-five minutes, for I
had been paddling leisurely against a sluggish current, but now less
than ten minutes sufficed to bring me to its mouth and the bright,
moonlit waters of the lake below.
Thus far the only sounds that gave evidence of the presence of my
boatman were the strong, even strokes of his double-bladed paddle.
A faint “hello” now sounded from the north-eastern shore of the lake. I
was about to glance over my shoulder when my boatman said abruptly:
“Have a care! Remember the warning!”
A cold chill passed over me, as I replied, contritely:
“Someone is calling. Perhaps Mrs. Seaver’s servants are seeking me.”
“They have sought you all the afternoon, but the lake has been very
rough, and one of their boats was capsized.”
In my anxiety I half turned again.
“But those in it got ashore?” I asked.
“Oh, yes.”
“Will you let those who are seeking me know that I am safe?” I asked.
The unseen boatman hesitated.
“No,” he answered, quietly, “It is too soon to tell them now.”
For several moments we were silent.
“Why did you go to Deadwood Lake?” my boatman asked.
My cheeks began to burn, but something in me told me it was best to
tell the truth.
“I thought I might see the man who was described as so ‘strangely
handsome’,” I replied. “If I had known that there were genii there, I
would not have gone, of course.”
“If who were there?” asked the boatman.
“Genii.”
There was a pause.
“Ah, you believe in the genii, then?” he said, in a lower voice.
“Having seen them, can I believe anything else?” I murmured.
“You are from the East--the Orient?”
“From Constantinople,” I answered, wonderingly. “Do you not know?”
“I know a little, but you must tell me more.”
From across the widening waters came the voices of men who called my
name. To these my boatman gave no heed.
“Tell me why you left Constantinople--why you are here,” he persisted.
Then, as briefly as I could, I told him all.
I told him why I had fled from Meschid to Prince Maranotti and how I
was brought to America and represented as being Trevison’s daughter.
I told him how I had received the verses in the morning and how I had
suspected that the young white man in the neighboring valley was their
author.
When I was done, another silence fell. Then the boatman spoke.
“You will find other verses--verses and letters at your window,” he
said, quietly. “You may trust the writer, but do not trust others, for
I fear that great danger soon will threaten you. You did wrong to go
to the upper lake to-day, but it is fortunate that you sang, for the
first song of yours brought me to your side. But you must go there no
more.”
“You do not speak now as you did when I first met you,” I said,
reprovingly. “You spoke then as if you had been taught to hate all
women.”
There was a long pause before he answered me.
“Unlike the others whom you saw, I am not a genie,” he replied. “I am
a man who is held under enchantment. When this is broken I may take my
place with other men. Until then----”
“Until then?” I murmured.
“Until then I must continue to suffer.”
“And how may this enchantment be broken?” I asked.
“By marriage.”
“By marriage!” I exclaimed, wonderingly. “With whom?”
“With you,” he murmured, softly.
I started, and once more I was about to turn my head when the strange
companion cautioned me.
“You must not see me,” he said.
Again the cries of the men who had been seeking me came to me from
across the water. The voices were more distinct now, and the fact that
my friends were drawing nearer assured me that they had seen me.
“With you,” my boatman repeated, softly. “Do you pity me?”
“Yes--yes,” I answered. “How could I fail to pity you?”
I was trembling violently, and even the fresh night airs were stifling
me.
I now observed that, though the canoe was headed for the shore, the bow
was turned toward a point that was several hundred yards distant from
the log-house.
“You are not taking me home,” I murmured.
“Those who follow us will do that,” my boatman said. “They must not
see me, nor must you tell your friends that those you saw to-day were
genii. You may tell them, however, that an Indian, finding you beside
Deadwood Lake, just after the storm, brought you here. You will do
this?”
“Yes,” I faltered.
There was a long pause. He was using the paddle more vigorously now,
and the shouts that came to our ears from the pursuing boat were louder
and more earnest.
The canoe was rapidly approaching the shore, and in front of the
log-house I saw the dancing of lanterns. I knew my anxious hostess was
preparing to set out to meet the returning boat and was wondering why
the canoe in which I sat was not approaching the regular landing place.
“You will not give me your answer now?” my boatman asked.
With a little shrug of the shoulder, I said faintly:
“There is only one to give. If what you say is true--if it is only I
who can make you free, I must become your wife.”
The strokes of the paddles ceased abruptly, and a great silence fell
around us.
“You will meet me three nights hence, at midnight, at the place at
which we are about to land?” he asked in a low, eager, trembling voice.
“I am to marry you then?” I murmured.
“Yes,” he answered. “But it will ruin both of us if, while the ceremony
is being performed, or afterward on that night, you raise your eyes to
my face. You will be there?”
“Yes, I will be there,” I said.
A voice from the boat that followed cried:
“Miss Trevison.”
“You may answer,” said my boatman, “but do not turn your head.”
“I am here!” I cried.
A few vigorous strokes of the paddle brought my canoe to the shore.
“Remain seated,” said the boatman. “Do not look after me as I go. Three
nights hence, at midnight, I will be here, and, except ourselves and
the priest I will bring with me, no other person must know.”
The side of the canoe was against the bank of a little cove. The boat
rocked from side to side as the boatman left it.
“Good-night, Paula,” he said.
“Good-night, Rayon Demain,” I murmured, with a sigh.
And, as I heard the twigs snapping as he strode quickly into the
forest, I suddenly reflected that his name consisted of two French
words which, together, signified “a beam of to-morrow.”
“Miss Trevison!”
Looking in the direction from whence this cry had come, I beheld a
boat, propelled by two pairs of oars, moving quickly toward me. The
rowers were the two menservants from the log-house.
“I am here,” I called back to them.
In a few moments the bow of the boat was against the bank.
“Who was that man that brought you here?” one of the men asked, shortly.
“An Indian,” I replied.
“You have been to Deadwood Lake?”
“Yes,” I answered, coldly. “I was just entering it when the storm
overtook me.”
The moonlight enabled me to see a strange look settle on the face of
the man who had questioned me.
“I told you, Jim, no good would come of it,” the other muttered,
surlily.
“All right, George; it’s no business of ours--now we’ve found her,” Jim
said, quietly, then addressing me, he added: “Better get in here with
us, Miss. We can tow the canoe better if it is light.”
I got into the boat, and ten minutes later Mrs. Seaver had me in her
arms on the beach in front of the log-house.
The story I told was simple. I explained that when the storm broke
I had landed on the southern shore of Deadwood Lake, and, after
nightfall, believing that the servants would come to seek me, I had
been singing in order that my voice would guide them to me. Then
an Indian had appeared, and I accepted his offer to take me to the
log-house.
“Why did you go there?” asked my hostess, looking at me curiously.
“Because the north end of our lake was the only part of it I had not
visited,” I replied. “I saw the stream that entered it, and, through
it, I paddled up to Deadwood Lake.”
“You must not go again,” Mrs. Seaver said, thoughtfully. “You will
promise me you will not go?”
“Why, yes, I’ll promise you that,” I answered, laughingly.
A warm dinner was soon set before me, but I had little appetite for
it. In my mind were ringing those fateful words which had been softly
uttered by the unseen boatman: “Three nights hence, at midnight, I will
meet you here.”
An hour later, when the lamp in my room was extinguished, the
moonlight, streaming through the open window, found me with closed
lids, but my dreams were of the strange, god-like man whose name
signified “a beam of to-morrow.”
When I woke the sun was shining on the valley and a robin was singing
under my window. My heart was beating rapidly as, half-rising, I leaned
on my elbow and glanced toward the window curtain on which I had found
the verses pinned the morning before.
A few moments later my feet were on the floor, and, with trembling
steps, I approached the curtain on which I saw another envelope.
The first had been marked: “For Paula.” On this was inscribed the
name:--“Pauline.”
Drawing out a sheet of notepaper, I read:--
THY GONDOLIER
Glide thou o’er moonlit waters where
The lilies wake to see thee pass,
And swing their censers to the air
As acolytes at Beauty’s mass;
Or move thee on the tide of dreams
In stately barge; or, if in fear,
Thou art on storm-swept lakes or streams,
Let me be e’er thy gondolier.
While Spring doth shine from out thine eyes,
While brightly beams thy Summer’s sun
And loving friends around thee rise,
I’ll deem my lifelong task begun.
Then, when exposed to Autumn’s breath,
Other loves and faiths grow sere--
Ay, when chill Winter comes, with Death,
They’ll find me still thy gondolier.
Twenty-four hours ago the author of the verses I then received was
unknown to me, but now the mystery had been solved. The hand that had
written the verses yesterday was the same that had penned those of
to-day. It was the hand of the mysterious boatman who had guided my
canoe over the lake less than ten hours ago--the man whose wife I would
be before the week was ended.
But the next morning and the next I looked in vain for the expected
envelope. My heart grew heavy with fear as I wondered what had
prevented the writer’s coming. Had there been a tightening of the bonds
that bound him to that dreadful valley? Would he be unable to keep the
appointment he had made with me?
At length the fateful night arrived. I went to my room at nine o’clock,
for this was the time my hostess and her servants were in the habit of
retiring. For more than an hour I tried to read, but, naturally enough,
I was unable to concentrate my thoughts on a book on the eve of such an
important event in my life. Time and again I asked myself what would be
the result of this unreasonable act I was about to do, but not once did
my courage fail me.
It was half past eleven o’clock when, after extinguishing the light
that had been dimly burning, I lowered myself from my window to the
ground.
Then for several moments I hesitated. The night was darker than I had
expected to find it. Large clouds, moving from the northwest, totally
obscured the moon from time to time, and the night breezes were
freshening.
Not knowing what fate awaited me, or whether I would be able to return
to the log-house, I thrust into one of my pockets a purse containing
all the money I had brought with me to the mountains.
After stealing away from the house as quietly as possible, I found the
path that led along the shore of the lake to the place at which I had
agreed to meet my boatman. How much time it took to cover the distance
I do not know, but on arriving at my destination I was not kept long
in suspense for, from the shadow of a group of low trees, there came a
voice.
“Pauline,” it said softly.
The voice was one that I could not have mistaken anywhere.
“I am here,” I answered, firmly.
“Do you remember?” asked the voice, and I detected a note of warning in
its tone.
“Yes,” I said.
I heard the sound of approaching footsteps, but I did not raise my eyes.
“This is Dr. Belford,” the voice went on. “He is a clergyman, and will
marry us.”
The ceremony was much shorter than I had expected it to be, and the
words were quietly spoken. A strange thrill passed through me as the
bridegroom took my hand, and I was trembling when he slipped the ring
on my finger. Then, at last, I heard the fateful words:
“I do now pronounce you man and wife.”
And so I had my fairy prince at last!
A great silence fell around me, then I heard the voice of the man who
was now my husband.
“Return to the cottage now, Pauline,” he said, gently. “To-morrow
you will hear from me. It is forbidden that I should touch your
lips with mine to-night, or that I should look into your eyes. But
to-morrow--to-morrow----”
I heard him turn away.
“Good-night, my dear,” he said.
“Good-night, Rayon,” I answered, humbly.
And so on our bridal night we parted, and in a few moments I was
returning to the log-house by the path along which I had come from it.
I had proceeded only a few paces, however, when from the direction of
the log-house there came the sound of a pistol shot.
I halted and my heart grew still. Then I heard three other shots in
quick succession. These were followed by the hoarse voices of men.
For several moments terror held me spellbound. Then, standing
motionless in the path, I heard the sound of someone running toward me
from the forest. Cowering with fear, I shrank behind a dwarf evergreen.
The dark shadow moved swiftly past, about thirty feet away from me.
This was quickly followed by another. They were men, but I was unable
to see the faces of either.
A succession of women’s shrieks and the cries of men now rose from
the log-house. Then, looking in that direction, I saw something that
brought a cry of horror to my lips.
The structure was in flames!
Still I hesitated, but the pitiful cries of a woman--cries that I knew
were Mrs. Seaver’s--caused me to fling to the winds all fears for my
personal safety. Running and stumbling, I made my way along the path,
and, as I ran, the dull, angry glow of the burning house grew brighter.
I heard another pistol shot, but the only fear I felt was for the
hostess who had so kindly cared for me.
At length, reaching the clearing round the house, I saw Mrs. Seaver
running toward me. I called her name, but at that moment a tall man
overtook her, and, seizing her in a rough grasp, started with her
toward the burning house. Up the steps he ran, then, with a curse so
loud that it reached my ears, the man hurled the woman through the door.
As I hurried forward, I recognized the perpetrator of the terrible act,
and, in a shrieking voice, I cried:
“Rayon--Rayon--are you mad?”
The tall man turned and thrust away a second tall figure that was about
to throw itself upon him. Then, as swiftly as a deer, Rayon ran to me.
Never shall I forget the awful expression that I saw upon his face as,
standing before me, he looked into my eyes.
“Come--devil or angel--you belong to me now,” he said, laughing
roughly. “To-night I have declared myself free.”
As he grasped one of my arms it seemed to me that his fingers were
burning their way to its bone.
“Stop--stop--coward--help me!” I cried at the top of my voice.
The lips of the magnificent fiend again parted in a smile.
“Come,” he began, but he said no more.
A powerful fist, passing before my eyes, had felled him to my feet.
Freed from his grasp, I turned to the man who had rescued me.
Then I saw that he to whom I owed my release was the man whose
grotesque face--a very caricature of the human visage--had looked down
upon me in New York while I was preparing to board a train for the
Adirondacks--the man whose almost indescribable ugliness had caused me
to refer to him as “the Gargoyle.”
“Are you hurt?” he asked in an abrupt, thick voice.
“No--no, but Mrs. Seaver! She----”
The Gargoyle, laying one hand on my shoulder, pointed to the
milk-house, and said:
“She is safe. Go to her.”
Rayon, who for a few moments had appeared to be insensible, now began
to rise.
“Go!” the Gargoyle repeated, sharply.
I needed no further urging, and several seconds later I was at Mrs.
Seaver’s side. She was moaning pitifully as I approached her, but, as
soon as she saw me, she uttered a cry of relief and clasped me in her
arms.
“Who has done all this?” I asked.
“The demons from the valley,” she sobbed. “It was the Indian who set
fire to the house. The other--the white man----”
James, one of the menservants, came running up.
“We can’t save the house ma’am,” he said quickly, “but I guess all else
is safe enough now. The redskin is dead, and--oh, God!”
A look of horror overspread the speaker’s face and his rifle fell from
his hand. Nor did I marvel that his courage had left him. Standing near
us, with the lurid glare of the fire lighting his terrible features,
was the Gargoyle.
“’Tis the devil himself!” James muttered between his chattering teeth.
With a little cry of terror, Mrs. Seaver hid her face in her hands.
For several moments the strange being before me looked meditatively at
our little group. Then, turning quickly, he strode off into the forest.
“Oh, James--James, you must get us away from here to-night--now!” cried
Mrs. Seaver desperately. “Where is George?”
James, turning his face toward the lake, shrugged his shoulders
slightly, but said nothing.
“Dead?” I asked in a trembling voice.
James faced me slowly.
“Yes, Miss,” he said, quietly. “The white devil killed him--with an
axe.”
“And Mary?” Mrs. Seaver faltered.
“She tried to shoot him, but he was too quick for her,” said James.
“She, too, went down.” Then, turning to me, he added, abruptly: “He was
seeking you, Miss. I was afraid----”
I could hear no more. The ground seemed to give away beneath my feet,
and, tottering forward, I stumbled and fell.
When I recovered consciousness, James and Mrs. Seaver were helping me
into a covered wagon. As I looked around me, I saw the barn was in
flames, the light of which had transformed the lake I loved into a
great orange-colored thing that filled me with dismay.
“Where are we going?” I asked faintly, as I sank on a roll of blankets.
“We are going to leave these terrible mountains,” Mrs. Seaver replied,
in a strange, hard voice. “Until this hour I loved them, but I hate
them now and I hope that I may never see them more. James will drive
us to the nearest railway station, then he will report to the proper
officials all that has happened. He will return with men to help him
bury poor George and Mary. Everything we had here, except the horses
and the wagon, has been destroyed, so let us go.”
A week later, sitting in my apartment in New York, I read in a
newspaper an account of how deputy sheriffs, seeking the outlaw, Rayon
Demain, had come upon a remarkable cavern in Deadwood Valley. It was
apparent that this cavern was, for the most part, the work of man.
Windows, which afforded light and ventilation to the various chambers,
were high up in an almost inaccessible mountainside, and were so
cunningly constructed and concealed that it was not until after the
secret entrance to the cavern had been discovered that their presence
in the big rock wall was suspected.
The cavern contained several galleries, and there were about nine
rooms in all. In these rooms were found hundreds of valuable books,
several different kinds of musical instruments, paraphernalia for the
exhibition of moving pictures and a well-equipped gymnasium.
But by far the most remarkable of the discoveries made was a large
collection of magnificent paintings, most of which were of an
allegorical nature. These had been identified as the work of Nathan
Bonfield, who, many years before, had given promise of becoming one
of the greatest painters of his period, but of whom, in recent years,
little was known. It was found, too, that Bonfield was a frequent
visitor to Deadwood Valley, and there was some reason to suspect that
Rayon Demain, now charged with the murder of two of Mrs. Seaver’s
servants, was some relative of the eccentric painter’s.
It had been learned also that for many years an Indian, named
Glenagassett, had been Demain’s almost constant attendant, and that
it was this Indian who had lighted the fire that destroyed Mrs.
Seaver’s buildings. What had been the motive that inspired this deed,
no man knew. The Indian had been killed and Demain had mysteriously
disappeared. Of Bonfield’s present whereabouts nothing was known.
But before these matter-of-fact reports were published in the
newspapers, I had been disillusioned. From the moment that the brutal
Rayon had been sent to earth by a blow from a human hand, I knew how
absurd had been those superstitions which, excited by that Adirondack
storm, had endowed him with more than human attributes. My god-like
man had degenerated into something that was little better than one of
the lower animals. The outlaw, whose wife I had become, was either a
monster or a madman.
As may be readily understood, the secret of my night canoe trip and
my midnight marriage never left my lips. I was resolved that not even
Prince Maranotti should learn of my almost inconceivable act of folly,
if I could prevent that knowledge from reaching him.
Fearful lest I should again fall into the clutches of Demain, I became
anxious to return to Europe. The fear of Meschid Pasha and his friend
Glyncamp no longer haunted me. Upon me Meschid had no claim, and so
long as I kept away from Turkish territory it was scarcely likely that
either of these enemies would make any attempt to rob me of my newfound
liberty. It was as the daughter of the late Prince Maranotti I would
now take my place in the world.
As soon as the young Prince, my brother, returned from the West I
attempted to persuade him to allow me to go with him to Europe. To
this, however, he demurred. I must remain in the United States, he
said, and retain the name of Paula Trevison.
“It is here that you must marry and make your home,” he told me.
“Through Trevison I will make ample provision for you, but it is
contrary to your interests and mine that you be known as Pauline
Maranotti. The members of the nobility would not receive you, and your
lot in Italy would be exceedingly unhappy.”
I would not have it so, however. The result was that we quarreled and
parted in anger. The following day I received a visit from the Prince’s
American lawyer, who told me my brother had deposited in a New York
bank the sum of ten thousand dollars, in the name of Paula Trevison.
This was to constitute my allowance for the year. The lawyer also
informed me that on that morning the Prince had embarked on a vessel
for Italy.
While the lawyer was with me, I succeeded in restraining my feelings,
but as soon as he was gone a spirit of revolt asserted itself,
and I determined that I would go to England, seek out my mother’s
relatives and enlist their support in an attempt to assert my claim to
recognition as a daughter of the house of Maranotti, and, as such, one
who rightfully might claim a part of its vast estate.
