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diff --git a/33759-h/33759-h.htm b/33759-h/33759-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a32dcf0 --- /dev/null +++ b/33759-h/33759-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,10591 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Key to Yesterday, by Charles Neville Buck</title> + <style type="text/css"> + + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + div.centered table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + a {text-decoration: none;} + + img {border: none;} + + em {font-style: italic;} + + .hidden {display: none;} + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-style: normal; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .blockquot{margin-left: 8%; margin-right: 8%;} + + .bbox {border: solid 2px; padding: 1em; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold; text-align: center; padding-bottom: 2em; font-size: 90%;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .poem {margin-left:22%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i1 {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + + .tdl {text-align: left; vertical-align: top; padding-right: 2em;} /* left top align cell */ + .tdr {text-align: right; vertical-align: bottom; padding-left: 2em;} /* right bottom align cell */ + + .address {margin-left: 35%; text-indent: -8em;} /* address or signature of letter aligned left, move 2nd line right */ + .sig {text-align: right; margin-right: 4em;} /* signature of letter aligned right */ + + .xlrgfont {font-size: 200%;} + .lrgfont {font-size: 150%;} + .smlfont {font-size: 75%;} + + .padtop {padding-top: 3em;} + .padbase {padding-bottom: 3em;} + .hrpad {padding-top: 2em;} + .ipadtop {padding-top: 2em;} + .ipadboth {padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 2em;} + + hr.full { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 4px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + pre {font-size: 85%;} + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Key to Yesterday, by Charles Neville Buck</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: The Key to Yesterday</p> +<p>Author: Charles Neville Buck</p> +<p>Release Date: September 19, 2010 [eBook #33759]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE KEY TO YESTERDAY***</p> +<p> </p> +<h4>E-text prepared by David Garcia, Roger Frank, Sam W.,<br /> + and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (<a href="http://www.pgdp.net">http://www.pgdp.net</a>)<br /> + from page images generously made available by<br /> + Kentuckiana Digital Library<br /> + (<a href="http://kdl.kyvl.org/">http://kdl.kyvl.org/</a>)</h4> +<p> </p> +<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;" cellpadding="10"> + <tr> + <td valign="top"> + Note: + </td> + <td> + Images of the original pages are available through + Kentuckiana Digital Library. See + <a href="http://kdl.kyvl.org/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c=kyetexts;cc=kyetexts;view=toc;idno=b92-178-30418568"> + http://kdl.kyvl.org/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c=kyetexts;cc=kyetexts;view=toc;idno=b92-178-30418568</a> + </td> + </tr> +</table> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> + +<div class="figcenter ipadboth" style="width: 330px;"> +<img src="images/kty01.jpg" id="coverpage" width="330" height="500" +alt="Title page of the book" /> +</div> + +<h1 class="padtop padbase">The Key to Yesterday</h1> + + +<p class="center lrgfont">CHARLES NEVILLE BUCK</p> +<p> </p> + +<p class="center padtop smlfont"><i>NEW YORK</i><br /> +GROSSET & DUNLAP<br /> +<i>PUBLISHERS</i></p> + + + +<p class="center padtop padbase smcap smlfont">Copyright, 1910, by<br /> +W. J. WATT & COMPANY</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter ipadboth" style="width: 421px;"> +<img src="images/kty02.jpg" width="421" height="600" +alt="Saxon and Duska standing close together, the portrait of her behind them" /> +</div> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<div class="centered"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="2" summary="Table of contents"> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER I</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap01">1</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER II</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap02">22</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER III</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap03">37</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER IV</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap04">55</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER V</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap05">70</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER VI</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap06">88</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER VII</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap07">102</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER VIII</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap08">119</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER IX</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap09">134</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER X</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap10">156</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER XI</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap11">172</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER XII</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap12">186</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER XIII</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap13">207</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER XIV</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap14">221</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER XV</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap15">238</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER XVI</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap16">255</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER XVII</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap17">270</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER XVIII</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap18">285</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER XIX</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap19">304</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER XX</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap20">315</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">CHAPTER XXI</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap21">333</a></td> + </tr> +</table> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>1]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center padtop xlrgfont">The Key to Yesterday</p> + + + +<h2 class="padtop"><a name="chap01" id="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I</h2> + + +<p>The palings of the grandstand inclosure +creaked in protest under the pressure. The shadows +of forward-surging men wavered far out +across the track. A smother of ondriving dust +broke, hurricane-like, around the last turn, +sweeping before it into the straightaway a struggling +mass of horse-flesh and a confusion of +stable-colors. Back to the right, the grandstand +came to its feet, bellowing in a madman’s +chorus.</p> + +<p>Out of the forefront of the struggle strained +a blood-bay colt. The boy, crouched over the +shoulders, was riding with hand and heel to +the last ounce of his strength and the last subtle +feather-weight of his craft and skill. At +his saddleskirts pressed a pair of distended +nostrils and a black, foam-flecked muzzle. Behind, +with a gap of track and daylight between, +trailed the laboring “ruck.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>2]</a></span> +A tall stranger, who had lost his companion +and host in the maelstrom of the betting shed, +had taken his stand near the angle where the +paddock grating meets the track fence. A +Derby crowd at Churchill Downs is a congestion +of humanity, and in the obvious impossibility +of finding his friend he could here at +least give his friend the opportunity of finding +him, since at this point were a few panels of +fence almost clear. As the two colts fought +out the final decisive furlongs, the black nose +stealing inch by inch along the bay neck, the +stranger’s face wore an interest not altogether +that of the casual race-goer. His shoulders +were thrown back, and his rather lean jaw angle +swept into an uncompromising firmness of chin—just +now uptilted.</p> + +<p>The man stood something like six feet of +clear-cut physical fitness. There was a declaration +in his breadth of shoulder and depth of +chest, in his slenderness of waist and thigh, of +a life spent only partly within walls, while the +free swing of torso might have intimated to +the expert observer that some of it had been +spent in the saddle.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>3]</a></span> +Of the face itself, the eyes were the commanding +features. They were gray eyes, set +under level brows; keenly observant by token +of their clear light, yet tinged by a half-wistful +softness that dwells hauntingly in the eyes of +dreamers.</p> + +<p>Just now, the eyes saw not only the determination +of a four-furlong dash for two-year-olds, +but also, across the fresh turf of the infield, +the radiant magic of May, under skies +washed brilliant by April’s rains.</p> + +<p>Then, as the colts came abreast and passed +in a muffled roar of drumming hoofs, his eyes +suddenly abandoned the race at the exact moment +of its climax: as hundreds of heads +craned toward the judges’ stand, his own gaze +became a stare focused on a point near his +elbow.</p> + +<p>He stared because he had seen, as it seemed +to him, a miracle, and the miracle was a girl. +It was, at all events, nothing short of miraculous +that such a girl should be discovered standing, +apparently unaccompanied, down in this +bricked area, a few yards from the paddock +and the stools of the bookmakers.