Kind as he had been to me, the Prince had at last plainly given me
to understand that my mother’s flight from his father’s cruelty was
unwarranted, and that, in the interest of the family, he would be
compelled to recognize me only privately as his half-sister. In short
I was to be dependent on his benevolence for that financial aid to
which I had an hereditary right. This, together with the light manner
in which he had set off for Europe, without coming to bid me farewell,
had thoroughly angered me, and from a sense of respect for my injured
mother, as well as from a sense of my individual rights in the matter,
I was determined that this masquerade as Paula Trevison should cease.
Having taken this resolution, I decided to act in accordance with it
without delay.
Looking over the advertising columns of a newspaper, I saw that a large
steam yacht had been chartered by a tourist company for an early Autumn
cruise among the British Isles. I never had been aboard a steam yacht,
and it occurred to me that perhaps on such a vessel I would be less
likely to be seen by anyone who had known me before. It was not such a
vessel as a friend of Glyncamp’s or Meschid’s would be likely to take,
nor was it probable that the fugitive, Demain, would embark on such a
trip. I saw that I could leave the yacht at any of its stopping places,
and as these, for the most part, were not likely to be regular ports of
entry, I might the more easily succeed in escaping detection.
The vessel was to sail on the morrow. Accordingly I drew from the bank
the full amount that had been deposited there to my credit and took
passage on the steam yacht, _Highland Lady_.
Except for one incident, this voyage was uneventful. Near the close of
our fourth day out, we sighted a derelict that lay almost directly in
our course. As our yacht drew near this ill-fated vessel it was seen
that it had been ravaged by fire, but from the charred staff over the
stern a white cloth was fluttering, and a closer inspection showed that
a rope was trailing from one of the davits. Believing, therefore, that
some living person still might be on the helpless vessel, our captain
sent four men in one of the yacht’s boats to learn whether survivors
were aboard.
On the derelict one man was found, and never shall I forget the
spectacle he presented when, haggard and delirious, he was brought
aboard the _Highland Lady_. He was taken to one of the staterooms, and,
heartily pitying the poor fellow, I asked the yacht’s surgeon if I
could do anything to aid him.
The offer was made impulsively, and I was a little startled when the
doctor said:
“Why, yes, Miss Trevison, you can help me, if you will. He has a bad
scratch on one of his arms--from a piece of metal, I suppose--and, if
we don’t give it treatment at once, it is likely to cause considerable
trouble.”
Then, asking all others, except a stewardess and myself to leave the
room, the doctor prepared to dress the injured arm. After a careful
examination, he said he would have to lance it. He, therefore, asked
me to hold the arm while he performed the simple operation. While he
was preparing for this, the physician’s attention was distracted by the
sound of a concertina, which, played by a little son of one of the
passengers, had annoyed many persons during the voyage. The doctor,
stepping to the door, directed that the concertina be silenced. He then
turned to his patient.
All was over in a few minutes, but, while I held the arm, the delirious
man struggled desperately, and never will I forget the look of horror
I saw on his haggard face. When the lancing was finished the doctor
washed the arm and, after applying some sort of ointment, he bandaged
it.
When all was done, I left the stateroom, just as a steward entered it
with a bowl of steaming broth.
Later in the day, when I stopped at the stateroom door to learn the
condition of the patient, he opened his eyes suddenly and, seeing me,
he accused me of being a vampire. When I visited the stateroom on the
following morning he repeated the strange charge. Then, learning that I
was the only visitor whom he had addressed in this astonishing manner,
I discontinued my visits.
The _Highland Lady_ was to make her first stop at the Scilly Islands
and, as it was scarcely likely that the sufferer would find good
hospital treatment there, he was transferred to a vessel bound for
Liverpool.
Shortly after this, upon picking up an English newspaper that had been
published only a day or two after we had taken the stranger from the
_Hannibal_, I saw an account of how an American ship captain had sent a
man aboard the _Hannibal_ in order that he might be able to report on
the derelict’s condition. This man had found no one on the vessel. As
his visit had been made more than a week after the burning _Hannibal_
had been abandoned by its crew, and before it had been sighted by the
_Highland Lady_, the fact that the presence of the famished man we
took off had not been discovered, struck me as extraordinary. It did,
however, account for the unburned rope which we had seen trailing from
the davit.
Upon my arrival in England, the few surviving relatives of my mother
received me coldly, and were frank enough to tell me that the treatment
I had received from the Prince was better than I had a right to expect.
Then, reluctantly deciding to abandon my determination to insist that
I should be formally acknowledged as the late Prince’s daughter, I
returned to the United States.
In the vessel that brought me across the Atlantic I met a young woman,
about my own age, who was the wife of Adolph Janot, an aviator and
the inventor of an improved seaplane which then was being subjected
to a series of tests by the government. Mrs. Janot and I became great
friends, and, when we arrived in New York, it was at her suggestion
that I took a small suite of rooms in the apartment hotel in which she
made her home. Several times, in the course of the weeks that followed,
Mr. Janot invited me to go up with him in his big seaplane, but, unable
to conquer my strange fears, I always declined.
Correspondence between the Prince and myself soon completely effected
a reconciliation, and when, a few months after our parting, he found
it necessary to return to the United States, it was arranged that he
should be my guest.
It was while the Prince still was on the Atlantic that I saw in a
newspaper a report of the death of Rayon Demain. According to this,
the young man, who then was passing under an assumed name, was slain
in Arizona in singularly mysterious circumstances. Concerning his
identity, however, there was not the slightest doubt.
The report was brief and I read the lines without emotion. My love for
this misguided man was only an incident of a long midsummer night’s
dream, after all. His physical perfections, his verses to me and the
words I heard him speak while he guided the canoe across the moonlit
lake had captivated me. Taking advantage of my superstitions, he had
caused me to become his wife, then, in an hour of inexplicable madness,
he had assumed the aspect of a fiend, and I had learned to loathe him.
So lightly had I come to regard that midnight marriage that it was
difficult for me to realize that in the eyes of the law I was a widow.
When my half-brother and I met again we became even better friends than
we had been before. He told me something, however, that disquieted
me. Lord Galonfield had been seeking me in Europe, and had caused the
Prince to be informed that he had obtained possession of the Rajiid
diamonds which, according to an arrangement with Meschid Pasha, were to
constitute the price of my hand in marriage. The Prince gave the young
nobleman no information concerning me.
Like me, the Prince was passionately fond of the better class of music,
and, during the six months he remained in New York, we frequently went
together to musicales and the opera. It was at the Metropolitan Opera
House that I first saw Philip Wadsworth, a well-to-do young man, who
was destined to play an important part in my life.
The circumstances incident to the manner in which Mr. Wadsworth wooed
and wed me have been related by that gentleman himself.
Several times I had been puzzled by his occasional periods of
abstraction, but on the day of our marriage I was wholly at a loss to
account for his remarkable display of nervousness, and, during the
ceremony, I observed that some of his responses were uttered almost as
if he were speaking against his will. His increasing haggardness in
the cab that took us to the pier startled me, and then, for the first
time, I fancied that I saw in his face something that was suggestive
of a face I had seen before. But it was not until he entered the
stateroom, just before the vessel left the pier, that I recognized him.
The haggard face of my husband was that of the delirious man who had
been taken from the derelict, and in his eyes was the same expression I
had seen in them when he had called me a vampire!
Then, as if in confirmation of my discovery, there came to my ears from
the pier the sound of a concertina. Several times, while the rescued
man was on board the _Highland Lady_, passengers found it necessary to
rebuke the irrepressible boy whose playing of a concertina near the
sick man’s room was likely to disturb his rest.
Deserted by the man who, scarcely more than an hour before, had made me
his wife, I continued on my way to Europe. There a cablegram from the
Prince recalled me to the United States. Upon my return I was informed
that Mr. Wadsworth had mysteriously disappeared, leaving no explanation
of his desertion of me.
My brother’s anger and indignation knew no bounds, but, fearing that if
the affair got to the attention of the public, his true name might be
revealed, he decided to institute no legal proceedings against the man
who had so cruelly deserted me.
When the time arrived for me to bid farewell to the Prince, I went down
to the pier with Mrs. Janot to see him off. On my return to my room, I
found among the letters the postman had brought during my absence an
envelope addressed in a handwriting that drove the color from my face.
I quickly opened the envelope, and, as I drew out the sheet it
contained I saw it contained more verses from the hand of Rayon Demain!
With a cry of anguish, I sank insensible to the floor.
When I recovered consciousness, Mrs. Janot was bending over me. As, in
her sympathetic way, she asked me the cause of my trouble, I shrank
from her in dismay.
What would this good woman have said if I had told her I was a bigamist?
The following day I received other verses, and a letter. Neither bore
the hated name, however, for they were signed “Thy Gondolier.” The
letter informed me that the writer was in New York, and he besought
me to receive him when he called at three o’clock on the following
afternoon.
I had rented my apartment furnished, and three trunks were sufficient
to hold all my personal property. These trunks were quickly packed,
and, four hours after I had received the verses and letter, I left the
house.
I went first to a modest hotel, and then rented and furnished a flat in
the northern part of the city. The only persons who knew my new address
were the Janots and the Prince’s lawyer.
For several weeks I was undisturbed, then I was completely prostrated
by the report of the assassination of Prince Maranotti, at Basselanto.
The news came to me through his American lawyer, who informed me that
two men were suspected of the crime. Of these, one was a man whose
features were those of a “laughing devil,” and the other was a cousin
of the man who was slain.
The description of the first man was so similar to that of the man
known to me as the “Gargoyle,” that I could scarcely doubt that it was
indeed this person who had committed the act. I had heard the Prince
speak once of a cousin in America--“a helpless sort of a fellow,” he
said--whom I might chance to meet one day. He advised me, however, not
to take this man into my confidence.
Assured by my legal adviser that my claim to the Maranotti estates
was indisputable, I placed the matter entirely in his hands. He then
decided that, for the present, at least, it would be better for me to
remain in the United States while he went to Italy to consult with
legal authorities there. Two days after my lawyer sailed, a cablegram
from Italy was received at his office. The cablegram yielded the
information that the will of Prince Maranotti had been found and that
he left all the Maranotti estates to me.
Five days have passed since my lawyer left New York. During the first
three I remained in my apartments. Yesterday afternoon, however, Mrs.
Janot invited me to take an automobile trip with her to Rockaway where,
at the aviation station, her husband was going to try out one of his
new seaplanes. Believing the trip would improve my spirits, which were
somewhat depressed because of my long seclusion indoors, I accepted the
invitation.
Arriving at Rockaway, we were welcomed by Mr. Janot, who, in a launch,
took us out to the new seaplane. Not suspecting that any attempt would
be made to take me on a flight against my will, I was easily persuaded
to board the big machine and seat myself in the fusilage. For several
minutes Mr. Janot explained to me the nature of the mechanism by means
of which the seaplane was controlled. While I listened, a mechanician
was oiling one of the great motors.
With a suddenness that completely bewildered me, the whole structure
began to vibrate and I was almost deafened by the sound of the motors’
exhaust. I turned to protest, but in the roar my words were inaudible.
Mr. Janot smiled grimly and avoided my gaze as he continued to
manipulate the mechanical devices with which he was surrounded.
With ever-increasing speed, the plane now was moving over the surface
of the water; then I saw we were rising. Slowly my resentment died
away. As we sped onward and upward, I closed my eyes. Again I found
myself under the spell of old Arabian tales. One moment I felt like
Sinbad in the talons of a roc; another, and I was mounted on the back
of a flying steed, and then I would fancy I was nestling on the crooked
arm of a great, black, Sphinx-faced genie, who, with the speed of a
comet, was traversing the star-strewn wilderness of the night. Nor
did the mighty coughing of the motors’ exhaust find vulnerable the
all-pervading ecstasy which filled my mind with visions of the wonders
of Mohammed’s Paradise.
From time to time I looked down at the wonderful panorama that was
moving under me. I caught my breath as I saw scores of clusters of
toy-houses, and woods and fields, and the sea, wrinkled and gray,
stretching out to the horizon.
But, suddenly, my fears overwhelmed me again. The coughing of the
motors ceased and I was conscious of a faint sensation of sinking.
Looking down, I saw there was land below us--a great expanse of
greenish-yellow meadows, lined with many gray creeks of various sizes.
Toward these meadows the seaplane was gliding, apparently heading for a
big barge that was moored to a bank of one of the larger creeks.
It was near the mouth of one of the creeks that we came to water.
Scarcely was the seaplane at rest when Mr. Janot and his mechanician
began making a collapse boat ready for service. As I looked at them
wonderingly, Mr. Janot said:
“Something serious has happened. The motors are overheated and the
machine is unsafe. We must get you ashore at once.”
Two or three minutes later I was in the boat and Mr. Janot rowed me to
the shore. He helped me to land. As he stepped back into the boat, he
said:
“The condition of the plane is such that I dare not ask you to return
to it. I think you will have little difficulty in getting to a
railway station, with the assistance of someone you will find on the
barge yonder.” He paused, then added: “When we meet again, you will
understand, and will not blame me for leaving you in this unfortunate
situation. Good-night.”
Speechless with astonishment, I watched him row back to the seaplane.
Soon after he boarded it, its exhaust sounded again and it took the air.
The declining sun warned me that if I was to get to the railroad before
nightfall, it would be necessary for me to act quickly. Not far from me
was the barge I had seen in the course of the seaplane’s descent. I was
about to go toward this when I heard the discharge of a gun, and saw
the fall of several ducks that had been flying overhead. Thinking that
the man who fired the gun was from the barge, I hurried toward the bank
which concealed him from my view. Reaching this, I saw him in a little
boat, and to him I appealed for aid in getting me to the railroad.
This, he thought, could not be done at night. Thanks to his courtesy,
however, I soon found myself on this barge where I was welcomed by Mr.
Westfall. I was compelled to remain against my will, but already our
host has partly convinced me that it was well I did so. Painful as have
been the narratives of the three gentlemen who have proved that I have
been responsible for the grievous misfortunes that have befallen them,
I willingly await the stories to be told by the others, with the hope
that what they have to tell will lift forever from my unhappy life the
clouds of mystery and fear which now envelop it.
* * * * *
As the Veiled Aeronaut finished speaking, all eyes, flashing with
disapproval and curiosity, were turned toward the Gargoyle, whose
ever-smiling face was partly concealed by one of his long, white hands.
“Well, sir--well?” demanded the Nervous Physician, irritably. “We are
now prepared to hear your explanation, I believe.”
The Gargoyle, drumming nervously on the table, glanced interrogatively
toward Westfall. But before the millionaire had time to speak, the
Fugitive Bridegroom, leaning across the table, addressed the Aeronaut.
“Then my--my doubts--my horrible suspicions--were only the results of
delirium, after all,” he said, in a hoarse, broken voice.
“Of course, of course,” replied the Nervous Physician. “Isn’t it clear
enough to you now? There is scarcely an hour in the day when some
delirious man or woman in New York is not receiving such impressions. A
man whose bare feet get below his bedclothes on a Winter’s night will
dream that he is in the Arctic regions, and to a dreamer incidents
which seem to occupy hours will pass through his mind in a few seconds.
Science has shown that in a five-minute dream a man may read a
three-volume novel. Most men know this, and, when delirium is passed,
they have sense enough to put aside the fantastic impressions they have
received. You, however, have hoarded yours, with the result that you
have made a fool of yourself, and have withdrawn from this inestimable
young woman the protection she had a natural right to expect from
you. I have no sympathy for you, sir--none. Now let us hear what this
miserable Gargoyle has to say. Why don’t you speak, sir?”
“Stop!” commanded Westfall sharply. “In no circumstances, Doctor, is
any of my guests to be subjected to insult while on this barge. The
Gargoyle awaits your apology, sir.”
The Homicidal Professor leaned forward.
“We are to understand, then, that the appearance of the Princess
on this marsh, and so near this barge, is not to be regarded as a
coincidence?” he asked, impressively.
Westfall shook his head gravely.
“No, it was not that,” he said. “Having learned that her highness was
on friendly terms with the Janots, I persuaded the aviator to bring
her here at the time and in the manner she appeared. Our plan had been
carefully arranged. But, Doctor, I have reminded you that the Gargoyle
is expecting an apology.”
“Well, let him have it, then,” snapped the nervous physician, as the
Homicidal Professor again settled back in his chair. “I apologize now,
sir, but, in time, I may withdraw my apology.”
“We will now hear the story of the Hypochondriacal Painter,” said
Westfall.
The Hypochondriacal Painter stroked his white beard meditatively for a
few moments, then, in a deep, mellow voice, he began:
CHAPTER VII
THE IMAGE OF GOD
The story which I have to tell will be briefer than the others you have
heard, but it is the story of twenty-three long, delusive years. It
is the story of an ambition that was reaching up to Heaven when, like
Babel’s tower, it succumbed to confusion, and fell crumbling to the
earth.
My father, dying just after I became of age, left me a large, carefully
invested fortune, and if I had acted in accordance with his last wishes
I would have addressed myself to commercial pursuits, as he had done.
But Art had enthralled my mind, and I made my home in Paris where I
studied painting under several masters.
From the first, fortune favored me, and critics already were beginning
to refer to me as the most promising painter that the New World ever
had given to the old. My head was turned, and I aspired to climb to
artistic heights that few men had been bold enough to try to scale.
I conceived the idea of a great painting that should be my masterpiece.
In this the central figure was to be the Deity, Himself. For more than
two years I sought a model for this wonderful figure, but my search was
vain. My idea had its inception in the scriptural authority that “God
created man in his own image.” I sought the perfect man. During this
period I made hundreds of sketches, trying to evolve from many models
points of perfection that might be embodied in an harmonious whole.
I had no suggestion from any of the old masters to aid me. Every deity
that the world has worshipped has been, at some time and in some
manner, represented by the reverent hands of sculptors and painters.
But few Christian sculptors ever attempted to give form to Him who made
man in His own image, and these few were content to imitate the ancient
conceptions of Jove.
Late one New Year’s Eve, I knew that I had failed, so, collecting all
the sketches I had made, I hurled them into my fireplace. Then, with
a sharp knife, I went to the end of the studio where stood the great
canvas, with its background partly painted, on which I had designed to
place my conception of the wonderful image.
I mounted a stepladder, and was about to thrust the knife into the top
of the canvas when a sound, coming to me from the hall, caused me to
hesitate.
It was the cry of a new-born child!
I knew its parents. The father had died six months before this
plaintive cry, even now, had reached my ears. He had been an
unfortunate artist, and had left his widow so destitute that I was
contributing to her support. She was nearly forty now, and, in
her youth she had been very beautiful. But poverty and care had
extinguished many of her former charms long before this, her first,
child came into the world to share her life of misery.
A new idea now flashed into my mind, and, as I thought, I slowly
descended the ladder.
Half an hour later, when I laid the gleaming knife upon my table, the
canvas was still untouched by the blade, and in that still, grimy old
studio it remains untouched at this very hour, for no foot has crossed
the threshold since that fateful New Year’s Eve.
I took the infant from its dying mother’s arms, and before the first
month of the new year was ended the babe was in the United States. Here
I confided it to the care of a New England woman who, for two years,
cared for it as if it had been her own.
I had been shooting and painting in the Adirondacks several years
before, and, profoundly impressed by the grandeur of its great mountain
fastnesses, I thought that somewhere among them it might be possible
to find one which no human foot, unguided by mine, would tread for a
quarter of a century.
I now determined to search for such a valley, and, taking with me
Glenagassett, the most perfect type of Indian manhood I had ever met, I
set out on my quest.
In course of time, we came to what is now known as Deadwood Valley.
There I found a little natural cave, and across the front of this
Glenagassett and I built a wall of logs. Then, returning to New York,
I took the two-year-old child, and, retracing my steps through the
mountains, I found myself again in the valley. Here I gave the child
into the care of Glenagassett.
To the Indian I then confided my purpose. I told him that this child
was Rayon Demain--“the beam of to-morrow”--that he was the son of the
Great Spirit, himself, and that he should come to possess all the
Great Spirit’s powers should he attain his twenty-third year without
seeing the face of a woman, or exchanging words with any man whom I
did not take to him myself. Amid these solitudes the child should be
taught that he was lord of all, and that when the right hour came, his
supremacy over nature and man would be fully proclaimed.