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>4]</a></span> +Unlike his own, her eyes had remained constant +to the outcome of the race, and now her +face was averted, so that only the curve of one +cheek, a small ear and a curling tendril of brown +hair under the wide, soft brim of her Panama +hat rewarded him for the surrender of the spectacle +on the track.</p> + +<p>Most ears, he found himself reflecting with, +a sense of triumphant discovery, simply grow +on the sides of heads, but this one might have +been fashioned and set by a hand gifted with +the exquisite perfection of the jeweler’s art.</p> + +<p>A few moments before, the spot where she +stood had been empty save for a few touts and +trainers. It seemed inconceivable, in the abrupt +revelation of her presence, that she could, like +himself, have been simply cut off from companions +and left for the interval waiting. He +caught himself casting about for a less prosaic +explanation. Magic would seem to suit her +better than mere actuality. She was sinuously +slender, and there was a splendid hint of gallantry +in the unconscious sweep of her shoulders. +He was conscious that the simplicity of +her pongee gown loaned itself to an almost +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>5]</a></span> +barbaric freedom of carriage with the same +readiness as do the draperies of the Winged +Victory. Yet, even the Winged Victory achieves +her grace by a pose of triumphant action, while +this woman stood in repose except for the delicate +forward-bending excitement of watching +the battle in the stretch.</p> + +<p>The man was not, by nature, susceptible. +Women as sex magnates had little part in his +life cosmos. The interest he felt now with +electrical force, was the challenge that beauty +in any form made upon his enthusiasm. Perhaps, +that was why he stood all unrealizing the +discourtesy of his gaping scrutiny—a scrutiny +that, even with her eyes turned away, she must +have felt.</p> + +<p>At all events, he must see her face. As the +crescendo of the grandstand’s suspense graduated +into the more positive note of climax +and began to die, she turned toward him. Her +lips were half-parted, and the sun struck her +cheeks and mouth and chin into a delicate brilliance +of color, while the hat-brim threw a +band of shadow on forehead and eyes. The +man’s impression was swift and definite. He +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>6]</a></span> +had been waiting to see, and was prepared. +The face, he decided, was not beautiful by the +gauge of set standards. It was, however, +beautiful in the better sense of its individuality; +in the delicacy of the small, yet resolute, chin +and the expressive depth of the eyes. Just +now, they were shaded into dark pools of blue, +but he knew they could brighten into limpid +violet.</p> + +<p>She straightened up as she turned and met +his stare with a steadiness that should have +disconcerted it, yet he found himself still studying +her with the detached, though utterly engrossed, +interest of the critic. She did not start +or turn hurriedly away. Somehow, he caught +the realization that flight had no part in her +system of things.</p> + +<p>The human tide began flowing back toward +the betting shed, and left them alone in a +cleared space by the palings. Then, the man +saw a quick anger sweep into the girl’s face +and deepen the color of her cheeks. Her chin +went up a trifle, and her lips tightened.</p> + +<p>He found himself all at once in deep confusion. +He wanted to tell her that he had not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>7]</a></span> +realized the actuality of his staring impertinence, +until she had, with a flush of unuttered +wrath and embarrassment, revealed the depth +of his felony ... for he could no longer regard +it as a misdemeanor.</p> + +<p>There was a note of contempt in her eyes +that stung him, and presently he found himself +stammering an excuse.</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon—I didn’t realize it,” +he began lamely. Then he added as though to +explain it all with the frank outspokenness of a +school-boy: “I was wishing that I could paint +you—I couldn’t help gazing.”</p> + +<p>For a few moments as she stood rigidly and +indignantly silent, he had opportunity to reflect +on the inadequacy of his explanation. At +last, she spoke with the fine disdain of affronted +royalty.</p> + +<p>“Are you quite through looking at me? +May I go now?”</p> + +<p>He was contrite.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know that I could explain—but +it wasn’t meant to be—to be——” He broke +off, floundering.</p> + +<p>“It’s a little strange,” she commented +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>8]</a></span> +quietly as though talking to herself, “because +you <em>look</em> like a gentleman.”</p> + +<p>The man flushed.