The boy, Rayon, was to be taught the language of the forest as Indians
had been able to understand it. He should be impressed, too, with
the belief that the storm, the waves and every living thing in the
wilderness were daily beseeching him to exert in their behalf his
god-like, dormant power.
I told the Indian also that not until the boy was ten years old would
I see him again, but that at that time, when his forest education was
done, I would bring other teachers.
All this was in accordance with a theory that I had formed--a theory
that the human mind is the sculptor of the features and poise that
express its meaning. In short, that if a man is to have the facial
expression of a god, he must think as a god, and have god-like things
to look upon.
When the workmen left the valley, Rayon and Glenagassett reentered
it. While he was away the boy had seen no face other than that of the
Indian.
When the lad was ten I visited him. I saw Glenagassett had done well.
Whether Rayon talked, walked, ran, or swam in the dark lake, his grace,
dignity and self-possession amazed me, and, always clean-minded and
with more than even a proud man’s self-respect, he already had begun to
develop the most remarkable beauty I ever had seen on a human face.
I then had a new and more spacious rock chamber finished, and I sent to
Rayon teachers whom I could trust to carry out the delusion I had been
so carefully fostering in his mind. Believing me to be a messenger of
the Great Spirit, his father, he corresponded with me, reporting to me
on what he had learned each day. The books, music and pictures I sent
to him were carefully chosen, and were of a nature to encourage in him
a belief that he was superior to the human race.
When the boy was eighteen I began to visit him more frequently. Amazed
by the manner in which my theory was working out, I began to feel
myself inferior to this strange youth, whose mind was dominated by a
sense of power, and into whose heart no guile had ever entered. There
were times when even I was half-tempted to share Glenagassett’s belief
that the youth really possessed divine attributes.
At length, when the boy was twenty, I assured myself that I would have
only three or four years more to wait, and that then the marvelous
figure would at last find its place on the big canvas in my closed
Parisian studio.
Clouds at last began to rise above the horizon, however. In the valley
below Deadwood lake a woman established a summer home, and brought
several servants with her. Glenagassett wanted to burn the log-house
then, but, fool that I was, I forbade him to do so. I was beginning to
be confident of Rayon’s own power now.
Rayon had just entered his twenty-second year when, on a visit to the
valley, I learned that a beautiful young woman had passed through the
mountains. The Indian feared she was going to live with Mrs. Seaver.
“Shall I kill her?” Glenagassett asked me, eagerly.
But--still a fool--I told him ‘no’--to wait and see.
One day, while I was sitting in the cavern, there came a violent storm.
I rose, and, walking to one of the windows, I watched the tempest as it
rocked and threshed the valley. When it was over I lay down and slept.
When I awoke a sweet, strange sound was coming to me through the window
I left open. Rising quickly I hurried to the window and listened.
It was a love-song--sung by a woman whose voice, stealing through and
over the silent wilderness, was as beautiful as an angel’s.
Hurrying down the shore, I ran like a madman toward the place from
which the voice was rising--the very spot on which I stood when I
first delivered the little Rayon into the keeping of Glenagassett.
It was a long, hard scramble that I had undertaken, and my way lay over
soggy mounds, shifting stones and fallen trees. Branch after branch
smote me as I ran, until, with my strength all spent, I was compelled
to pause before I reached my destination.
The first song had ceased, then, after a pause, the voice of the singer
rose again. She was singing “The Lost Chord.”
Once more I staggered on, and, when I came upon the singer, I saw that
Rayon stood beside her in the moonlight, with a hand resting on one of
her arms.
Despair suddenly gripped my heart as I realized that the woman was no
less beautiful than her wondrous voice!
My effort to draw Rayon away was successful, but, all the way back to
the cavern he strode ahead of me, gazing sullenly to the ground.
At the cavern entrance he turned.
“Are all the devils as fair as that?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“No, no,” I answered, gravely. “The fairest has been sent to tempt the
strongest man.”
He looked at me long and steadily.
“If you have deceived me, you must not live longer, Nathan,” he said;
then, as if thinking aloud, he added: “I will see, I will see.”
That night the cavern chambers were too narrow to hold my thoughts,
so I went out into the valley, and for more than three hours I walked
alone beneath the stars.
Returning to the cavern I woke Glenagassett.
“The women must leave the valley below,” I said.
“They shall go,” Glenagassett answered.
Not once on the following day did Rayon speak to me. At night he
retired early to his chamber.
The following morning, when I saw Glenagassett, I said:
“The women are not gone.”
“They will go to-night,” he replied, gloomily.
I nodded, and passed on. That day Rayon started off alone, but the
Indian followed him. In the evening Rayon came to me.
“Does the Prince of Evil always look like the pictures we see of him,
Nathan?” he asked.
“I think so,” I answered. “But why do you ask me that?”
“Because I’ve seen him,” he muttered, thoughtfully. “He haunts her
every night, and----”
“Haunts who?” I asked.
“The woman.”
“Well, may he take her, then!” I retorted, irritably.
“Do you think he will?”
“I have not the slightest doubt that he will get her eventually,” I
muttered.
“The Prince of Darkness must be tamed,” he said, gloomily. “We’ll see
to that--Glenagassett and I.”
Half-choked by emotions of anger and fear, I looked at him several
moments, without speaking. Rayon was looking down the valley toward the
stream through which the waters of Deadwood Lake pass to the valley
below.
“You have been going to the log-house at night?” I asked.
“He is always there,” Rayon went on moodily, “and, night before last, I
met him face to face. Nathan, what is fear? How does one feel, who has
it?”
“He feels as you must never feel, Rayon,” I replied, looking at him
wonderingly.
“Is it a shrinking feeling--a feeling that a man might have if some
great eagle fastened its talons in his head and was jerking out all his
thoughts? Is it a thing that traps his voice, and holds down his hands
when he would raise them--that grips his feet like boggy places?”
“Yes--yes,” I faltered. “But----”
“Then I have felt it, Nathan,” he went on, gravely. “I have been a
coward.”
“In Heaven’s name, Rayon!” I began, but, with one of his imperious
gestures, he silenced me.
“For the last two nights, while you thought me sleeping, I have been in
the other valley,” the young man said. “When I went there on the night
I saw the woman, a strange thing happened. I had it in my mind to seize
her and bring her here, where I might look at her and make her sing
whenever it pleased me to hear her. But in the log-house there were
many windows, and, while I stood in a shadow, wondering which might be
the window of her room, I saw a figure that I took to be a man steal
around the corner of the house. Leaving the shadow, I walked toward the
figure. It turned, and, when I saw its features, I knew it was no man.
It was the Prince of Darkness, himself.”
“Come--Rayon, Rayon!” I muttered, protestingly.
“It was he, and no other,” the young man said, with an appearance of
the most unmistakable conviction. “And, as I looked at his grinning,
triangular, black-bearded face, I felt that thing which, as I know now,
was fear.”
“Did he speak?” I asked, sharply.
“Not there. For a long time--it may have been one minute or thirty, but
I felt as if it would never end--he kept his gaze on mine. I could not
tell whether he had expected me, or whether my coming had taken him by
surprise. The evil smile on his hideous face revealed nothing. His
awful eyes held me as a serpent’s holds a bird’s. Their beams burned
like brands. Though he was smiling, no muscle of his face had moved. He
stood like a thing of stone.”
Thrill after thrill passed over me. Was Rayon crazed, or had he,
indeed, seen this hideous thing? A great chill smote me as I saw that
drops of perspiration were gathering on the speaker’s brow. Ay, it
was plain that fear had come to him, at last. For the first time, in
many years, I remembered that he had had a mother. The creature I had
labored so long to invest with divine attributes had woman’s blood in
him, after all. He who created man in His own image made the first of
our race All-Man. It was not until the first man learned to love a
woman that there came into the world those strange hybrids who were to
people it--men with some of the weaknesses of women, and women with
some of those higher, and partly divine, attributes, with which God
invested man.
After a pause, Rayon went on:
“At length the creature looked toward the open window he had been
approaching when my footsteps attracted his attention. For a few
moments, the fear passed from me, and, with my eyes, I tried to measure
his strength. I saw that he was as powerful as I. I think I should have
thrown myself upon him had not he turned again to me so soon. Then
my will left me. He pointed to a dark, heavily timbered spot in the
forest, just beyond the clearing. Like a child, I did his bidding, and,
as I walked, I heard him following slowly.
“At last I heard his voice. It was so different from yours or
Glenagassett’s--so much like my own--that it startled me.
“‘Let us stop here,’ he said.
“I halted, and, as I turned to him, I saw his back was to the narrow
shaft of moonlight that came through a rift in the mass of foliage
above. Of this I was glad, for, if we were to talk, I would not be
compelled to see his face. But I soon knew he had not taken me to that
dark place to hear me speak.
“‘Among these mountains there are many valleys, and no man is lord of
all,’ he began. ‘The valley above is yours, to have and to hold until
that man comes who shall cast you out. But this valley belongs to me,
and I hold it by virtue of a stronger will than your own. When you
leave it now, take with you the knowledge that, if you return to it,
the old impious fool who so long has deluded you, will never again look
on the living form of Rayon Demain. Now go.’
“As he spoke, he turned from me and moved quickly into the darker
shadows that lay around us. But if he thought that I, standing in the
moonlight, did not see him take a revolver from his pocket, he did not
know that my eyes could penetrate far darker shades than those in which
he stood to watch me.
“I was unarmed, and, having felt that thing which comes over forest
animals when men approach them, I knew that you had lied to me--that,
after all, I was only a man, and would die like a deer, or bear or
stricken bird if this strange being discharged his weapon at me. And so
I did his bidding. I came back to this valley, and, as I stole hither,
like a scourged hound, I heard stealthy footsteps following me as I
went. I knew they were the footsteps of him who had taught me how to
fear. It was not until I entered the valley that I knew my enemy had
turned back.
“But, though I had walked that night as one who did the bidding of
a master, my thoughts were not those of a coward. Nor were they the
thoughts of one who was still a fool. I knew many things I had not
known before. I knew that I was only a man--that he whom you have
just told me was the Prince of Darkness was only a man; that when my
enemy had spoken of ‘the old impious fool’ who had so long deluded me,
he meant you--you, whom I have known as Nathan--you who would have a
creature who is capable of feeling fear believe himself to be a god.”
As he bent his gaze on me now, I shrank appalled from what I saw.
His eyes were burning fires in which seemed to be generated the
whiteheated hate that was trembling on his face.
The man whom I had striven to make god-like had become an angered
demon. In the Babel I had reared the confusion of tongues already had
entered. Fear and Hate had gained admission, and I, the trembling
architect, felt as if it were too late for me to escape from the
tottering walls before they fell.
For several moments, confronted by that great hate, I doubted not that
the man it had mastered would take my life. But his will fought back
the fires, and once more a look of sullenness settled on his face. Then
he spoke as quietly as he had done before.
“And so, knowing these things, I knew that the devil-faced creature,
who had triumphed over me while I was unarmed, would have to die--that
I must kill him before I would be able to get the woman,” he went on.
“That is why I went again to the log-house last night. Hour after hour
I sat in the fringe of the forest, watching for the man I had gone
there to slay. But he did not come. I would have taken the woman then,
had I not believed that he might follow and take me unawares while I
had her in my arms. But, whether or not he comes to-night, I will bring
the woman here.”
Trembling with astonishment and anger, more than fear, I laid a hand on
one of his broad shoulders.
“Rayon--Rayon--are you mad?” I gasped.
Drawing back, he laughed harshly. Then, with a sudden movement he
reached forward and, grasping me with his powerful hands, he raised me
from the ground and held me out at arms’ length, shaking me as if I
were a child.
“Yes, mad--mad--mad--you old fool graybeard--mad!” he cried. “But I am
not half so mad as you would make me.”
Then, with a wild, rough laugh, he flung me to the ground with such
force that, writhing with pain, I could not draw a breath.
When, at last, quivering with physical pain and mental anguish, I
scrambled to my feet, I saw I was alone.
Raising my voice, I feebly called the name of Glenagassett. There was
no response. Where had the Indian gone? Had I not told him to keep
Rayon always in his sight? As my strength returned to me, I called
louder.
Then suddenly I remembered that when I last had seen the Indian,
earlier in the day, he had told me that the women in the valley below
would “leave to-night.”
I never had known Glenagassett to break his word. How he designed to
get the women away I did not know. It was a subject that I had feared
to think upon, but I knew the next morning would not find them there.
Glenagassett undoubtedly was in the lower valley, and Rayon was now
well on his way thither. What would happen if they met?
Into one of my pockets I slipped a revolver, then, with long, eager
strides, I set out along the path that led to the valley below.
My strides soon quickened to a run. Then, losing breath, I slackened
my pace to a walk again. On and on I went--now walking, now running,
until Deadwood Valley was well behind me. At length, however, I heard a
sound that brought me to a halt.
It was the sound of a pistol shot, and, as I listened, others broke the
stillness of the night.
I had not far to go, and, as I ran, I dropped the burden of my years.
A mighty resolve had hardened my heart and steeled my sinews. As I
pressed on, the revolver that I brought with me was in my hand. The
woman who was the cause of all this mischief should die, even if every
bullet that I might fire should pass through her body into the heart of
Rayon Demain!
I heard the shouts of men, and I knew that it was no one-sided battle
that was on. Glenagassett had told me that the old woman’s two
menservants were well-seasoned forest men of the same hard stuff of
which the Adirondack guides are made. I had seen these from a distance,
and I knew that neither of them was the “devil-faced” man Rayon had
encountered. Who this stranger was I was unable to guess.
Shots and shouts ceased suddenly, then I heard a woman’s shrieks. These
encouraged me in the belief that, thus far, victory lay with Rayon--or
Glenagassett. It was the triumph of Glenagassett for which I was hoping
now.
Suddenly, a dull, red glare began to steal through and over the forest
trees. The odor of burning wood was in my nostrils. A wild, quavering,
exultant cry issued from my throat, for I knew that the victory lay
with Glenagassett--that it was mine.
From the log-house now there came no sound. The cries of the frightened
women were still, and the fire glow became so bright that I could see
distinctly the outlines of the boughs under which I was passing. Among
the trees and bushes, however, the inhabitants of the forest were
astir. Birds and squirrels had scented that which they dread even more
than man--the smoke of an Adirondack forest fire.
Suddenly I remembered that I was old. My strength was spent, and my
heaving chest felt as if it were filled with molten metal. My limbs
were palsied by the violence of the unwonted efforts I had required of
them. As I tottered on, the revolver fell from the hand that had been
grasping it. I stooped to pick it up. I saw it gleaming--gleaming at my
feet. I touched it--fell, and felt the damp earth against my throbbing
temples.
“I will sleep,” I murmured. “All is well. Glenagassett has triumphed,
and the woman--the woman----”
Ay, I slept, and when I woke the sun was shining.
So stiff was I in every joint and muscle that even the slightest
movement gave me pain. The atmosphere was laden with the dank, heavy
odor of burnt wood, but I saw no smoke.
Rising weakly, I looked around me. I had fallen in the forest, near
the edge of the clearing that surrounded the log-house. But now I saw
that the log-house was gone. A mass of black, faintly smoking embers
was all that was left of the picturesque little home that an honest,
nature-loving old woman had built here in the wilderness beside the
still smiling lake.
But the blackened fragments of the log-house and barn were not all I
saw. Lying in the clearing there were other objects, and, as these met
my view, I knew they were human sacrifices that had been laid before
the altar of my ambition.
All unmindful of the pains that had been racking my body and limbs,
I passed from one still form to another. The first I saw was that of
poor, devoted Glenagassett. The two others apparently were the bodies
of servants--one a man and the other a woman. Of Rayon, of the woman
who had owned the log-house, and of the young woman who had been her
guest there was no trace.
One thing, however, was certain, and the knowledge of this made me a
coward. Murder had been done, and those who sought the persons who were
responsible for the night attack might, even now, be on their way to
this valley. Thus, in the sunset of my wasted life, I was nothing more
than a wretched criminal, for, though I had not been present when these
three hapless beings were slain, I was as responsible for their deaths
as if they had fallen before the revolver I had taken with me to the
spot.
Had Rayon succeeded in getting the young woman to the cavern, after
all? Did he know that, whether he had done this or not, the law would
seek him out and punish him? Should I not go to the cavern and tell him
of his peril?
I shook my head.
No, neither Rayon nor the woman was anything to me now. If he still
lived, he was young and I was old. I had failed in all things. Let him
work out his destiny alone.
Beside the body of the manservant lay his rifle, and around the waist
was a cartridge belt. After taking possession of these, I knelt down
beside Glenagassett and took from one of his pockets the flint and
steel with which, for many years, he had kindled all his fires. Then,
after one long, last look toward Deadwood Valley, I plunged into the
wilderness, nor did I emerge from it again until the songbirds had
taken flight for the Southland, and the frost was causing the nuts to
drop from the trees. When I returned to civilization, it was at a point
far distant from those from which I had been wont to approach Deadwood
Valley.
Since the day I found Glenagassett’s body, it has been only in my
dreams that I have heard the voice of Rayon Demain. But I knew that he
did not die in the Adirondacks. From time to time newspapers published
accounts of efforts that had been made to capture him. At first, he was
sought only as “the Adirondack murderer,” but later other crimes in
distant parts of the country were laid to his charge. How a man with
such a striking face and figure could succeed in escaping capture, I
could not understand.
At length, however, newspapers reported a misadventure that befell him
in the West, and through them I learned the name of one who was able to
give me the details of the affair. That gentleman, replying to a letter
which I wrote to him, told me a story which is little less remarkable
than the one you have just heard from my lips. He is that guest who is
known to you as the Duckhunter, and you doubtless soon will hear from
him the strange facts he has to tell.
* * * * *
The eyes of all except two of the guests were turned toward the
Duckhunter. While the Hypochondriacal Painter had been speaking, the
Aeronaut had drawn her veil over her face again, and, from that moment,
those who glanced toward her saw that not once was her gaze turned
from the Gargoyle. As if conscious of this fact, the Gargoyle sat with
his head bowed. His right arm rested on the table, and his right hand
shielded his eyes and part of his face.
There was a little pause, then, as no one seemed inclined to speak,
Westfall nodded toward the Duckhunter, who forthwith began his story.
CHAPTER VIII
ON DESERT SANDS
Though the story you have had from the lips of the Hypochondriacal
Painter is one of a weight of woe that was accumulated in the course
of twenty-three long, wasted years, I doubt whether the mental anguish
it has excited in the mind of its narrator is greater than that which,
coming to me in a single hour, has blighted all that remains to me in
life.
My vocation is one of the most unfortunate that a man may follow, for
it leads me among unpleasant places in my search for unpleasant men.
In short, then, I am a member of the United States Secret Service. In
that service, a specific order is as immutable as one of the laws of
nature, and this is one reason why its members are chosen so carefully.
It is because I, a graduate of West Point, and for many years an army
officer, have always regarded an order of my chief as superior to any
law of man or State that my position in the service is second only to
that of the chief himself.
My connection with this wonderful series of adventures, which have been
described to you by guests here present, began with an order which came
to me from my chief immediately after I disembarked from a vessel which
had brought me from Japan, where I had been engaged on a secret and
highly important mission.
This order directed me to proceed without delay to Arizona, and there
assume charge of a party of our men who had traced to that State one
William Farnley, whose beautiful wife had been identified as a member
of one of the most clever and desperate gangs of counterfeiters that
this country had ever known. While Farnley was not suspected of being
able to produce a counterfeit note himself, there was little doubt that
his wife, who was thoroughly infatuated with him, had found him an apt
pupil, and that it was on these two persons that the other members of
the gang relied for the exchange of bogus notes for good notes in a
manner that would not subject them to suspicion.