</p> + +<p>“You are very kind and flattering,” he said, +his face instantly hardening. “I sha’n’t tax you +with explanation. I don’t suppose any woman +could be induced to understand that a man may +look at her—even stare at her—without disrespect, +just as he might look at a sunset or a +wonderful picture.” Then, he added half in +apology, half in defiance: “I don’t know much +about women anyway.”</p> + +<p>For a moment, the girl stood with her face +resolutely set, then she looked up again, meeting +his eyes gravely, though he thought that +she had stifled a mutinous impulse of her +pupils to riffle into amusement.</p> + +<p>“I must wait here for my uncle,” she told +him. “Unless you have to stay, perhaps you +had better go.”</p> + +<p>The tall stranger swung off toward the betting +shed without a backward glance, and engulfed +himself in the mob where one had to +fight and shoulder a difficult way in zigzag +course.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>9]</a></span> +Back of the forming lines of winners with +tickets to cash, he caught sight of a young man +almost as tall as himself and characterized by +the wholesome attractiveness of one who has +taken life with zest and decency. He wore +also upon feature and bearing the stamp of an +aristocracy that is not decadent. To the side +of this man, the stranger shouldered his way.</p> + +<p>“Since you abandoned me,” he accused, +“I’ve been standing out there like a little boy +who has lost his nurse.” After a pause, he +added: “And I’ve seen a wonderful girl—the +one woman in your town I want to meet.”</p> + +<p>His host took him by the elbow, and began +steering him toward the paddock gate.</p> + +<p>“So, you have discovered a divinity, and are +ready to be presented. And you are the scoffer +who argues that women may be eliminated. +You are—or were—the man who didn’t care +to know them.”</p> + +<p>The guest answered calmly and with brevity:</p> + +<p>“I’m not talking about women. I’m talking +about a woman—and she’s totally different.”</p> + +<p>“Who is she, Bob?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>10]</a></span> +“How should I know?”</p> + +<p>“I know a few of them—suppose you describe +her.”</p> + +<p>The stranger halted and looked at his friend +and host with commiserating pity. When he +deigned to speak, it was with infinite scorn.</p> + +<p>“Describe her! Why, you fool, I’m no poet +laureate, and, if I were, I couldn’t describe +her!”</p> + +<p>For reply, he received only the disconcerting +mockery of ironical laughter.</p> + +<p>“My interest,” the young man of the fence +calmly deigned to explain, “is impersonal. I +want to meet her, precisely as I’d get up early +in the morning and climb a mountain to see the +sun rise over a particularly lovely valley. It’s +not as a woman, but as an object of art.”</p> + + +<p class="hrpad">On other and meaner days, the track at +Churchill Downs may be in large part surrendered +to its more rightful patrons, the +chronics and apostles of the turf, and racing +may be only racing as roulette is roulette. But +on Derby Day it is as though the community +paid tribute to the savor of the soil, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>11]</a></span> +honored in memory the traditions of the ancient +régime.</p> + +<p>To-day, in the club-house inclosure, the +roomy verandahs, the close-cropped lawn and +even the roof-gallery were crowded; not indeed +to the congestion of the grandstand’s perspiring +swarm, for Fashion’s reservation still +allowed some luxury of space, but beyond the +numbers of less important times. In the burgeoning +variety of new spring gowns and hats, +the women made bouquets, as though living +flowers had been brought to the shrine of the +thoroughbred.</p> + +<p>A table at the far end of the verandah +seemed to be a little Mecca for strolling visitors. +In the party surrounding it, one might +almost have caught the impression that the +prettiness of the feminine display had been +here arranged, and that in scattering attractive +types along the front of the white club-house, +some landscape gardener had reserved the +most appealing beauties for a sort of climacteric +effect at the end.</p> + +<p>Sarah and Anne Preston were there, and +wherever the Preston sisters appeared there +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>12]</a></span> +also were usually gathered together men, not +to the number of two and three, but in full +quorum. And, besides the Preston sisters, this +group included Miss Buford and a fourth girl.</p> + +<p>Indeed, it seemed to be this fourth who held, +with entire unconsciousness, more than an equal +share of attention. Duska Filson was no more +cut to the pattern of the ordinary than the Russian +name her romantic young mother had +given her was an exponent of the life about +her. She was different, and at every point of +her divergence from a routine type it was the +type that suffered by the contrast. Having +preferred being a boy until she reached that +age when it became necessary to bow to the +dictate of Fate and accept her sex, she had retained +an understanding for, and a comradeship +with, men that made them hers in bondage. +This quality she had combined with all that +was subtly and deliciously feminine, and, +though she loved men as she loved small boys, +some of them had discovered that it was always +as men, never as a man.