Both Farnley and his wife had been arrested in Chicago, but the man,
who was an exceptionally powerful fellow, killed two of his guards
with a jack-knife, and escaped. He was traced to Omaha, and thence the
trail--a pretty well-defined one, for Farnley was a chap whose striking
physical characteristics would attract attention anywhere--led to
Arizona. There one of our men had overtaken the fugitive on the edge of
a desert, and was shot, living only long enough to write and pin to his
breast a note telling how and at whose hands he had come to his death.
The man thus stricken had been an old comrade of mine, and as, a week
later, I stood on the edge of that arid plain on which no tree or
watercourse offered itself to view, I had a double motive in running
down the man I sought. Not only would I be carrying out the orders of
the department, but I would be avenging the death of my friend.
I set out with a half-breed Indian. Beside the mules we rode, we had
three pack animals which carried a light tent, forage and large skins
filled with enough water to supply us for the next twenty hours. Our
destination was Spirit River, a stream that runs through the heart of
the desert, and which could be reached only by a thirty-five mile ride
across the blistering sands. It was to that river that I now had to
follow Farnley’s trail. The trail was fresh, for he had set out from
this very point only a few hours before.
The start was made at four o’clock in the afternoon. It was two o’clock
when I had engaged Jim, the half-breed, for the journey. He was sober
then, but, as he mounted now, I saw that he had been drinking--how
heavily I did not know, but when a man has a hot desert ride before
him, every gill of whisky in his stomach constitutes a serious
handicap. However, it was too late to protest, and too early to excite
the ill will of the only man who was available for the purpose for
which this one had been employed.
Owing to the intense heat that prevailed, our pace was moderate. I
had allowed twelve hours for the journey. In order that it might be
successful, it was essential that we arrive at Spirit River while it
was dark, otherwise our approach over the desert scarcely could fail to
be observed by the man whom I was planning to surprise.
By eight o’clock we had covered sixteen miles of our journey, having
proceeded at the rate of only four miles an hour. The sun had gone down
and the air, while far from cool, was now becoming more endurable.
I decided, therefore, to make a halt and feed and water the mules,
giving to the animals a half an hour’s rest before calling on them for
the increased efforts that would be required of them when our journey
should be resumed.
For the last hour, Jim, the half-breed, had been muttering
incoherently. When I addressed him, however, he spoke rationally
enough, and I thought that, by the time we were in our saddles again,
the rest and decreasing heat would enable him to work off the ill
effects of the liquor he had taken.
I now directed him to picket the mules, and aid me in relieving them of
their packs. He accomplished this task in sullen silence, but, while
we were feeding and watering the animals, he began to address me in an
Indian jargon which I was unable to understand. As I watched him, he
gesticulated violently, and several times pointed in the direction of
the unseen river.
All my efforts to get the man to speak rationally were vain, so,
with one hand on my holster, I shrugged my shoulders resignedly and
continued to keep him under observation.
At length, when the packs were replaced on the mules, and we were ready
to mount again, I saw his hand move to his revolver. I quickly drew
mine--aimed and pulled the trigger.
The hammer fell on an empty chamber. The half-breed, with his weapon
pointed at my breast, laughed tauntingly, but held his fire.
Again I pressed my trigger, and again the hammer clicked.
“One mule--you; four mule--Jim.”
As the half-breed spoke, I knew that, while we had been making
preparation for our journey, he had withdrawn the shells from my
revolver. To offer resistance to his will now meant certain death to
me. Crazed as he might be, he still was sufficiently master of himself
to shoot straight, for the hand that held his weapon was as steady as a
boulder on a valley bottom.
He bade me cast off my belt and move away two hundred paces, and I did
so. I felt no fear of death, but it was not death the Service had sent
me out here to find; it was a man. I saw I must bide my time.
True to his threat, the mongrel devil left my mule and rode off with
the others. When he was gone, I mounted. I was unarmed now, so I saw
that nothing could be gained by riding off after the half-breed, who,
doubtless, had friends near. Accordingly, unarmed as I was, I turned
the head of my mule toward the distant, unseen river, and, guided by
the little compass which I always carry with me, I resumed my quest
alone.
I found the going easier than I had expected, and was fortunate in
having under me one of the sturdiest animals it ever had fallen to
my lot to ride. The moon was three-quarters full, and, though a haze
overhung the desert, the light was fairly good. Shortly after midnight
a faint, silvery line ahead of me gave me to understand that a few
minutes more would find me at Spirit River.
At length, I slipped from my saddle and stood on the bank of a broad,
shallow stream that was filled with rocks around which the sluggish
tide made scarcely a ripple. Along each bank extended a fringe of dwarf
trees. It was to one of these trees that I hitched my mule, after I and
the beast had drunk our fill from the river.
Near the spot at which I had dismounted was a curious burrow which
consisted of a hole scooped in the sandy bank and roofed with the trunk
and branches of small trees over which had been spread a layer of
stones and river mud. Near the door of this little dug-out I saw a pick
and shovel and a prospector’s pan. But there was something more, and,
as I looked at it, a slight feeling of creepiness stole over me.
A few feet distant from the entrance to the burrow, and lying at full
length on the ground, was the body of a man.
A mere glance at the swollen face convinced me that this was not the
fugitive I sought. It was the body of a man of middle age, and there
was little doubt in my mind that he was the prospector who had occupied
this rudely constructed dwelling. On his breast was pinned a piece of
soiled paper. Removing this, I entered the hut and struck a match. Then
I saw that on the paper were written the following words:
Dide on or bout 5 August Ime Jack Cline and my wife an kids is Mary
Cline, Conedale Ohio broke leg in shaf and it swel offul. Mule croked
las week so will I. Bury me desent if you kin. Looks like theres dust
hereabut but I aint struck mutch yet. So long.
As I examined the body, I was convinced that the poor fellow had died
of gangrene the day before. Picking up a shovel that was near the
entrance to the hut, I dug a shallow grave. To this I was dragging the
body when a sudden, rattling sound near me caused me to step quickly
aside. I was too late, however. Before I was able to see the thing that
threatened me, a rattlesnake had buried its fangs in the outer side of
the calf of my left leg.
I killed the reptile, then, glancing at the grave I had dug, I muttered:
“Well, I suppose I’d better make it big enough for two.”
With my handkerchief and a stick I made a tourniquet above the wound. I
was tightening this when I heard a voice ask, quickly:
“What are you doing there?”
I turned deliberately, and I gave no start or other sign of recognition
as I saw that he who stood near me, with a revolver in his hand, was
the man I had gone out to the desert to take, dead or alive.
“A rattler has just bitten me,” I explained, as quietly as the other
had asked the question.
“The devil!” Farnley muttered, in a sympathetic voice. “What are you
doing for it?”
“Holding off the end a little while,” I replied. “That’s all a fellow
can do under the circumstances.”
“You fool, why don’t you suck out the poison?” Farnley asked,
impatiently, as he returned his revolver to his belt.
“I can’t reach it,” I answered.
“Who’s that man--the dead one?” Farnley demanded, suddenly.
“My partner--Jack Cline. We were prospecting here. His mule fell in the
desert, and he broke his leg. Gangrene got him and he’s all in now. I
brought him here on my mule, and was burying him when I was bitten.”
“You were prospecting for gold?”
“Yes,” I answered.
Farnley was now on his knees beside me. In a few moments he had rolled
up the left leg of my trousers and was pressing his lips to the wound.
For five minutes he worked zealously, sucking out the poison. From one
of his pockets he took a large flask of whisky and placed it in my
hands.
“Drink it all,” he said, as he tightened the tourniquet.
As I gulped down the liquor, he added, cheerfully:
“You’ll be all right now, my man. Have you any coffee in your shack?”
“I’ll see,” I said, and started to rise.
“Stop!” he exclaimed. “I’ll go.”
He found it, too, and, while he was preparing the steaming draught,
I watched him moodily. I had been told that the fugitive I had been
assigned to find was characterized by remarkable personal attractions,
but, despite this information, I was astonished by the man I saw.
Never had I gazed on human features that were so splendidly moulded
or which expressed such a degree of intelligence and self-possession.
Though his figure was that of a magnificently developed athlete, his
movements were as graceful as those of a girl. Nature had endowed me
well with strength, but, as I watched Farnley now, I knew that in a
struggle I would be little more than a child in his hands.
Never before had I been racked by so many conflicting emotions. In
the aspect of the man was something that made me shudder. While he
was speaking to me, a peculiar charm seemed to invest his speech and
movements, but, as he bent over the fire that he kindled, there crept
over his features a gloomy, sinister expression, and once he frowned
darkly as he glanced in my direction.
At the time this handsome murderer had come upon me, undoubtedly I was
in the grip of death. Though he had given my life back to me, that life
belonged, as it had done for twenty years, to the Service, and, as I
sat there, I knew that when the Service once gets after a man it is
bound to land him sooner or later. I knew, too, that this man’s crimes
meant death to him. I might let him go now, but he would be a fugitive
until the inevitable end when he would expiate on the gallows the death
of my old comrade.
At length, absorbed in his preparations for supper, Farnley laid
aside the belt to which his revolver was attached. I watched it with
fascinated eyes. Once more he went into the hut--to get forks and
sugar. When he came out I was looking at him from over the barrel of
his revolver.
His handsome face grew as dark as a thunder cloud.
“What the devil is all this?” he growled.
“It means that I, Roger Canbeck, am a Secret Service officer, and that
I hereby arrest you, William Farnley, on three charges of murder,” I
replied.
For several moments he gazed at me steadily, then he looked
thoughtfully at the ground.
“Well, what is it you want me to do?” he asked.
“You must ride with me to-night across the desert.”
He broke into a laugh--so light and boyish that it startled me.
“No, no--not that,” he said. “It is only in his own way that Rayon
Demain now plays the fool. The time is passed when others may direct
him.”
As he finished speaking, he leaped toward me. My finger trembled on the
trigger, but I felt I could not press it. A moment later, a fork in
the hand of my adversary was thrust into one of my eyes. I staggered
back, and as he reached to seize the revolver from my grasp, I drew the
trigger. Groping at his bosom, he slowly retreated a couple of paces,
then, with a groan, he fell.
Racked with pain, I looked down on him with the single eye that
remained to me. I saw him as through a mist. He was lying very still,
but, by the movements of his eyelids, I knew that the strange, warped
soul had not yet forsaken its splendid tenement. As I gazed across the
moonlighted desert, the revolver fell from my nerveless, trembling
hand. The venom which those fast-whitening lips had sucked from my
flesh was far less deadly than that which my stern sense of duty had
injected into my soul. The honor of the service had been vindicated,
the death of my comrade had been avenged, but I knew that from that
hour I would be unable to wash the stain of ingratitude from the life
which this dying man had given to me.
As my gaze fell to him again, I saw he was looking at me, and was
smiling feebly.
“All things do not happen in the manner that the prophets have
written,” he said, “and so you have come too late to keep from Rayon
Demain the knowledge that it is better to be a sinful man than a
proud, arrogant and unloving god. There was a time when an old man
deceived me by causing me to believe that one day I would possess the
attributes of divinity--I, who would never win the mastery of my own
soul. But the love of woman I have won--that is all, and it has been
enough. And so, you see, wisdom came to Rayon Demain at last, for, like
the butterflies, he lived his season among Life’s flowers, and you
shall know that when he died he had learned that even evil women are
not devils, and that, despite old men’s teachings, there is good in
everything.”
Scarcely conscious of the action, I knelt beside him. With a little
laugh, he held out a hand to me. Sobbing like a child, I took it.
“You are sorry,” he said, speaking now with an effort. “But--it is all
right, after all. The desert was all that was left to me; there is more
for you, and, sometimes, when a woman’s eyes grow bright while you are
speaking to her, think kindly of him who gave back your life beside
that grave in which you will lay me now.”
“Why did you resist me?” I whispered, hoarsely.
“Because, like all other men I have ever known, you stood in my light.
It was only by resistance that I earned my brief day of sunshine. I am
content.”
With a little sigh, he turned his head. His eyes closed, and I knew
that all was ended--that for Rayon Demain the bright sun would rise no
more.
It was not until twilight fell again that I left the little green belt
in the desert. I buried the two bodies side by side, but, as I set out
on my return journey, there seemed to ride beside me one whose glorious
eyes, black curling hair and lordly figure have haunted me from the
hour I felt a cold hand fall from mine as I knelt on one of the dark
banks of Spirit River.
* * * * *
As the one-eyed Duckhunter finished speaking, a low groan escaped the
lips of the Hypochondriacal Painter, and the Aeronaut hid her face
in her hands. For several moments the silence was unbroken. Then, in
rasping accents, the Nervous Physician said, abruptly:
“We will hear from the Gargoyle now, I suppose.”
Westfall nodded gloomily.
“Yes, my friends, if that is your pleasure,” he answered, with a sigh.
The Sentimental Gargoyle lowered the hand on which he had been leaning,
and which had concealed his eyes while the Duckhunter was speaking.
Then, in a soft, penetrating voice he began:
CHAPTER IX
THE QUEST OF THE BEAUTIFUL
It is unfortunate that, with a physical appearance so repellent that it
is wont to inspire dislike before others of my attributes are known,
I should be further handicapped at the beginning of my narrative by
the fact that every reference made to me by those whose stories have
preceded mine has seemed to invest me with a malevolent influence.
Profoundly interested as I have been in the adventures which we have
heard described on the Barge of Haunted Lives, you readily will
understand that it was inevitable that the story of the Hypochondriacal
Painter should impress me most, because of its exposition of the theory
that human features owe their contour to the quality and activity of
the human mind. Though the Painter, dedicating all those years to its
demonstration, appears to have been the first to attempt to endow man
with the physical attributes of divinity, the theory long has been
accepted as a fact by physiognomists.
It does not require the discernment of a carefully trained observer to
find in the portraits of famous men the expression of those qualities
which made their work distinctive. How strangely like, in their
suggestiveness of that mental power that finds expression in analysis,
are the features of Michelangelo and Auguste Rodin! Who would look
upon the pictures we have of Newton, William Blake and Swedenborg
without knowing they were ever peering into the rumbling depths or
up at the mist-enshrouded altitudes of the infinite? Who would find
aught but the spirit of a conqueror behind the visages of Caesar,
William of Normandy, Richard I, Peter the Great and Napoleon? In the
faces of Scott, Byron, Tennyson, Mozart, Chopin and Beethoven how
simple it is for us to see and identify their temperamental differences
in the fields of poetry and music, but when we come to look upon
those of Carlyle and Schopenhauer can we be blind to that which they
express--that hopelessness which comes to men, who, having sunk their
ideals in the turbid current of materialism, recognize only the follies
and sorrows of our world?
When we think upon all this, it would seem, my friends, that it is a
law of Nature that physical and mental grace must go hand in hand,
and, indeed, careful observation will assure us that, so far as men
are concerned, physiognomy, in nine cases out of ten, is a fairly true
index of character. As indicative of feminine qualities, however, it
means little, for well we know that the fairest women often are the
most faithless, unreasoning and immoral. And Nature, itself, is as
changing in its moods as is a woman. Ever mocking its own masterpieces,
it creates only that it may destroy. At times it seems to exult over
its own contradictions. It makes jests of its own laws, which men have
been wont to regard as immutable. Its sweetest songs come from the
throats of the most insignificant birds. Its rainbows are the products
of storms. Its precious stones are found embedded in hoary rocks, which
men must blast with gunpowder in order that sunlight may reveal the
beauty of the gems. Less often to the stately mansions of the rich than
to the wretched hovels of the poor does genius come to breathe her fire
into the soul of the youth who is destined to yield to men some of the
treasured knowledge of the gods.
Shakespeare has said “Sweet are the uses of adversity, which, like a
toad, ugly and venomous, hath yet a precious jewel in its head.” And,
my friends, though Nature, in a mischievous mood, did fashion me in a
mould that made me scarcely less repulsive than adversity or a toad,
it gave to me such a jewel as that of which Shakespeare spoke. It is
because of my possession of this, as you shall see, that the world has
seemed very fair to me, and my life well worth the living.
Despite the fact that my grotesque face has caused me to be regarded
as a monstrosity, my father and mother were noted for their physical
graces. Why I should have come into the world with such a terrible
visage not even men of science have been able to understand. But, from
the moment of my birth, in a small city in France, my mother, fond as
she was of her other children, found the sight of me so hateful that
she scarcely could be brought to look upon me.
Before I was a year old I was committed to the care of a peasant and
his wife, who lived many miles from the chateau in which I was born. I
remained there for the first eight years of my life, then I was sent
to a school near Tours. There the ridicule to which I was subjected by
reason of my grotesque appearance became so unbearable that I fled.
I soon was overtaken, however, and my parents caused a tutor and his
wife to be installed in a cottage that was situated in the heart of an
old French forest. There I remained until I was twenty years of age.
Then, for the first time in many years, I saw my father. He stayed
with me only a few minutes, during which time my future was discussed.
My father told me that if I would consent to assume the name of Leon
Grenault, and never reveal my relationship with my family, I would
receive an income of ten thousand dollars a year. I accepted the
condition, and, bidding farewell to my kind old tutor and his wife, I
set out for Italy. Since then I have been an indefatigable traveller,
but not until recently did I make my first visit to the United States.
I have said that, in fashioning me so unkindly, Nature gave to me
something that was akin to the mythical jewel in the head of the
repulsive toad. It is a sense of beauty. Since my early childhood
I have been an inordinate lover of all that is beautiful. With me
the search for the most beautiful faces, landscapes, flowers, gems,
porcelains, pictures and poems has constituted the dominant purpose
of my life. I will not pause to tell you to what absurd lengths my
searches often took me, and what insupportable burdens of ridicule they
have laid on my shoulders. There was nothing that was beautiful that
did not charm me. There were many beautiful things for which I gladly
would have sacrificed my life, merely to look upon.
With features so forbidding that all human beings shrink from me
instinctively, I move among things of earth as the fallen angel moved
among the shades of Paradise. The angel knew the reason of his fall,
but what heinous sin I committed in some former period of existence,
and for which I should be punished so cruelly, I know not. The sight
of human happiness thrills me with sympathetic pleasure, while the
suffering and sorrows of others drive me, sometimes, almost to madness,
and I shrink from them as did Mephistopheles from the upraised cross.
Incapable of inspiring affection in the breast of man, woman or child,
it has seemed to me that I have craved love more than any creature of
the earth. Only in my dreams does love come to me--from my mother,
from laughing children and--another. When I wake it is to seek things
that are beautiful.
And it was in this quest for the beautiful that I found myself one day
in Constantinople. It matters not to others what particular object it
was that led me there, but, one day, while I was sitting in my room
in a hotel, I was informed that Glyncamp, an American mind-reader, had
called to see me. As no man or woman ever before had expressed a desire
to see me privately on other than business matters my surprise took the
form of curiosity. Accordingly, I sent word to Glyncamp that I would
see him.
My visitor greeted me cordially as he entered the room, and, frankly
and without embarassment, he told me that, having observed me as I was
passing along a street, he had been so impressed by my strange physical
appearance that he desired to learn something of my mental qualities.
I took the explanation in good part, and from that hour the remarkable
American and I were friends. His vast store of learning filled me with
even more wonder than did that mysterious power which enabled him to
read the thoughts of human minds.
One day, while we were chatting together, Glyncamp asked me what was
the dominant purpose of my life. I replied:
“When I have seen the most handsome man, the most beautiful woman and
the most wonderful gem that the earth now holds, I shall die content.”
Glyncamp laughed quietly.
“In that case you may prepare to die within the next two years, for I
think I shall then be in a position to show all these to you,” he said.
I looked at him incredulously.
“You have seen them?” I asked wondering.
“I have seen the woman,” he replied, “and I know where, hidden in a
wonderful valley, the man may be found--a man so handsome that he is
said to believe himself a god. But the gem of which I speak, I have not
seen. It soon will be mine, however.”
“How did you come by this knowledge?” I asked.
The American looked at me sharply.
“That, my friend, is my affair,” he answered, curtly.
Perceiving that I had been indiscreet, I apologized for the rudeness of
my question. It pleased him to make light of the matter, however; then,
suddenly, a look of gravity overspread his features.
“Would you take a journey to see this wonderful man?” he asked.
“I would travel around the world to see such a man,” I replied
enthusiastically.
“You would go to the United States.”
“Yes.”
“And report to me concerning what you saw?”
“Yes, yes.”
He told me, then, that once, while he was testing his skill on an old
painter, who had ridiculed his pretensions, he had learned his secret.
“Follow Nathan Bonfield when he goes into a great range of mountains,
and he will lead you to the place where he guards his secret so
jealously,” Glyncamp explained. “But in no circumstances must Bonfield
know that he is followed. If he were to discover you, it is more than
probable that you would meet with a serious misadventure. Take with you
a camera, and if you return to me with photographs of this remarkable
young man, I will give to you the opportunity of seeing the most
beautiful young woman who is on our earth to-day.”
I accepted the conditions, and two days later I was on my way to the
United States. Greatly to my surprise, Glyncamp offered to pay the
expenses of my journey in the event of my proving successful in my
quest.
Upon arriving in the United States, I had considerable difficulty
in locating the strange old artist, but, at last, I succeeded in
discovering his haunts. Then I found the house in which he had his
room. At length came a day when, having followed him, as I had done on
several former occasions, I saw him enter the Grand Central Station. He
was about to travel without luggage. So would I.
I boarded the train without a ticket, for, as yet, I had not the
slightest idea what my destination was to be. I took a seat behind the
car which Bonfield had entered, and it was while I was looking out of
the window to assure myself that the painter was not leaving the car
that I beheld, for the first time, the young woman whose beauty was
destined to have such an important influence on my life. She, too,
boarded the train--she and her escort entering the second car ahead of
me.
I was now confronted by the greatest dilemma I ever had faced in my
life. Should I follow the painter or the young woman?
I decided to follow the woman.
In the course of that long journey to the mountains I saw the young
woman four times. Twice she and her escort left the train and took
another. I, unobserved, did likewise, and on each occasion I was amazed
to find that the painter made similar changes.
At last the young woman and the man who was with her alighted at a way
station. I saw that buckboards were in waiting to take them and their
luggage away, and, satisfied that I would have little difficulty in
tracing them in the event of my return in the course of twenty-four
hours, I remained on the train to follow the painter. At the next
station he, too, alighted. Here no vehicle of any description was in
waiting, and from Bonfield’s actions it soon became apparent that he
expected none. Still wearing the same garments in which he had left
New York, he entered the wilderness with all the assurance of a sturdy
mountaineer. Once I saw him halt to fashion a stout stick into a staff,
then, with this in his hands, he continued on his way.
Hour after hour I followed him, passing through one valley after
another. Twice or thrice he turned to look behind him, but I kept
myself concealed from his view.
At last, however, more than an hour after the evening shadows began to
fall, we entered that strange mountain fastness that has been described
to you--Deadwood Valley--and I knew by the action of the old painter
that our journey was well-nigh done. Removing his hat, he wiped his
forehead, then, placing his fingers to his mouth, he emitted a series
of long, shrill whistles. These evoked from the other end of the valley
sounds which were so similar that I fancied at first that they were
only echoes of those I had heard before. The old man now resumed his
journey with quickened steps. As I made my way along the narrow path
and among the thick brush, I started as, moving around a great boulder
that lay at the foot of the mountainside, I found myself within thirty
paces of him. He was standing still, and it was apparent that he had
decided to await there the coming of the man who had answered his
signals. Moving stealthily nearer, I crouched down among the stones.
I had not long to wait, for scarcely five minutes passed before I heard
the sounds of low voices, the swishing of branches and the snapping of
twigs. Then, overcome by wonder and delight, I half rose and was about
to utter an expression of admiration when I realized my danger and
restrained my emotions.
The mysterious young man whom I had come so many thousand miles to see
was before me. Glyncamp was right. There could not have been a more
splendid type of manhood in all the world!
If I had expected to see any demonstration of affection between this
remarkable young man and the patriarch who had made this long journey
to see him, I was disappointed. The painter saluted the younger man
with marked respect. The intelligent features of the newcomer lightened
for a moment, but neither by a bow nor the offer of a hand did he bid
the graybeard welcome.
“I had not expected you so soon, Nathan,” was all he said.
Then, as the two walked off together, I saw that an Indian was
following them. At last they came to the door of a cavern through which
they passed from my view.
Such, then, was my first view of Rayon Demain.
Having carefully noted the entrance to the cavern, and taken a view of
the valley in order that I might carry certain landmarks in my mind, I
set out again for the railroad. I was in no danger of losing my way,
for it lay along a watercourse for a considerable distance, and, while
I had been following the painter, I carefully noted in a memoranda book
the position of landmarks that would serve for my future guidance.
By this time night had closed in on the wilderness, and, after going
a little way, I lost the narrow path. I spent several minutes seeking
it and, when I found it, I decided to wait until moonrise before
proceeding further.
But by the time the moon rose I altered my purpose. Though I came
to the mountains without luggage, I had with me a pocket camera. I
now decided that I would spend the following day in this valley and
accomplish the purpose that had led me thither, before I undertook the
task of finding the beautiful young woman I had seen on the train.
I reflected that people do not make long journeys to mountainous
districts to remain for only a few days, and there was little doubt
that I would be as well able to trace the young woman two days hence as
I would be to-morrow.
Accordingly, when the light of the moon streamed into the valley, I
approached the cavern cautiously, then passed it and made my way along
the shore of the lake to where the waters narrowed.
Heaven guided my steps that night, for, fatigued as I was, I walked on
and on, vainly seeking something that would afford me shelter. And so,
at last, I came to another valley.
Ah, how can I describe the sensations that overcame me as I beheld that
vast moonlighted Paradise? But one who was quite as appreciative as I,
and far more eloquent, has pictured its glories to you, so I will not
weary you with my impressions. The names of these two valleys were, of
course, unknown to me, so I called one the Valley of the Perfect Man,
and the other the Valley of the Garden.
For nearly an hour, as I gazed upon the magnificent prospect that lay
before me, I forgot my fatigue, and the very thought of sleep in the
presence of so much beauty seemed impious. On and on I walked along the
shore, now and then crossing, on stepping stones, little brooks whose
murmurs seemed to be hymned eulogies of the loveliness around me.
At length, however, I stopped abruptly. Stealing softly to me through
the forest-odored air came the sweet notes of one of Chopin’s
nocturnes. For two or three minutes they held me spellbound, then all
was still. My heart was beating wildly. Had I been dreaming? Had the
notes I heard been the sighing of the nightwinds and the singing of the
brooks that had echoed in the composer’s fancy in the hour in which he
had committed to paper that sweet, spirit-haunting air?
But, as I strode quickly onward, I knew that my senses had not deceived
me. Before me rose the dark, shadowy outlines of a house that was
constructed of roughly hewn forest logs. Glints of lamplight around
the lowered shades indicated that within those walls were persons,
happier than I, who had been watching the musician while the notes were
stealing from the piano to where I stood listening in the forest.
For several minutes I halted and looked around me. I saw a stable and
other outbuildings in the clearing, and, faintly outlined on the lake
shore, were several small boats. Then, retreating into the woodland
shadows, I listened expectantly. But from the house there came no
sound. At last the glints of lights disappeared from the windows, and I
knew that the occupants of the house had retired for the night.
In the forest fringe, just beyond the clearing, was a large,
three-walled shed in which were standing several pieces of farm
machinery and a covered wagon. On the seat of the wagon was a folded
blanket. Here was the shelter I sought.
The open front of the shed faced the lake, and, having unfolded the
blanket, I was preparing to wrap it around me and lie down on the
bottom of the wagon, when I turned for a last look at the beautiful
moonlit waters.
Once more I was on the point of turning away from the enchanting scene
when something moving on the lake caught my eye. Then I saw it was
a canoe which was slowly approaching the beach. Crouching low in the
wagon, I watched the little craft curiously. I saw it held only one
person.
As the bow of the canoe touched the shore, its occupant leaped out and
drew the boat up on the beach. This done, he stole noiselessly toward
the house.
It was the Indian I had seen in the Valley of the Perfect Man!
Moving stealthily toward the darkened log-house, he tried the door. I
saw him retreat from this, and then disappear in the shadow. Two or
three minutes passed before he reappeared. Now he strode quickly to
where he had left his canoe on the beach. Thrusting this back into the
water, he leaped lightly aboard and seized his paddle. A few moments
later boat and boatman had disappeared in the shadow cast over the
water by a thick cluster of trees. So noiseless and stealthy had been
his movements that, at times, one might have fancied that he was
nothing more than the shadow of some great bird flying overhead.
This mysterious visit excited within me a feeling of uneasiness, and I
watched for nearly half an hour longer, then, yielding at last to the
fatigue of the day, I folded the blanket around me, and, lying down on
the wagon floor, I slept.
I was awake at dawn, and, fearing discovery, I carefully refolded the
blanket, and, after returning it to the seat on which I had found
it, I left the shed. A healthy appetite was now beginning to assert
itself, but curiosity still held me to the place. I was resolved to see
something of the occupants of the log-house before I turned my back
upon it, for I knew that it was no ordinary musician whose hands had
swept those piano keys while the notes of that wonderful nocturne were
floating out to mingle with the forest airs. The thought had come to
me that, perhaps, here I would find the woman I sought. Accordingly, I
took my station in a leafy covert and waited.
My patience was at length rewarded. Something white appeared suddenly
between the curtains of an open window. My blood leaped exultantly in
my veins, and my eyes were almost dazzled by the fairest sight they
ever had looked upon.
Before me, clad in the snowy, lace-trimmed gown that she had worn
during the night, was the young woman whose beauty had enchanted me on
the day before. The darkness of the night still lingered in the great,
luxuriant mass of flowing hair, but on her face and in her eyes were
reflected all the glowing splendors of the dawn. And, as I watched her,
the house in which she stood assumed the aspect of a shrine around
which sweet odors, whispering winds and the feathered singers of the
forest were paying homage to their divinity.
Was Glyncamp wrong when he told me that he had seen the most beautiful
woman in the world? Or was it possible that he indeed had seen the
woman on whom I was gazing now?
For two or three minutes the fair creature stood at the window, looking
at forest, lake and turquoise sky. Then she disappeared, and I,
overwhelmed and intoxicated by her wondrous beauty, rose, turned and
went staggering like a drunkard through the forest.
This, then, was the beginning of that love which so suddenly came to me
and lighted all the candles in the gloomy hall of my life. Before, like
a prisoner in a cell, I had been groping at each beautiful ray that had
filtered in through my barred windows, but now--now I was blinded by
an effulgence that was more dazzling than the noonday sun.
On and on I strode until I came to a mountain trail, which, it was
plain, led from the log-house in the Valley of the Garden. I had
no thought of hunger now, and I travelled quickly, only pausing
occasionally to drink at some laughing mountain brook. Leaving the
log-house further and further behind me, I did not doubt that the trail
I was following would bring me at last to the station at which I had
seen the young woman and her escort alight from the train the preceding
day.
My surmise proved to be correct, but, as I drew near the little village
in which the station was situated, I hesitated. My face always had
inspired fear and distrust among country people, and I asked myself
whether it was wise for me to show myself at a place to which occupants
of the log-house must come for their supplies. I did not want it known
that there was a man of my appearance in the neighborhood, for, in
such circumstances, all my movements would be carefully watched, and,
without doubt, false stories concerning me would be circulated by
superstitious persons who would suspect that I was none other than the
devil himself.
I remembered that the next mountain hamlet was about ten miles further
down the railway line, so, skirting the little village, I directed my
steps to the station below.
Arriving at last at my destination, I disregarded the expressions of
horror on the faces of the persons I met, and, after enjoying a hearty
meal, I purchased a couple of mules, a kit of tools, firearms, fishing
tackle, a compass and enough provisions to last me for a week. These
purchases I made into stout packs and placed on the mules, then, with
a dull-looking Swedish boy who, for a generous sum, found it possible
to forgive the physical abnormalities of his new master, I followed a
trail which, for a considerable distance, ran parallel with the railway.
By nightfall I had found a site for my camp--in the wilderness about a
mile north of the log-house, and a half a mile from the path that led
from the Valley of the Perfect Man to the Valley of the Garden.
Carl, my boy, soon learned that I was not nearly so bad as Nature had
painted me, and, after that difficulty was overcome, it was not long
before I felt that I had his confidence.
A shack soon was constructed, but the first night the boy occupied it
alone. Directing my steps again to the log-house, I took a station in
the covert from which I had observed the beautiful stranger in the
morning.
The action of the Indian on the night before had excited my distrust,
and now that I knew whose safety might be menaced by anyone who had
evil designs on the house or its occupants, I resolved to watch the
place while it was otherwise unguarded.
The night passed without adventure, but, when morning dawned, I saw the
young woman appear again at the window as I had seen her before. Now,
however, I remained in my place of concealment, and later I saw her,
clad in a dainty morning dress, step out into the clearing. I watched
her while one of the menservants taught her how to handle the paddle of
a canoe. In the afternoon I followed her as she walked along the beach
or through the leafy aisles of the forest. But the man who had come
with her to the mountains I did not see, and I wondered whether he was
her brother or her husband.
Once I heard an elderly woman call to her--addressing her as “Paula.”
The servants addressed her as “Miss.” But why should I, who was so
afflicted with the most hideous human features in all the world, exult
to find that she still was unwed?
Night after night I kept vigil near the log-house, and once, waxing
bold, I pinned some verses to one of her windows. Ah, how can I
describe the sensations that overwhelmed me when I saw her take them
from the envelope--when a rush of color came to her face, and a bright,
wondering light slowly kindled in her eyes. Then, as I watched her
closely, I saw she was not offended, and I wondered who it was she
thought had written the lines.
I saw her leave the house a little more than an hour afterward, and
enter her canoe, and my gaze followed her as, in the gleaming little
craft, she glided over the waters of the lake. But when the canoe was
headed for the northern shore my heart grew cold. Did she suspect the
mystery that lurked amid the awe-inspiring shades of the Valley of the
Perfect Man?
Then, with a rapidly beating heart, I ran along the shore, and, as I
ran, I saw the canoe enter the stream that flowed through the mountain
pass.
Before I succeeded in getting to this stream the storm broke. Strong as
I am physically, the vigor of this baffled me. Blinded by lightning,
battered by rain, deafened by thunder, and blocked by brooks, which,
overflowing their banks, had become fiercely whirling torrents, my
strength was spent at last, and I sought refuge between two rocks under
a widespreading tree.
When the storm subsided, I saw two men leave the log-house and put out
in a boat. That these were menservants starting in search for the young
woman was plain. The water was still too rough for the task they had
undertaken, however, and before the boat was a hundred yards from the
shore it was overturned. The men succeeded in swimming ashore.
I now continued on my way to the upper valley, and, in time, I arrived
at the mountain pass. There I beheld the object of my search, but,
loth to see her recoil from me, I did not reveal myself to her eyes. I
resolved to watch her until the men from the log-house should succeed
in getting to her.
At length, when twilight fell, I saw her move forward. Then, in the
most wonderful voice I had ever heard, she sang to a beautiful air the
words of the verses I had pinned to her window curtain in the morning,
and I knew that it was to me--the unknown writer--that she sang.
And now, for the first time, the idea came to me that perhaps,
after all, I might devise some means of making this wonderful woman
mine--that we might love in spirit, as the angels love. I knew,
however, that this would be impossible if she were to see me.
Scarcely had this thought taken form in my mind when I observed that
the mysterious young man of the upper valley had approached and was
watching the singer.
All of the strange words and scenes which followed were heard and
witnessed by me. When the young woman was again alone, I spoke to her,
and, unseen, I took her across the lake in the manner she has related.
The next day I left the valley behind me and secured the services of
a clergyman who lived in a distant town. In the night shadows of the
wilderness, Paula Trevison became my wife.
I was resolved that, from that moment, only in spirit should we meet. I
would write to her and talk with her at times when she would be unable
to see me. Taking advantage of her Eastern superstitions, I would make
her believe that I was a spirit bridegroom.
Thus far all had gone well, but, in less than five minutes after the
conclusion of the ceremony, my dream fabric began to totter. My
boy had just set off on muleback with the clergyman, when, from the
direction of the log-house came the sounds of firearms. My heart seemed
to leap to my throat, and a great fear held me spellbound. Then, from
the brushwood rushed the figure of a man. For only a moment did I see
his face in the moonlight.
It was Rayon Demain!
I hurried after him, and thus came to the log-house.
Many of the incidents that followed already have been described to you.
Rayon acted like a frenzied demon. I dragged from the burning log-house
the woman he had hurled into it, and I smote him down when he attacked
the young woman who was now my wife. But those whom I served shrank
from me appalled. Among them I had no friend. Then Rayon and I met for
a second time. We grappled and fought--Hyperion with a satyr, and the
satyr once more triumphed. Rayon again lay at my feet. I could have
killed him then, but who was I that I should reduce to senseless dust
that masterpiece of nature?
While I hesitated, Rayon rose suddenly to one of his elbows. Then he
levelled a revolver at me, and fired. The ball entered my chest, and I
fell.
I did not lose consciousness, but a great numbness overspread my body
and I felt half-dazed. I forgot what had happened, and, rising, I went
stumbling through the forest. Instinct led me to the shack. Two days
before, I had caused my boy to purchase a third mule, for one of the
others had gone lame. I mounted the lame one now, and rode along the
trail to the railway. There I boarded the way car of a freight train,
and fell unconscious on the floor.
When my senses returned to me I was in a comfortably furnished
bungalow which, I soon learned, was the Summer home of a New York
physician--thirty miles distant from Deadwood Valley. I told my host I
had been shot accidentally by a friend who doubtless had mistaken me
for a deer.
Three weeks later I was in New York. There, after many unsuccessful
efforts, I learned that Miss Trevison had gone to Europe.
In her confession to me on the lake, Paula had told me of her
relationship with Prince Maranotti, and, believing that she had gone
to him, I set out for Italy. There, of course, I failed to find her. I
tried to get into communication with Glyncamp, but he had mysteriously
disappeared.
For several months, amid the most harrowing disappointments, I
continued my search, then I learned that in New York Miss Paula
Trevison had become the wife of Philip Wadsworth. This information so
affected me that I nearly lost my reason. Three or four times I was
almost on the point of taking my life. How she had come to wed again
while the man she believed to be her husband still was living, I could
not understand. And yet, believing herself to be the wife of Rayon
Demain, it was possible that, overcome with horror and loathing as the
result of his mad acts on the night of the burning of the log-house,
she had sought and obtained a divorce.
I now resolved to seek the young woman out and confess to her the
manner in which I had deceived her. Accordingly, I went to New York and
there learned she had parted from Wadsworth scarcely more than an hour
after the wedding ceremony. Having obtained her address, I wrote to
her, asking her to see me on the following day. In this letter I told
her I had something of importance to reveal. Not only did she fail to
answer my letter, but she disappeared the day after she received it,
and I learned she had gone to Europe. Once more I went to Italy.
I found Prince Maranotti at Basselanto, and informed him that his
sister had become my wife. Not for a moment, however, did he believe
I was speaking the truth, and he treated me as if I were a harmless
lunatic. I called on him several times after this, but he refused to
see me.
At dawn one morning I hid myself in the garden, thinking to meet him
when he took his accustomed stroll before breakfast. The effort was
successful, but he warned me that if I did not leave the grounds at
once he would have me committed to an asylum. I knew he would keep his
word, but, angered as I was, I was not disposed to offer violence to
Paula’s brother. So, with bowed head, I hurried to the railway station.