</p> + +<p>She had a delightfully refractory way of +making her own laws to govern her own world—a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>13]</a></span> +system for which she offered no apology; +and this found its vindication in the fact +that her world was well-governed—though +with absolutism.</p> + +<p>The band was blaring something popular +and reminiscent of the winter’s gayeties, but the +brasses gave their notes to the May air, and +the May air smoothed and melted them into +softness. Duska’s eyes were fixed on the +green turf of the infield where several sentinel +trees pointed into the blue.</p> + +<p>Mr. Walter Bellton, having accomplished +the marvelous feat of escaping from the bookmaker’s +maelstrom with the immaculateness of +his personal appearance intact, sauntered up to +drop somewhat languidly into a chair.</p> + +<p>“When one returns in triumph,” he commented, +“one should have chaplets of bay and +arches to walk under. It looks to me as +though the reception-committee has not been +on the job.”</p> + +<p>Sarah Preston raised a face shrouded in +gravity. Her voice was velvety, but Bellton +caught its undernote of ridicule.</p> + +<p>“I render unto Caesar those things that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>14]</a></span> +are Caesar’s—but what is your latest triumph?” +She put her question innocently. +“Did you win a bet?”</p> + +<p>If Mr. Bellton’s quick-flashing smile was an +acknowledgment of the thrust at his somewhat +notorious self-appraisement, his manner +at least remained imperturbably complacent.</p> + +<p>“I was not clamoring for my own just +dues,” he explained, with modesty. “For myself, +I shall be satisfied with an unostentatious +tablet in bronze when I’m no longer with you +in the flesh. In this instance I was speaking for +another.”</p> + +<p>He did not hasten to announce the name of +the other. In even the little things of life, this +gentleman calculated to a nicety dramatic values +and effects. Just as a public speaker in +nominating a candidate works up to a climax +of eulogy, and pauses to let his hearers shout, +“Name him! Name your man!” so Mr. Bellton +paused, waiting for someone to ask of +whom he spoke.</p> + +<p>It was little Miss Buford who did so with +the débutante’s legitimate interest in the possibility +of fresh conquest.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>15]</a></span> +“And who has returned in triumph?”</p> + +<p>“George Steele.”</p> + +<p>Sarah Preston arched her brows in mild interest.</p> + +<p>“So, the wanderer is home! I had the idea +he was painting masterpieces in the <i>Quartier +Latin</i>, or wandering about with a sketching +easel in southern Spain.”</p> + +<p>“Nevertheless, he is back,” affirmed the +man, “and he has brought with him an even +greater celebrity than himself—a painter of international +reputation, it would seem. I met +them a few moments ago in the paddock, and +Steele intimated that they would shortly arrive +to lay their joint laurels at your feet.”</p> + +<p>Louisville society was fond of George Steele, +and, when on occasion he dropped back from +“the happy roads that lead around the world,” +it was to find a welcome in his home city only +heightened by his long absence.</p> + +<p>“Who is this greater celebrity?” demanded +Miss Buford. She knew that Steele belonged +to Duska Filson, or at least that whenever he +returned it was to renew the proffer of himself, +even though with the knowledge that the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>16]</a></span> +answer would be as it had always been: negative. +Her interest was accordingly ready to +consider in alternative the other man.</p> + +<p>“Robert A. Saxon—the first disciple of +Frederick Marston,” declared Mr. Bellton. +If no one present had ever heard the name +before, the consequential manner of its announcement +would have brought a sense of deplorable +unenlightenment.</p> + +<p>Bellton’s eyes, despite the impression of +weakness conveyed by the heavy lenses of his +nose-glasses, missed little, and he saw that +Duska Filson still looked off abstractedly +across the bend of the homestretch, taking no +note of his heralding.</p> + +<p>“Doesn’t the news of new arrivals excite +you, Miss Filson?” he inquired, with a touch +of drawl in his voice.</p> + +<p>The girl half-turned her head with a smile +distinctly short of enthusiasm. She did not +care for Bellton. She was herself an exponent +of all things natural and unaffected, and she +read between the impeccably regular lines of +his personality, with a criticism that was adverse.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>17]</a></span> +“You see,” she answered simply, “it’s not +news. I’ve seen George since he came.”</p> + +<p>“Tell us all about this celebrity,” prompted +Miss Buford, eagerly. “What is he like?”