Convinced that my wife was not in Italy, I decided to return to New
York. The following day I boarded a steamer at Naples, and it was
not until I reached the United States that I learned of the death of
Paula’s brother on the morning I had left him.
Two days ago I was visited by a stranger, who informed me that Mr.
Westfall was in possession of certain facts that it would be in my
interest to know. Accordingly I called upon him and received the
invitation which has resulted in my presence on the Barge of Haunted
Lives.
* * * * *
“And so the Princess is the wife of the Gargoyle, after all,” hissed
the Whispering Gentleman, as he turned toward Westfall.
“No, no, it is impossible!” exclaimed the Fugitive Bridegroom,
distractedly.
“If she isn’t, it’s not you, who deserted her, but the man who went
through fire and water to get the Rajiid diamonds for her, who ought
to have her,” growled the one-eyed Duckhunter.
“The law will quickly relieve her of her present desperate plight,”
said the Nervous Physician, complacently. “The law will not compel a
woman to accept as her husband the man who killed her brother.”
“Killed her brother!” exclaimed the Decapitated Man, wonderingly.
The Nervous Physician nodded, then, giving a sudden start, he glanced
apprehensively over his left shoulder.
“You knew you were under suspicion, did you not?” asked Westfall,
addressing the Sentimental Gargoyle.
“Under suspicion--yes,” the Gargoyle answered. “It is suspicion that is
founded on the fact that I was in the park of Basselanto on the morning
of the murder of Prince Maranotti. That I was there at that time, I
never have denied, but of his death I am guiltless, nor did I know at
the time I left the park that any crime had been committed there. More
than this, I know nothing of the identity of the murderer or of any
motive for the awful deed.”
“Well, if a gentleman who was able to give exceedingly damaging
testimony against you had lived to tell his story, you would not now be
here to assert your preposterous claim to this fair lady’s hand,” said
the Nervous Physician, irritably.
The Gargoyle stiffened in his chair.
“Who was the gentleman of whom you speak, sir?” he demanded, sharply.
“Perhaps it is well that you tell your story now, Doctor,” said
Westfall, gravely.
The Nervous Physician nodded. Then, in quick, nervous accents, he began
his narrative.
CHAPTER X
AT THE END OF A TRAIL
Had there been occasion to mention my name in the course of the
narratives that have preceded mine, I doubt not that most of you would
have recognized the fact that in this company is one who has attained
distinction in one of the most important branches of the medical
profession. In short, my fame as a specialist in nervous diseases is
international. I am the author of works that are recognized as standard
authorities, and medals of honor have been bestowed upon me by several
of the most highly esteemed learned societies of the world.
In the course of my investigation of nervous diseases I have acquired
many extraordinary specimens of abnormal nervous organisms, and I may
say that this collection has constituted the principal hobby of my
life. In my museum are the brains of celebrated men and women, fibres
from the fingers of celebrated musicians, vocal cords of famous singers
and nerves taken from persons who were afflicted with extraordinary
forms of nervous diseases.
In my efforts to add to this wonderful collection I have spared no
time, trouble or expense. Even my conscience, occasionally, has been
gagged and bound in the interest of science, which has been my god, my
law, my wife, my daughter--everything.
Aware of this, it now will be easy for you to understand that when the
extraordinary mind-reading feats of Mr. Glyncamp were reported to me, I
should feel the most lively curiosity concerning his wonderful nerve
development. Indeed, I became so inordinately curious when I learned
of such strange powers that I determined to seek out the man, win his
friendship and, eventually, obtain his wonderful nerves for my museum.
All this I would do, be it remembered, strictly in the interest of
science.
Well, being distinctively a man of action, I did not long delay in
putting my project into execution. I caused myself to be introduced to
Glyncamp, and, as he was really a very approachable sort of a person,
I soon enjoyed all the privileges of his friendship. Of two things,
however, I was scrupulously careful. I said nothing to him concerning
my collection, nor did I ever, on any occasion, permit him to touch my
ungloved hands, or to lay a hand on my head. While in his presence I
was careful to restrain my thoughts if they showed any disposition to
wander to the real foundation of this strange friendship.
And Glyncamp trusted me. He was a man who had attained to the most
extraordinary degree of intelligence I had ever known. But, in certain
matters, he was unsophisticated. Though he was often most unscrupulous
himself, he placed too much reliance on the good intentions of others.
His cruelty was oftentimes amazing when he found it in his interest
to inflict pain, but I never have known a man who could be angered so
easily when someone else became a minister of cruelty.
Nearly all his life Glyncamp lived in the shadow of a great horror.
Whether this was the price he had to pay for his possession of his
wonderful mind-reading powers, he did not know, but he suspected this
was the case.
He was subject to attacks of catalepsy. These attacks were sometimes
so severe and prolonged that for several days at a time even a trained
eye might seek in vain for some evidence of life. He feared that, while
he was under the influence of one of these terrible attacks, persons
who did not know of his infirmity would cause him to be buried alive--a
most horrible fate, my friends, and one which all of us carefully
should guard against, for the means of doing this are very simple.
In order to reduce the possibility of such a terrible result, Glyncamp
always carried in one of his pockets a letter explaining his weakness,
and directing that under no circumstances should he be placed in a tomb
until certain absolutely unmistakable evidences of death should become
apparent to all who viewed his body. In addition to this letter, he
always had pinned to his undershirt a piece of parchment on which a
similar injunction was written with India ink.
Now so profoundly interested did I become in this strange case of Mr.
Glyncamp that, pretending to be wearied of my practice, I told him
I was preparing to go with him when he returned to Europe. Glyncamp
was delighted. He told me that so long as I was with him he would
breathe more freely, knowing that the terrible fate he dreaded would be
impossible.
His fame in Europe was already established, and he now went to Turkey
where he was paid a great sum each month for the detection of plans
that had for their object the death of the Sultan.
It was not long before this strange man honored me with his full
confidence, and this resulted in my learning some of the most
remarkable things that ever had been brought to my knowledge. More than
this, the revelations showed that my friend was a sort of knight-errant
in a wonderful realm that is peopled only by lofty intellects. He was
an idealist, who, having little interest in materialistic things, was
constantly concerning himself with extraordinary psychic conditions.
Nothing that was normal appealed to him. It was in abnormalities that
he sought that divine substance which Nature had engrafted in them
unawares. In short, the man who was stealing the thoughts of others was
always attempting to find even Nature off her guard.
It was while he was in Turkey that a Hindu came under his hands. By
his subtle art, Glyncamp learned that the Hindu was a spy who had been
instructed by the Rajah of Nauwar to watch an Englishman named Lord
Galonfield, who was supposed to have in his possession the diamond eyes
of the Rajiid Buddha--the most wonderful pair of diamonds ever known to
man.
Glyncamp promptly lost all interest in his Turkish employment, and,
masquerading as a European who had been converted to Buddhism, he went
to the court of the Rajah of Nauwar. There he learned the story of the
Rajiid stones.
I do not believe that Glyncamp cared any more for those diamonds
than if they had been the commonest kind of moss agates. The triumph
incident to getting them was all he sought, but he laid his plans
with marvelous care, and when he left India he knew how the diamonds
had been taken from the Buddha during the Indian Mutiny, and who was
suspected of having taken them. He knew, too, how the uncle of the then
living Earl of Galonfield had been captured and tortured and how his
effort to commit suicide had been frustrated in order that he might be
compelled to write a hundred letters, dated years ahead, to his father
and brother, urging them to restore the diamonds to their proper owner.
But what had become of the stones he had not learned. The acquisition
of this knowledge was to be his triumph. That the secret of their
hiding-place was in the possession of the Galonfield family was more
than probable. Accordingly, he went to England.
Glyncamp was on the point of wringing the secret from the dying Earl,
when the son appeared. The Earl died, and Glyncamp fled, but, within a
few hours, he had formulated a new plan.
The new Earl of Galonfield was young and unmarried. Glyncamp did
not doubt that he was more or less susceptible to female charms. He
would cause him to wed a woman through whom Glyncamp might obtain the
diamonds.
In Turkey Glyncamp had learned that among all the beautiful women who
were seen each week in the magnificent bathing rooms for women in
Constantinople, there was none who could compare with Pauline, the
daughter of Meschid Pasha, a well-known army officer. Like all sons and
daughters of the Orient, Meschid Pasha was a great lover of precious
stones and was known to have several noted gems in his collection.
Accordingly, Glyncamp visited Meschid Pasha and, formally proposing for
the hand of his daughter, he offered in exchange the diamonds known as
the “Lost Eyes of the Rajiid Buddha.” Meschid accepted the proposal.
Then Glyncamp told him how the diamonds might be obtained through
Pauline herself. Meschid gave his assent to the plan and forthwith
started for England with Pauline. Glyncamp, who, in the meantime, had
employed spies to watch young Lord Galonfield’s movements, accompanied
the Pasha and his daughter.
I met Glyncamp on his arrival in England and when he told me what he
had done, I gazed at him in astonishment.
“Do you so love the woman that you would give the diamonds for her?” I
asked.
He laughed heartily.
“Why, no,” he said. “She is certainly the most beautiful woman in the
world, but I have no idea of really marrying her. Through her I shall
get the diamonds--from Meschid. The man who is so base as to sell a
woman well deserves the punishment I shall inflict on Meschid Pasha!”
“But the woman!” I persisted. “What is to become of her?”
“She will scarcely mourn my loss, for it is my purpose to unite her in
marriage with the handsomest man in the world. The diamonds shall be
her dowry, on condition that I be godfather at the first christening in
the family.”
My eyes were wide with wonder and incredulity. Glyncamp, watching my
face, laughed heartily.
“Come, come, Doctor, you are not a fool,” he said reprovingly. “What
use would I, who care nothing for such baubles, have for such stones
as these? I am a victim of chronic wanderlust. Where would I keep
them? Why should I keep them? My friends have only a passing interest
in crystallized vanities, so they would scarcely thank me for the
display of the stones from time to time. And as for the woman--well.
She is pretty, no doubt--but foolish, as all women are. My pipe and my
glass--and you--would not be the sort of after dinner company which
would appeal to her, I’m afraid. And then, perhaps, some likely young
physician might have little difficulty in convincing her that my
first--or, at most, my second cataleptic attack was death itself. No,
no, it would not do! The pleasure of winning the handsomest woman in
the world and the finest pair of diamonds constitutes all the reward I
desire. The Sultan of Turkey has been paying me too much for my poor
services, and my fortune, to which there are no heirs, is becoming
quite unmanagable. The detectives I am employing need it more than I.
No, no, my boy, the excitement of the chase is all I require. The fox
and his brush can go to the dogs.”
I shook my head doubtfully, as Glyncamp, chuckling, went to Meschid’s
to don his Turkish duenna’s frock and veil and oversee Lord
Galonfield’s vain wooing of the fair woman who had enchanted him.
But it was not long before the smile left Glyncamp’s features. His face
grew longer and more grim. He had found in young Galonfield a foeman
worthy of his steel. He also learned that the spies of the Rajah of
Nauwar were swarming as thick as flies around the Earl.
And now the old lion began to fight. He felt that his wonderful skill
had been challenged and that his own self-respect was at stake. I began
to see less of him.
Suddenly, Glyncamp learned that Galonfield had disappeared. He traced
him to Hetley, and there found that a grave had been opened--the grave
of a young officer whose body had been sent to England during the
Indian Mutiny.
The mind-reader scowled darkly as he muttered:
“I wonder if we will find the other one in a tomb.”
Glyncamp kept his own counsel pretty well, after that, but, several
weeks later, he startled me by asking how I would like to go with him
to India.
I hesitated. The journey was long. But if anything happened to Glyncamp
in India--if one of his cataleptic attacks should be mistaken for
death----
And so I decided to accompany him.
We arrived at Rajiid just after Lord Galonfield had been released by
the jaboowallah. It was Glyncamp who caused the retreating Earl to be
seized again. The mind-reader had won the confidence of the Rajah under
whose direction the jaboowallah had been working.
Glyncamp and I were hiding near at the time that Forsythe had his
interview with Galonfield. It was I, who, in accordance with Glyncamp’s
instructions, cut the vocal cords that made him the Whispering
Gentleman.
But, as Lord Galonfield has said, all that Glyncamp was able to wring
from him was too little and too late.
Upon our return to Europe, Glyncamp learned of Pauline’s flight and of
her relationship with Prince Maranotti. Through her he still hoped to
be able to get the diamonds from Galonfield. He therefore used every
possible effort to discover her whereabouts.
The mind-reader had told me of his conversation with the unfortunate
creature who is known as the Gargoyle, and he failed to understand why
this person had failed to write to him after his arrival in the United
States.
At length, however, Glyncamp learned that detectives other than those
in his employ were engaged in a search for Pauline Maranotti. Some of
these were working in the interest of Lord Galonfield, but others still
were representing the Gargoyle himself. Thus it came to pass that all
the roads of the searchers led to Basselanto, and thither Glyncamp
himself repaired.
The cataleptic attacks that afflicted Glyncamp lately had been becoming
more and more frequent, and the anxiety which they caused me was
telling more and more on my nerves. I never knew at what moment the
mind-reader would move off on a new tangent without acquainting me with
his design. And I was almost terror-stricken when I reflected on what
might happen were he to fall a victim to one of these attacks while at
sea. Persons who are supposed to be dead on ocean vessels are buried
with a haste that always has seemed distinctly reprehensible to me. I
knew this sort of thing could not go on forever. I was growing weary of
constant leaps from one country to another, and I wondered how long it
was going to last.
When Glyncamp went to Basselanto I remained at Paris. I had taken a
severe cold that threatened me with pneumonia when from Naples came a
dispatch that Glyncamp, the mind-reader, was dead.
Ill as I was, I hurried to Italy. In the course of the journey I sent
several telegrams ahead of me commanding those who were in charge of
the body to make no effort to embalm it. At last I reached the place
where the body lay. A brief examination convinced me that he was still
alive.
I soon revived him, but, though he was able to eat, he could not talk
connectedly, and I knew that another and longer attack was imminent.
I succeeded, however, in getting him aboard a vessel bound direct for
New York. Two days later he again succumbed, and for ten days he lay
motionless in his berth.
At the time he regained consciousness I was on deck. It was not until,
returning to the stateroom, I found him standing in the middle of the
floor that I was aware of the change. His face was now white with anger.
“Where are we, Doctor?” he asked.
“Just coming in sight of Long Island,” I replied.
“Long Island!” he exclaimed. “In Heaven’s name, man, you don’t mean
to tell me that you have brought me back to America while--while that
murderer, Leon Grenault, is still at large?”
“Murderer--Grenault!” I repeated.
“Yes. It was the devil-faced monster who assassinated Prince Maranotti.
I was walking in the garden--when--when--Oh, you poor, maundering fool.
I’ve had enough of you, and now----”
Seizing a heavy walking stick, the half-frenzied mind-reader aimed a
blow at my head. I fled to the deck, and, not being a bold man, I did
not venture to put my life in jeopardy by confronting him before his
anger subsided.
That night I sent him a note asking him if he had forgiven me. Replying
by the same method, he said that if he saw my face again he would make
it look more hideous than Grenault’s.
I secured a stateroom elsewhere, and, until the vessel docked at New
York, I kept to it.
While the luggage of the passengers was being examined on the dock, I
saw a sudden rush of passengers toward the center of the big room. I
was told that a man had fallen. Hurrying to the spot I saw that it was
Glyncamp.
I quickly proved, not only that I was a physician, but that the fallen
man was a personal friend. Several strangers then helped me to get him
into a cab. I gave the cabman my address and told him to get there
as speedily as possible. Arriving at my house, where my two servants
remained as caretakers during my absence abroad, I had Glyncamp taken
to my operating room. This done, I summoned two of my fellow physicians.
After making a careful examination of my patient, I pronounced him
dead. The other physicians did likewise, then they left, and that night
the death notices of Glyncamp, the mind-reader, were sent to all the
papers. Not until long after midnight did reporters cease calling upon
me for information concerning his death.
A sudden death in New York is always, of course, a coroner’s case,
and usually requires a post-mortem examination, therefore early on
the following morning the coroner came to my house and viewed the
body. When I explained, however, that, as his private physician, I
had accompanied him on his travels and was with him when he died, the
coroner was satisfied. I told him, however, that in the interests
of science I would perform a post-mortem examination myself in the
presence of any two physicians whom he might select. This arrangement
was satisfactory and he left me. A couple of hours later two
physicians, sent by the coroner, presented themselves and I led the
way to the operating room. One of my visitors was Dr. Prellis, who had
a modest private practice, the other was Dr. Felkner, a well-known
surgeon, who was one of the principal members of a city hospital staff.
At my suggestion it was arranged that the examination for the cause
of death should be conducted by Dr. Felkner, and that when this was
done the body would be delivered to me in order that, in the interest
of science, I might make an analysis of the nervous system of this
wonderful man.
Dr. Felkner was a man of massive build, and, though slow of speech,
his movements were singularly abrupt. When I saw that he was about to
begin the dissection of the body, I slipped quietly from the room to
get my spectacles which I had left in the study. I was in the act of
placing these on my nose, when I was startled by a hoarse cry from the
operating room.
I heard John, my butler, passing through the hall, and I called to him.
When he entered I bade him tell the cook to have some refreshments for
my guests ready in an hour, at which time I thought we would be through
in the operating room.
The man was about to reply when I heard a second cry in the operating
room, and the door was flung open suddenly. Dr. Prellis, whose face was
as white as chalk, appeared on the threshold.
“Come, Doctor--come--quickly,” he said, excitedly.
“What is the trouble?” I asked calmly.
But Prellis had disappeared. Adjusting my spectacles carefully, I
followed him.
My consternation may easily be imagined when I saw Glyncamp, sitting
almost upright on the operating table, and supported by Felkner. My
poor friend’s eyes were wide open and an expression of horror and agony
was on his face.
“Glyncamp--alive!” I gasped.
A glance showed me that Felkner, beginning the operation with a deep,
rapid incision, had inflicted a mortal wound.
Glyncamp, fixing his great, gleaming eyes on me, said in a low,
resonant voice:
“You have done your will. Even while I lay in my stateroom on the
vessel, your hands, resting on my head, revealed your thoughts to me.
I knew that if I came under your power in New York I was doomed. That
is why I resisted you. These two men are innocent of the crime that
has been done here to-night. But you--you who knew the secret signs of
my malady did not reveal them. You, whom I trusted, have murdered me.
From this day forth, look where you will, you will see my face--in all
shadows of the earth, in every cloud that floats above you--aye, and in
the waters of the sea. The winds shall forever din a dead man’s curse
into your ears, and the warmth of the sun shall be to you a breath of
that furnace to which all murderers are consigned at last. In light and
in darkness--whether you be waking or sleeping--I shall ever be with
you. And when Death stands before you, as you now stand before me, I
will be beside him. Until then--until then--remember me.”
He stiffened suddenly and his chin sank to his breast, but, even then,
as the lustre faded from his eyes, they still seemed to be staring at
me from beneath their shaggy brows.
It was only the mad idea of a dying man, of course, for, if other
capable physicians should have been deceived by indications of death,
why should I have not been misled by them? But it was all very
unfortunate, for, doubt me if you will, the dying man spoke truly when
he told me that everywhere I looked I should see his face. In my dreams
he stands before me. When I read, I know he is behind my shoulder. At
the bottom of my coffee cup--in the lees of my wine--in the ashes of
my cigar, his features are always taking form. Sometimes he comes to
me suddenly, and appears in such unexpected places, that his ghostly
presence, familiar as it has become to me, inspires me with terror.
It is because of these terrible visitations that I have contracted
the infirmity which has caused me to be known to you as the Nervous
Physician.
* * * * *
The narrator paused, and for several moments no word was spoken.
“And, I suppose, examples of the wonderful nervous organism of your
friend now constitute parts of that collection in which you take such
pride,” observed the Decapitated Man, gloomily.
The Nervous Physician glanced over his left shoulder and dodged
slightly as if some one behind him had threatened him with a blow.
“Yes, yes,” he replied, easily. “Among other things, I have the left
hand intact. The right, however, and portions of the----”
“Stop!” commanded the Sentimental Gargoyle, imperiously. “When a man
learns that such miserable creatures inhabit the earth, he may not
find it so difficult to leave it.”
“You do not doubt that I--” the Nervous Physician began.
“I do not doubt at all,” the Gargoyle interrupted. “That the cataleptic
mind-reader was right when he accused you of his murder is a fact that
is clear to all of us.”
The Nervous Physician, turning slowly livid, rose unsteadily.
“Do I understand that you, the murderer of Prince Maranotti, charge
me----”
“He is not the murderer of Prince Maranotti,” said a quiet voice from
one end of the table.
All eyes were turned toward the man who had spoken. It was the
Homicidal Professor.
“On what authority do you contradict me, sir?” demanded the Nervous
Physician, angrily.
“On the authority of the only witness to that terrible tragedy,” said
the Homicidal Professor. “Having heard what others have said of the
affair, I am compelled to believe that I am the only person who saw
Prince Maranotti die at the hands of his assassin.”
“You were there?” asked the Nervous Physician, incredulously.
“Unfortunately--yes,” sighed the Homicidal Professor, who, in obedience
to a nod from Westfall, at once proceeded to recount his experience.
CHAPTER XI
“WHAT DREAMS MAY COME?”
While listening to the stories of adventures and misadventures that
have been narrated here, I have been irritated, from time to time, by
the tendency of the narrators to suspect that certain effects were to
be attributed to supernatural causes. Eventually the absurdity of such
suspicions was proved, of course, but why, in the Twentieth Century,
they should find even temporary lodgment in intelligent minds I am
unable to understand.
Neither on our planet nor beyond it can exist anything that properly
may be regarded as supernatural. Above nature there is nothing, but in
nature there is much that finite eyes may not see--that finite brains
may not comprehend. We know human reason may be wrecked or restored
by the sounding of a dominant, though simple, musical note, just as a
great Alpine avalanche may result from the discharge of a far distant
gun. Though the association of such causes and effects bewilders us,
who would be so bold as to invest them with supernatural qualities?
Until a few years ago a narrative such as you are about to have from me
would be assigned to the category of “ghost stories.” But Science knows
better now. The scientific breeding of animals and culture of plants
show that after a lapse of two or three generations there is a tendency
toward what is known as “reversion to type”--that is, a sudden return
to one of the distinct species that was crossed in the breeding of the
original stock. Thus from the egg of an Orpington hen, of pure breed,
may issue a chicken which gradually assumes the appearance of a gray
pheasant. Call it “reversion to type,” if you will. In reality it is
the return of an ancestor.
And in the human family the process of reincarnation is the same. A
man lives and dies, and two generations of his descendants pass away,
but in the third or fourth there again appears in the family line one
who possesses his idiosyncrasies--temperamental and physical. And
here we have the return of the human ancestor. Men may speak of such
resemblances as supernatural, but science knows they are the products
of nature herself.
It is in this ancestral reincarnation that we find the explanation for
those idiosyncrasies which we designate as “antipathies.” From one or
more of these no man is free. Among my acquaintances there is a strong
man who is conscious of an inexplicable feeling of horror whenever he
comes within sight of the sea. Another has told me that to him death in
the cellar of a burning house would be preferable to an attempt to save
his life by passing through a tunnel so small that he would be obliged
to move on hands and knees a distance of only fifty feet to safety in
the open air. In the first case it is probable that drowning brought a
former period of existence to an end. In the second it is reasonable to
assume the inherited antipathy had its origin in some form of lingering
death underground--the collapse of a mine, a fall into an empty well or
premature burial in a cemetery.
From my earliest youth two antipathies have produced most distressing
effects upon me. Never have I been persuaded to approach the edge of a
cliff. Fear and faintness invariably overcome me whenever I look from
the window of a tall building to the street below. But my aversion
to looking down from a lofty height is equalled by another. A strange
numbness--the numbness of a nightmare--grips my faculties whenever my
gaze falls, unexpectedly, upon a marble statue.
Being a man of science, I have made painstaking efforts, from time to
time, to trace back to their origin certain antipathies that have come
to my attention. For family reasons, which soon will be apparent to
you, it was difficult to seek the origin of mine, but eventually these
difficulties were removed and all was made clear to me in circumstances
so extraordinary that, when I have described them, you will be inclined
to regard them as incidents and delusions in the life of a madman.
Though a native of New York City, I am descended from one of the most
distinguished families of Italy. For more than four centuries the house
of Maranotti, rich, powerful and of ancient lineage, acknowledged no
superior among the subjects of Italian sovereigns. But there came a
time when its proud head was humbled to the dust, and its coronet and
vast estates were forfeited to the King.
Prince Delevrente Maranotti, upon inheriting the title and estates
of his ancestors, shortly after the fall of Napoleon had enabled
the Italian rulers to return to their thrones, became involved in a
conspiracy against his sovereign. This was discovered, and one night
Basselanto, the family seat, was entered by the King’s soldiers. In the
struggle which ensued Delevrente was slain in his banquet hall. His
estates reverted to the King, who, a few years later, bestowed them and
the title on a younger branch of our family.
Meantime, Delevrente’s only child, a son, was sent into exile. This
son was my grandfather, who, upon leaving Italy, sought an asylum
in France, where he married the daughter of a French army officer.
Shortly after the birth of my father the little family emigrated to the
United States. Like my grandfather, my father died soon after entering
the prime of manhood. My mother did not long survive him, and thus, at
an early age, I was left an orphan.
A few days after my mother’s death I was summoned to the office of a
lawyer who informed me that it was the will of Prince Maranotti that
I should be educated in a manner becoming the son of a gentleman, and
that thereafter I was to look to him for aid in that direction.
The Prince was true to his word, and from that day until I attained
my majority I wanted for nothing. When I came of age, however, I was
requested to choose an occupation, and, shortly afterwards, when the
chair of chemistry in a Western university was offered to me I promptly
accepted it.
Soon after this my kind benefactor died, and his son, a young man
of about my own age, succeeded to the title and estates of the
Maranottis. The young Prince immediately began to manifest toward me
the same generosity that had characterized his father. Several offers
of financial aid were followed by a series of solicitations from the
Prince inviting me to visit him at Basselanto, the last of these being
of such a nature that I deemed a refusal to accept it would be an act
of gross ingratitude.
To Basselanto, then, I repaired and found a welcome as cordial as ever
brother extended to brother, and, as I walked arm in arm with my genial
host through the palatial halls of my ancestors, much as I admired the
grandeur of the place, I did not find it in my heart to envy him the
possession of it. In all I saw I felt the same pride I should have felt
had it been my own, for, though fortune had denied me possession of
this, my father’s birthright, I still was a Maranotti and a child of
the old mansion in which, for more than four centuries, my forefathers
had dwelt.
The Prince conducted me from room to room, explaining to me the many
objects of interest to be found in each. Together we visited the
various sleeping apartments where my guide exhibited souvenirs of noted
visitors who had partaken of the hospitality of our family. He showed
to me the costly family jewels and the rare gold and silver plate which
were contained in the secret closets, but the most interesting room of
his residence he reserved to show me last.
“This room,” my host explained, “was formerly the banquet hall of the
Maranottis, but my father, wishing to enlarge his library, utilized the
old portrait gallery for that purpose, and had the paintings hung here.
A rather rough looking lot, these earlier ones, are they not? And the
old gentlemen were as rough in their deeds as in their features, for
some of them were veritable brigands.”
Then, leading me from frame to frame, he commented on the pictures
they contained--portraits of old noblemen and their ladies, with whose
mirth this hall, now so sombre and silent, oft had echoed and re-echoed
through many a long night of revelry. Now he would pause to recount to
me the daring deeds of a brave and rugged warrior whose image looked
down upon us from the wall. Then he would dwell upon the virtues and
vices of occupants of other frames. This one slew his brother in a
quarrel; that one captured a bride for himself from the master of one
of the most formidable strongholds in Italy. The lady with a coronet on
her brow was a Maranotti who wedded a doge.
His anecdotes interested me greatly, and I carefully noted all he said
until we paused before the portrait of a young man whose features were
rather more striking than those of the others.
“This,” said the Prince, “is the portrait of Miavolo di Maranotti,
the son of the old gentleman there.” And he pointed to the face of a
rugged-featured man with white hair, in a neighboring frame. “It is
believed,” continued my host, “that this young man met his death at
the hands of bandits while defending himself and a lady, with whom he
was walking, from their attack. His body, which had been pierced with
a sword, was found at the top of a cliff yonder, while that of his
companion was picked up from the rocks below.”
“How long ago did this happen?” I asked.
“About three centuries ago. That portrait yonder is of the Countess
Diametta di Gordo, the other victim of that night.”
Raising my eyes to the picture he indicated, I saw the face of a
young woman of about twenty-two years of age. Her features were small
and regular, and her complexion a beautiful creamy white. Her red
lips, slightly parted, revealed a glimpse of her pearly teeth. The
calm forehead, neither high nor low, was surmounted by hair of raven
blackness, which, partly unconfined, fell upon her bare shoulders.
Her eyes were dark and lustrous, and in them dwelt an expression that
affected me strangely, for, stand as I would, their soft gaze seemed
ever to rest upon my face as if striving to read in it the answer to
some hidden problem.
The face of Diametta di Gordo was surpassingly beautiful, yet, strange
as it may seem, I did not then remark that it was so, for her beauty
appeared to be subordinate in interest to an indefinable expression
that seemed to emanate from beneath the fringed lids of her dark eyes,
suffusing her features with a glow that gave to them the appearance of
a sudden awakening to life.
Stepping back a little in order to note the effect of a change of light
upon the picture, I was somewhat startled to observe what I thought to
be an alteration in the expression of the face, which now seemed to
wear a look of recognition. Turning quickly to the Prince, I perceived
him to be regarding the portrait with such apparent indifference that
I was satisfied he had failed to observe anything extraordinary, so,
believing I had been deceived by the uncertain light of the apartment,
I attempted to laugh away my ghostly fancies.
I made some commonplace remarks about the painting and the unhappy fate
of its original, then we passed on to view the remaining portraits.
While thus engaged, the face of the young woman that had so affected me
passed out of my thoughts, but no sooner had the Prince left me than it
again occupied a place in my mind to the exclusion of all else. During
the remainder of the day, wherever I found myself, whether in the
grove, in the drawing-room or among the musty tomes of the old library,
that face, with its strange, inexplicable expression of recognition,
was ever present.
The Prince had arranged an excursion for the morrow, and as the start
was to be made at seven o’clock in the morning I retired early in order
to obtain a good night’s rest; but I had been in bed only a few minutes
when I realized it would be impossible for me to sleep.
If I lay upon my side, I would see in the moonlight the white-robed
figure of Diametta di Gordo standing near my bed, her garments swaying
gently as the breezes entered the open windows. If I buried my face
in the pillows, I seemed to be looking down, down, down to where a
white-clothed figure lay huddled and motionless in a rock-cluster, near
the margin of a lake.
Unable to free myself from these nerve-racking illusions, I rose,
dressed, descended the stairs and stepped out upon the terrace. The
night was clear and the light of the full moon shed a spiritual
radiance over the slumbering beauty of Italian scenery.
The bell of a neighboring monastery announced the hour of midnight
as I followed a path leading to the lake. I had walked only a short
distance, however, when there flashed into my mind the knowledge
that the path ended at the edge of a cliff. Dominated by one of the
antipathies of which I have spoken, I turned sharply and moved on in
another direction until I came to a rustic bench near the entrance to
a formal garden. There, in the shadow of a little group of poplars, I
seated myself.
I had been on the bench only a few minutes when a feeling of drowsiness
began to steal over me. Thinking I now would be able to sleep, I was
about to rise for the purpose of returning to my room when I was
startled by the crunching of footsteps on the gravel path. A moment
later the figure of a man appeared on my left and my curiosity quickly
gave place to amazement. Was there a masquerade at Basselanto? If not,
what meant the strange attire of this midnight stroller on the grounds?
He was a young man of about twenty-five years of age, rather above
medium height. His face was swarthy and his hair and small moustache
were black. But it was the fashion of his dress that excited my wonder,
for it was of the style of three centuries before. His round, black cap
was surmounted by a small white plume. He wore a close-fitting dark
doublet, and high boots of light leather extended to his thighs. As he
advanced quickly his left hand rested on the hilt of a sword.
“Ah, signor, you are in good time!”
The words, cheerily spoken, came from my right, and, looking around,
I perceived another young man, attired in a costume rather similar to
that which had excited my wonder only a few moments before.
“Ah, Antonio, it is you!” exclaimed the firstcomer, halting. “Yes. Ill
fares the laggard at a feast.”
“Your philosophy becomes you well,” replied Antonio, laughing. “But,
surely, you do not come alone. Your sister and----”
“They have preceded me,” interrupted the other.
Arm in arm, they moved on together, and a turn in the path soon hid
them from my view. My curiosity was about to impel me to follow them
when a hand fell heavily on one of my shoulders. Turning hastily,
I looked up into the face of an elderly man who was regarding me
earnestly. He, too, was clad in the extraordinary attire that now was
becoming familiar to me.
“Fortune favors me, signor,” he said. “I was seeking you, and thought I
might find you here.”
“Indeed!” I stammered.
“Yes. I left your father a few minutes ago. He then was inquiring of
all he met if they had seen you to-night.”
“My father!” I repeated, in astonishment.
“Is it surprising that he seeks you at this hour?” the old man asked,
reprovingly. “The guests are arriving and the festivities of the night
are about to begin. All marvel at the absence of the son of their host.
But come, come, my boy! This moping like an owl in the moonlight will
lead to no good. Come with me to the hall and entertain your guests.”
I rose from my seat like one who, roused suddenly, finds a vivid dream,
with its misty figures and abruptly hushed voices, slipping away from
him. Faint and trembling, I tried to think, to reason. How had I come
to that spot? Had I come alone? Ah, yes--all was growing clearer to me
now. I had wanted to be alone--that I might think of her--of her whose
face had haunted me for hours.
But how, I asked myself, had this woman, beautiful as she was,
acquired such an influence over me? How could I account for the fever
of excitement in my brain--for the dull, despairing sensation in my
heart? Once more I seemed to look upon her smiling lips and into her
questioning eyes. Then a full realization of the truth came to me like
a leap of flame from sullenly smouldering embers.
I loved her.
I tried to reason with myself that such a love was impossible, for I
never had even met the woman. Then, slowly, memory came to me. I had
met her. It was only yesterday I had talked with her while she was
gathering flowers in the garden. I had kissed her hand and had spoken
to her of my love, and she had gently silenced me--as she had done,
alas, many times before.
And now despair came to me. I became dizzy, and, reeling, would have
fallen had not a pair of strong hands grasped me.
“What is the matter, signor? Are you ill?”
In a moment all was over.
“No,” I replied. “I am all right now. But where do you lead me?”
“To the hall of Basselanto,” my companion explained. “Do you not
remember?”
“Yes, yes--to Basselanto,” I answered. “I remember now.”
The old man eyed me quizzically and retained his hold upon my arm. A
few moments later the old mansion was before me. All the rooms were
brilliantly illuminated, and, through the windows, I saw figures in
festal attire passing to and fro.
Upon passing through a doorway I found myself in the midst of a throng
of guests, most of whom greeted me familiarly, but for several moments
after my entrance I was so dazed that I was incapable of utterance.
I felt that everything about me I had seen before, and I no longer
marvelled at the old-fashioned dress that was worn by all. I was
faintly conscious of the fact that the persons by whom I was surrounded
were not unknown to me, but I was unable to recall their names.
As I seated myself on a chair, an old, though still hale and hearty,
man approached me.
“My son, I have been alarmed at your absence,” he said. “You should not
have tarried so long. Why are you so late?”
“I fell asleep in the park,” I replied, believing this to be the best
way out of my dilemma.
“An odd time and place to fall asleep,” the old gentleman muttered,
suspiciously. “But it does not matter, now that you are here.”
Turning, then, to a white-haired man with a dark face, who had just
entered the room, he said: “Ah, Doctor, I am glad to see you. I feared
you would not come.”
The newcomer returned the greeting and seated himself near me.
The master of the house was in another part of the room, and I was
viewing with increasing curiosity the strange scene around me, when a
conversation which was being carried on near me arrested my attention.
“The theory is a strange one,” I heard the Doctor say, “but there are
Europeans who believe it to be indisputable.”
“I must confess my ignorance of the subject,” said his companion.
“Perhaps you will enlighten me.”
“Well, what knowledge I have has been obtained from the priests
themselves,” the Doctor went on. “They say that, after death, the soul
of man does not enter the body of a beast, as many assume who believe
in the doctrine of metempsychosis, but that it takes its abode in
another human body in which form it receives the punishment to be meted
out for the errors of its former period of life. To illustrate this,
the priests relate the case of a man who, for some offense, had been
condemned to be tortured to death. As he prepared to meet his doom he
suddenly became as one insane, declaring that in his executioner he
recognized a slave who once had belonged to him when he was chief of
a desert tribe. This slave, he said, by his command had been flayed
alive for disobedience. As the criminal was well-known to have been a
resident of the city since his birth, there were few who gave credence
to his ravings, but these few trembled as they beheld the anguish of
the dying man, for in it they believed they saw the justice of an
avenging god who made the victim of the present sufferer the instrument
of his wrath.”
“Do you believe all this?” asked his friend.
The Doctor smiled gravely.
“At first I was as sceptical as you probably are, but--” he began.
I heard no more. Strains of music issued from an adjoining apartment
and there was a general rush in that direction. I rose uncertainly. My
thoughts were confused and, striving to escape observation, I went out
to the hallway and thence to a large apartment which I perceived to be
unoccupied. Rich tapestries and beautiful paintings adorned the walls.
The floor was strewn with the skins of the lion and the leopard and
soft Oriental rugs. Marble statues of various sizes were arranged about
the room, but these I scarcely noticed as I stepped toward a large
mirror set in the wall.
Before this mirror I paused, and the reflection I saw there so
astonished me as to render me incapable of action, for, instead of
seeing my person reflected in the glass as I had expected to see it,
clad in the conventional style of Paris in the Twentieth Century, I was
confronted by the image of Miavolo di Maranotti, as I had seen it in
the frame on the wall of the banquet hall on the preceding day.
Overcome and appalled by the metamorphosis I had undergone, I stood
staring into the mirror, striving to grasp the meaning of it all, when
I was startled by a laughing voice behind me.
“Signor, you are vain--so vain that you have forgotten to lead me to
the dance.”
How shall I describe the sensations which overwhelmed me as, turning
quickly, I beheld the speaker of these words?
Spellbound and speechless, I felt as if I were about to fall. I tried
to speak--to breathe--but I could not. Then a trembling seized me--my
tense muscles relaxed, and, like the rush of air to a vacuum, my spirit
sought my lips, and I whispered:
“Diametta!”
Yes, it was she whose face had haunted me for hours, and now, as I
contemplated the dark hair, the lustrous eyes and the form which,
despite its suppleness, possessed queenly grace and dignity, I felt it
was no mortal on whom I gazed, but a denizen of one of those invisible
realms on which the moonbeams rest before they seek our planet. Her
dress, cut low in the fashion of her time, revealed the perfect
contour of her shoulders and full, round bosom. She was attired in
white, and in her hair diamonds gleamed like stars in the dark field of
the firmament.
“Signor!” she exclaimed, laughing merrily. “Why, you start as if you
had seen a ghost!”
Struck by the singular propriety of her exclamation, I continued to
gaze at her speechlessly. The laughter left her face.
“Ah, you are lost in one of your gloomy reveries again,” she sighed.
“Upon my word, you grow worse each day. Whoever heard of a man of your
age gravely communing with Pluto while the noisy mirth of Venus was
ringing in his ears?”