</p> + +<p>Duska shook her head.</p> + +<p>“I haven’t seen him. He was to arrive this +morning.”</p> + +<p>“So, you see,” supplemented Mr. Bellton +with a smile, “you will, after all, have to fall +back on me—I have seen him.”</p> + +<p>“You,” demurred the débutante with a +disappointed frown, “are only a man. What +does a man know about another man?”</p> + +<p>“The celebrity,” went on Mr. Bellton, +ignoring the charge of inefficiency, “avoids +women.” He paused to laugh. “He was telling +Steele that he had come to paint landscape, +and I am afraid he will have to be brought +lagging into your presence.”</p> + +<p>“It seems rather brutal to drag him here,” +suggested Anne Preston. “I, for one, am +willing to spare him the ordeal.”</p> + +<p>“However,” pursued Mr. Bellton with +some zest of recital, “I have warned him. I +told him what dangerous batteries of eyes he +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>18]</a></span> +must encounter. It seemed to me unfair to let +him charge into the lists of loveliness all unarmed—with +his heart behind no shield.”</p> + +<p>“And he ... how did he take your +warning?” demanded Miss Buford.</p> + +<p>“I think it is his craven idea to avoid the +danger and retreat at the first opportunity. +He said that he was a painter, had even been a +cow-puncher once, but that society was beyond +his powers and his taste.”</p> + +<p>The group had been neglecting the track. +Now, from the grandstand came once more the +noisy outburst that ushers the horses into the +stretch, and conversation died as the party came +to its feet.</p> + +<p>None of its members noticed for the moment +the two young men who had made their way +between the chairs of the verandah until they +stood just back of the group, awaiting their +turn for recognition.</p> + +<p>As the horses crossed the wire and the pandemonium +of the stand fell away, George +Steele stepped forward to present his guest.</p> + +<p>“This is Mr. Robert Saxon,” he announced. +“He will paint the portraits of you girls almost +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>19]</a></span> +as beautiful as you really are.... It’s as +far as mere art can go.”</p> + +<p>Saxon stood a trifle abashed at the form of +presentation as the group turned to greet him. +Something in the distance had caught Duska +Filson’s imagination-brimming eyes. She was +sitting with her back turned, and did not hear +Steele’s approach nor turn with the others.</p> + +<p>Saxon’s casually critical glance passed rapidly +over the almost too flawless beauty of the +Preston sisters and the flower-like charm of +little Miss Buford, then fell on a slender girl +in a simple pongee gown and a soft, wide-brimmed +Panama hat. Under the hat-brim, +he caught the glimpse of an ear that might +have been fashioned by a jeweler and a curling +tendril of brown hair. If Saxon had indeed +been the timorous man Bellton intimated, +the glimpse would have thrown him into panic. +As it was, he showed no sign of alarm.</p> + +<p>His presentation as a celebrity had focused +attention upon him in a manner momentarily +embarrassing. He found a subtle pleasure in +the thought that it had not called this girl’s +eyes from whatever occupied them out beyond +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>20]</a></span> +the palings. Saxon disliked the ordinary. +His canvases and his enthusiasms were alike +those of the individualist.</p> + +<p>“Duska,” laughed Miss Buford, “come +back from your dreams, and be introduced to +Mr. Saxon.”</p> + +<p>The painter acknowledged a moment of suspense. +What would be her attitude when she +recognized the man who had stared at her +down by the paddock fence?</p> + +<p>The girl turned. Except himself, no one +saw the momentary flash of amused surprise in +her eyes, the quick change from grave blue to +flashing violet and back again to grave blue. +To the man, the swiftly shifting light of it +seemed to say: “You are at my mercy; whatever +liberality you receive is at the gift and +pleasure of my generosity.”</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon,” she said simply, extending +her hand. “I was just thinking—” she +paused to laugh frankly, and it was the music +of the laugh that most impressed Saxon—“I +hardly know what I was thinking.”</p> + +<p>He dropped with a sense of privileged good-fortune +into the vacant chair at her side.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>21]</a></span> +With just a hint of mischief riffling her +eyes, but utter artlessness in her voice, she +regarded him questioningly.</p> + +<p>“I wonder if we have not met somewhere +before? It seems to me——”</p> + +<p>“Often,” he asserted. “I think it was in +Babylon first, perhaps. And you were a girl +in Macedon when I was a spearman in the +army of Alexander.”</p> + +<p>She sat as reflective and grave as though +she were searching her recollections of Babylon +and Macedon for a chance acquaintance, +but under the gravity was a repressed sparkle +of mischievous delight.