In stammering accents I was beginning some sort of reply when there
entered the room a young man in whom I recognized the stranger who
first had excited my wonder in the park. Upon seeing Diametta and
myself, he advanced, and, after saluting us with a bow, he addressed
himself to my companion.
“I was in search of you,” he said pleasantly, as Diametta acknowledged
his salutation. Then, turning to me, he asked:
“And, Cousin, where have you been hiding? Until now my search for you
has been vain!”
“He has been here,” Diametta replied. “I found him rehearsing the scene
of a tragedy in front of the mirror.”
“I had just entered,” I explained, somewhat chagrined by their
amusement. Then, turning toward Diametta, I continued: “But we are not
too late for the dance which has just commenced. Shall we not go?”
“Pardon me while I accomplish the object that led me hither,” said the
young man, bowing low. “Lady, may I crave your favor for the next?”
“You have it, signor,” replied Diametta graciously; then taking one of
my arms, she accompanied me from the room.
It is idle for me to attempt to describe the sensations that dominated
me while I walked on beside this beautiful woman. Vaguely, I remembered
that someone had told me she had died nearly three centuries before,
but I banished the memory as an idle fancy. Yielding to the gayety of
her spirits, my burden of gloom grew lighter. As I mingled with the
dancers, I made lively retorts to witty sallies that were addressed to
me. My mind, however, seemed paralyzed by a sort of pleasurable wonder,
for the words I spoke came without effort of thought. One-half of my
personality seemed to be acting independently of the other half--one a
wondering spectator of the performance of the other.
In a few moments I was taking, with perfect ease, the steps of a dance
I never had before known. And we danced on and on--an old-world measure
that was sometimes wild and free, and sometimes as stately as a minuet.
And, as we danced, I thrilled to Diametta’s touch and tried to look
into her eyes, but their glances evaded mine. I whispered, but she
seemed not to hear me.
At length the music ceased and the dancers dispersed among the various
apartments of the mansion. As I accompanied Diametta to the place where
she had expressed a desire to rest, I besought her favor for another
dance. She reminded me the next was promised to my cousin, Bernardo.
I begged for the following one, which she granted with ill-disguised
reluctance.
Scarcely had we seated ourselves when we were surrounded by half a
score of persons, and soon Bernardo, appearing to claim his partner,
deprived me of whatever conversation I had hoped to have with Diametta.
When I was alone I arose and stepped out upon the terrace. All the
gayety I felt only a few minutes before had abandoned me. Diametta’s
reluctance to dance with me again depressed and irritated me.
From the moment I had been confronted by my reflection in the mirror
I had been conscious of a rapidly increasing feeling of familiarity
with the persons and objects that I saw. So fully defined became this
impression at last that I no longer doubted that I was the son of the
old gentleman who had addressed me upon my entrance to the hall, or
that the young man then with Diametta was my cousin. Diametta, however,
continued to occupy the most prominent place in my thoughts, and I
distinctly remembered that on several former occasions I had told her
of my love and asked her to become my wife.
With quick, impatient steps I strode to and fro on the terrace. As
the music recommenced, I made an angry gesture of annoyance, for was
she not, even now, leaning upon the arm of my cousin, in whom I saw a
dangerous rival?
Stepping to one of the windows, I looked in upon the dancers. Yes,
there they were together--one of her hands clasped in his, and from
that moment not a gesture nor a smile of either of them escaped me. As
I watched them, I could not doubt that my fears were well-founded, for
that there was a difference in the attitude which Diametta assumed with
respect to Bernardo and myself was painfully apparent. While dancing
with me she had been gay and lively; with him she was quiet and gentle,
seemingly taking a pleasurable interest in the words which fell from
lips that were very close to her face.
Unable to bear the sight, I turned away and continued to pace up and
down the terrace.
In a few minutes the music ceased. I was engaged to Diametta for the
next dance, but, fearing that if I entered at once to claim her I
should betray my agitation, I determined to wait until I should become
more calm.
At length I entered the mansion and began a search for my partner. I
had passed through several rooms when I saw her walking slowly toward
a door which opened on the terrace. One of her hands rested on an arm
of Bernardo, and she was looking up at his face. Upon arriving at the
door, Bernardo halted, and when Diametta passed out he followed her.
I waited a few moments; then, stepping quickly to the door, I looked
out. They were descending the steps.
No tiger of the jungle ever stalked his prey more stealthily than I
stole on after the lovers, who were walking slowly in the direction
of the lake. The right arm of Bernardo now encircled the waist of
his companion, and, as he whispered in her ear, his dark face almost
touched her own.
Step by step I followed them, through gardens and grove, until they
halted in a rustic pavilion overlooking the waters of the lake. There
they seated themselves, and I crept softly forward to a place in the
shadow of the structure where, unobserved, I might watch and listen.
For several moments neither of them spoke; then Diametta broke the
silence.
“How beautiful it is out here to-night,” she murmured, softly.
The strains of music in the hall of Basselanto fell upon my ears,
but were unheeded by the lovers. The dance had commenced, and I was
forgotten.
“All the world seems beautiful to me to-night,” Bernardo said. “There
is only one thing lacking to make it Paradise, and that, dear Diametta,
is in your power to bestow. It is the right to hold you always in my
arms as I do now. Tell me, Diametta, do you love me? Will you be my
wife?”
Was it the murmur of ripples on the rocks below, or the whispers of
the nightwind in the branches overhead? Or was it the soft “yes” of a
woman, borne from her lips by a sigh of happiness as she plighted her
troth to the man she loved?
I know not whether the question of her lover was answered by word or
by silence. She was lost to me--irredeemably lost. I was overcome by
the violence of two powerful passions--of baffled love for the one and
inveterate hate for the other.
Rising from my place of concealment, I looked over the pavilion rail.
I saw Diametta clasped in the arms of Bernardo. Her head rested on his
shoulder as she submitted passively to the kisses he pressed to her
face and hands. At length Bernardo, raising his eyes, saw that they
were not alone. His exclamation of surprise caused Diametta to look up.
I leaped over the rail of the pavilion and stood before them.
“What brings you here?” Bernardo demanded, angrily.
“Pardon the intrusion, signor,” I replied. “I came to seek my partner
for the dance. Do you not hear the music, Diametta? We are late.”
“No, no, Miavolo--no!” Diametta protested, weakly. “Not--not now. You
have frightened me.”
“Come,” I directed, sternly.
“She has told you no,” Bernardo said. “Now go.”
He turned away, and, trembling with passion, I drew my sword. Grasping
it in such a manner that the blade was below my hand, I swung my arm
with all my strength, striking him full in the temple with the brazen
hilt of the weapon. He fell, stunned and bleeding, to the ground.
Diametta sprang toward me with a little cry, and I shrank from the
unutterable hate that flashed out of her dark eyes. Then, regaining my
composure, I sheathed my sword, and, moving toward her, offered her my
arm.
“Pardon my rudeness in your presence,” I said, “but my cousin’s command
to me was rudely spoken. It grows chill out here. Let us return to the
hall.”
As I moved toward her, she retreated, and so both of us passed out of
the pavilion. Then, losing patience, I sprang toward her and seized one
of her wrists.
“Diametta, I have several times asked you to be my wife,” I went on, in
a voice that now was trembling with my passion. “You have refused. If
you do not now consent to----”
“Well, then, coward?”
Releasing her wrist, I drew my sword and silently pointed it toward the
pavilion where Bernardo still lay upon the floor.
With a little cry she lurched toward me and caught one of my hands in
both her own.
“No, no, Miavolo!” she cried. “Kill me, if you will, but do not harm
him now. In the name of the love you say you bear me, do not harm him
now!”
I tried to disengage my hand from her grasp, but she held it firmly.
Finally I freed myself, and turned toward the pavilion, but as I did
so she laid hold of my belt. I struggled with her for several moments,
then, letting fall my sword, I seized her about the waist and flung her
from me.
A piercing shriek rang in my ears, and, looking to see where she had
fallen, I saw I stood near the edge of the cliff--alone.
Half-blind with horror, I tottered to the brink and looked down, hoping
I might see clinging to some ledge or bush the beloved form I had cast
from me. On the rocks below I saw her lying white and motionless in the
moonlight.
I staggered backward as I realized what I had done. Gone now from
firmament and lake was all the beauty that Diametta and her lover had
extolled only a few minutes before. The waters and the hills they loved
so well seemed to frown dark and threateningly upon me, and the stars,
glittering in sky and lake, appeared to be the shining hosts of Heaven
assembled to bear witness to the enormity of my crime.
The exclamation of a man caused me to turn around, and I perceived my
cousin, Bernardo, standing within a few paces of me.
“What have you done?” he demanded, hoarsely.
“I have killed her,” I answered, regarding him calmly.
He did not speak. Reeling like a drunken man, he leaned against a tree.
I did not pity him, as, waiting, I contemplated his misery. The pale,
blood-stained face which, only a few minutes before had been illumined
by the light of noble passion failed to excite my sympathy, for in the
staggering wretch before me I saw only the man who had dashed my cup of
happiness to the ground and made me the murderer of the woman I loved.
But I had not long to wait. Bernardo soon recovered himself and,
drawing his sword, advanced silently to meet me. I picked up my own
blade from the ground and awaited his attack.
Little did I suspect that the hatred that then was forged in my heart
and brain was to endure, like my love for Diametta, through coming
ages--that, like Bernardo, I was to live only that I might love and
hate and fight and die--to live again.
Bernardo attacked me furiously, and, assuming the defensive, I guarded
cautiously, believing that in a few moments I would be able to take
advantage of my opponent’s recklessness. At length, penetrating his
guard, I inflicted a slight wound in his shoulder, whereupon he began
to defend himself more carefully.
As we fought on, we moved further and further away from the pavilion
and the edge of the cliff--a dangerous proceeding for us both, for on
the ever-changing ground there were missteps to be feared, and, in
such circumstances, a single misstep would mean death. And so, as we
circled, advanced or retreated, there was no cessation of the death
rattle made by our parrying and thrusting blades.
But the end came suddenly. I just had parried a dangerous thrust when
I saw behind my antagonist a female figure, clothed in white. Was it
she--Diametta? No, it was only a marble statue of the goddess Diana
which--a great chill benumbed my body--my sword fell from my hand--the
stars seemed to fall from the skies--my head swam--I reeled--and knew
no more.
Upon opening my eyes I saw the sun had risen and that I was lying on a
rustic seat in the park of Basselanto. As I rose to a sitting posture
I was conscious of a feeling of numbness in my limbs. I was trying to
recall the events of the night when a laughing voice fell on my ears.
“Ah, good-morning, Cousin. You have risen early, but come in and have
breakfast. We will be ready to start in an hour.”
Glancing up, I saw my young host, the Prince Maranotti, standing beside
me; but, as I rose to take the hand he extended toward me, I drew
back trembling and aghast, for, gazing into the eyes of my generous
benefactor, I saw that through them the soul of the hated Bernardo
looked me in the face.
Once more the hot blood surged to my head, and I knew that the struggle
in which Bernardo and Miavolo had been engaged on this spot three
centuries before had not been finished. Divine justice had punished me
by depriving me of my birthright, but I now lived to fight again.
From the manner in which the Prince shrank from me I knew he saw my
purpose in my eyes.
“Great God, man, are you mad?” he faltered.
The words were scarcely spoken when we grappled. I thought to hear him
call for aid, but he was silent as, straining every effort, each of us
contested for the mastery.
We did not fight as Anglo-Saxons fight--with clenched fists--but as
savages, with the joints of crooked thumbs thrust deep in throbbing,
choking throats. We fought with knees and feet, and, as each used all
his might, we moved toward the edge of the cliff. So near did we get
to it at last that twice or thrice stones were moved by our straining,
twisting feet and fell into the abyss near which we tottered. Panting,
cursing, groaning and half-fainting, we maintained our struggle.
Then one of my feet slipped, and a cry of despair escaped me. My
adversary, thinking as I did, that I was about to fall, drew back.
By a miracle I recovered my balance and reeled toward him. Again we
clinched, swung round and parted. My open hands thrust his shoulders.
Weak as was the effort, it sufficed. As the Prince fell backward from
the cliff, I heard him groan, then his body flashed from my view.
Three days later I was in Paris. There, seated at breakfast, I read
in a newspaper an account of the death of Prince Maranotti. That he
was murdered there could be no doubt, for the ground at the top of
the cliff beneath which his body was found bore traces of a violent
struggle.
I returned to this country on a steamer that sailed from Southampton,
and since then I have been little more than a pariah. Unable to obtain
employment without credentials, I was compelled to abandon the vocation
of chemist and shun old friends and acquaintances, with the result that
for several weeks I have been a workman in a paper-box factory.
None but a man who has felt the blighting curse of Cain can know what
it means to be fleeing always from that remorseless spirit of the law
which requires “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth and a life for
a life.” And yet it is not punishment that may be administered by men
that I fear. That from which I shrink is the certainty that, in the
fateful cycle of eternal existence, my soul must be seared again by the
baleful fire of a love that cannot die--a love for which Bernardo and I
must fight, as we have fought before, near the marble statue of Diana
on the cliff of Basselanto.
CHAPTER XII
THE DRAINED GLASS
As the Homicidal Professor finished his narrative, he turned to the
Nervous Physician.
“And so, you see, sir, your friend Glyncamp had something else on his
mind when you understood him to say that the Gargoyle was the murderer
of Prince Maranotti,” he said.
“His language was a little disjunctive at the time,” murmured the
Nervous Physician, thoughtfully. “But I can’t quite understand why a
man who possesses the characteristics of the Gargoyle should stop at
anything, yet everybody now seems disposed to make a hero of him.”
The Gargoyle laughed mirthlessly as he reached for a decanter and
poured more wine into his glass.
“You do everybody an injustice, Doctor,” he replied. “Heroes are
made of nobler clay than that which Nature found available when she
fashioned me. Heroes are capable of inspiring affection in the hearts
of friends, but in the heart of man or woman the Gargoyle has no place.”
The one-eyed Duckhunter, clearing his throat, laid his hands on the
table and looked at them meditatively. The Hypochondriacal Painter
sighed and stroked his beard.
“You are wrong, sir,” said Westfall, composedly. “With one exception,
perhaps, I think I may safely say that all of us are now your friends.”
“By the exception, our host means me,” the Nervous Physician
explained. “Having been more or less interested in the late Mr.
Glyncamp’s intentions concerning this young lady, I must confess that I
do not find quite to my liking this Twentieth Century adaptation of the
old story of ‘The Beauty and the Beast.’”
The Gargoyle, twirling his glass of wine with nervous fingers, laughed
softly.
“It was a pretty story,” said the Duckhunter, thoughtfully. “But, since
the Princess in that tale found the face of a noble gentleman behind
the face of the monster, why is it not possible that our Princess has
made a similar discovery in the case of the hero of her romance?”
“If the old poets are to be believed, satyrs have been loved by some of
the fairest nymphs,” observed the Hypochondriacal Painter, solemnly.
The Decapitated Man rose abruptly, then, throwing on the table the
napkin which had been lying on his knee, he walked to where the
Gargoyle sat and held out his hand. The Gargoyle looked up sharply,
hesitated, then, rising, he grasped the extended hand and bowed.
The Decapitated Man turned to the Aeronaut.
“Madame--” he begun.
“Stop!” exclaimed the Gargoyle, sharply. “Though you mean kindly, let
us not draw aside the veil that hides the face of Truth.”
“I will spare you that trouble, then,” said the Princess, as she raised
and threw back the veil that had concealed her features.
She was very pale, but her lips and eyes were smiling, as she added:
“Gentleman, I am prepared to receive your congratulations.”
“Paula!” exclaimed the Fugitive Bridegroom. “Are you mad? Do you not
know that----”
“I know many things that I had not even suspected before I came to the
Barge of Haunted Lives,” the Princess interrupted.
The Gargoyle dropped the hand of the Decapitated Man, and the
Duckhunter, who sat beside him, saw that he was trembling. But in
the ugly, perpetually smiling face there was no change. It was in a
slightly shaking voice that he asked:
“Madame, am I to understand that--that you have so overcome your
dislike for me that you are willing to acknowledge me as your--your
husband?”
“Yes,” the Princess answered, quietly. “Like the Princess in the
old tale to which the Nervous Physician has referred, the Princess
Maranotti has found her fairy Prince at last.”
The Gargoyle shook his head, then, seating himself abstractedly, he
toyed with his glass.
“Unfortunately for me, Princess, I came too late into the world to
profit by the fairy powers that could transform a monster into a man
who might be capable of winning and retaining Beauty’s love,” he said.
“As I have told you, Glyncamp once asked me to tell him what was the
dominant purpose in my life, and I replied ‘When I have seen the most
beautiful man, the most beautiful woman, and the most wonderful gem
that the earth now holds, I shall die content.’ Thanks to the mission
on which the mind-reader sent me, I have seen these. Therefore, I should
be content. But, Princess, I once cherished the wish that I might be
your spirit lover--that, as I lurked beside the paths along which you
walked, I might hear your voice--that, keeping vigil under your window
while you were sleeping, I might know no harm was threatening you. And,
if it is permitted spirits to return to the earth, your spirit lover
I will always be. But your husband I can never be. There is here one
who should have a greater claim on your affections than the unsightly
Gargoyle. It is not he whose idle fancies caused him to desert you
after he had led you to the altar, but he who braved so many cruel,
unknown enemies in his grim attempt to get the Rajiid diamonds and lay
them at your feet. It is to the long life and eternal happiness of Lord
and Lady Galonfield that I drink.”
As the guests looked at him with wondering, fascinated eyes, the
Gargoyle rose and slowly raised his glass, then, with a quick movement,
he drained it of its contents.
“Gentleman,” said the Gargoyle, calmly, “some of our stories have been
long, and the dawn is breaking. By its light I shall be the first to
leave the Barge of Haunted Lives.”
He turned slowly, and began to walk toward the arched doorway. He moved
steadily enough at first, but, after going four or five paces, he was
seen to totter.
The guests rose hastily, and Westfall started toward the halting man.
He was too late. Before the hand of his host could grasp his arm, the
Gargoyle fell to the floor.
A few moments later the Princess was kneeling at his side. The eyes of
the dying man grew brighter.
As Galonfield raised the Gargoyle’s head and shoulders, the Princess
pressed her lips to the brow that never had felt the touch of human
lips before.
The Gargoyle took her hands.
“Good-night, my Princess,” he murmured, weakly. “If, in your dreams,
you seek my wandering spirit, you will find it waiting to receive you
in--in the Valley of the Garden.”
And it was in the Valley of the Garden that, a year and a half later, a
man and a woman stood beside a marble shaft on which was inscribed the
name of Leon Grenault.
Lord Galonfield, looking toward the northern end of the lake, asked,
quietly:
“And yonder lies the Valley of the Perfect Man?”
“Yonder is the Valley of the Perfect Man,” his wife answered, softly.
“But the Perfect Man lies here.”
Transcriber’s Note:
Obvious errors in punctuation have been silently corrected in this
version, but minor inconsistencies and archaic forms have been retained
as printed.
The following changes have been made:
On page 025: adenture _to_ adventure
On page 037: enthusisatic _to_ enthusiastic
On page 067: he _to_ be
On page 101: visèd _to_ viséd
On page 135: decending _to_ descending
On page 164: gaurds _to_ guards
On page 166: bethrothed _to_ betrothed
On page 228: Gargoylle _to_ Gargoyle
On page 250: Glanagassett _to_ Glenagassett
On page 313: Bassellanto _to_ Basselanto
On page 177: the third and fourth lines in the following paragraph in
Chapter VI have been switched. Here is the passage as printed:
The gates of Dreamland seemed to be opening their
portals to me now, and I felt as if peris, standing at my
visited my girlish fancies were gazing on me from the
side, were pointing to where the heroes who so often had
mystic city’s walls.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
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