</p> + +<p>After a moment, he demanded brazenly:</p> + +<p>“Would you mind telling me which colt +won that first race?”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>22]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap02" id="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II</h2> + + +<p>“His career has been pretty much a march +of successive triumphs through the world of +art, and he has left the critics only one peg on +which to hang their carping.”</p> + +<p>Steele spoke with the warmth of enthusiasm. +He had succeeded in capturing Duska +for a few minutes of monopoly in the semi-solitude +of the verandah at the back of the +club-house. Though he had a hopeless cause +of his own to plead, it was characteristic of +him that his first opportunity should go to the +praise of his friend.</p> + +<p>“What is that?” The girl found herself +unaccountably interested and ready to assume +this stranger’s defense even before she knew +with what his critics charged him.</p> + +<p>“That he is a copyist,” explained the man; +“that he is so enamored of the style of Frederick +Marston that his pictures can’t shake off +the influence. He is great enough to blaze +his own trail—to create his own school, rather +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>23]</a></span> +than to follow in the tracks of another. Of +course,” he hastened to defend, “that is hardly +a valid indictment. Every master is, at the beginning +of his career, strongly affected by the +genius of some greater master. The only +mistake lies in following in the footsteps of +one not yet dead. To play follow-the-leader +with a man of a past century is permissible +and laudable, but to give the same allegiance +to a contemporary is, in the narrow view of +the critics, to accept a secondary place.”</p> + +<p>The Kentuckian sketched with ardor the +dashing brilliance of the other’s achievement: +how five years had brought him from lethal +obscurity to international fame; how, though a +strictly American product who had not studied +abroad, his <i>Salon</i> pictures had electrified Paris. +And the girl listened with attentive interest.</p> + +<p>When the last race was ended and the thousands +were crowding out through the gates, +Saxon heard his host accepting a dinner invitation +for the evening.</p> + +<p>“I shall have a friend stopping in town on +his way East, whom I want you all to meet,” +explained Mr. Bellton, the prospective host. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>24]</a></span> +“He is one Señor Ribero, an attaché of a South +American legation, and he may prove interesting.”</p> + +<p>Saxon caught himself almost frowning. He +did not care for society’s offerings, but the engagement +was made, and he had now no alternative +to adding his declaration of pleasure +to that of his host. He was, however, silent to +taciturnity as Steele’s runabout chugged its way +along in the parade of motors and carriages +through the gates of the race-track inclosure. +In his pupils, the note of melancholy unrest +was decided, where ordinarily there was only +the hint.</p> + +<p>“There is time,” suggested the host, “for +a run out the Boulevard; I’d like to show you +a view or two.”</p> + +<p>The suggestion of looking at a promising +landscape ordinarily challenged Saxon’s interest +to the degree of enthusiasm. Now, he only +nodded.</p> + +<p>It was not until Steele, who drove his own +car, stopped at the top of the Iroquois Park +hill that Saxon spoke. They had halted at the +southerly brow of the ridge from which the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>25]</a></span> +eye sweeps a radius of twenty miles over +purpled hills and polychromatic valleys, to yet +other hills melting into a sky of melting turquois. +Looking across the colorful reaches, +Saxon gave voice to his enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>They left the car, and stood on the rocks that +jut out of the clay at the road’s edge. Beneath +them, the wooded hillside fell away, three +hundred feet of precipitous slope and tangle. +For a time, Saxon’s eyes were busy with the avid +drinking in of so much beauty, then once more +they darkened as he wheeled toward his +companion.</p> + +<p>“George,” he said slowly, “you told me +that we were to go to a cabin of yours tucked +away somewhere in the hills, and paint landscape. +I caught the idea that we were to lead +a sort of camp-life—that we were to be hermits +except for the companionship of our palettes +and nature and each other—and the few neighbors +that one finds in the country, and——” +The speaker broke off awkwardly.</p> + +<p>Steele laughed.</p> + +<p>“‘It is so nominated in the bond.’ The +cabin is over there—some twenty miles.” He +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>26]</a></span> +pointed off across the farthest dim ridge to the +south. “It is among hills where—but to-morrow +you shall see for yourself!”</p> + +<p>“To-morrow?” There was a touch of anxious +haste in the inquiry.</p> + +<p>“Are you so impatient?” smiled Steele.</p> + +<p>Saxon wheeled on his host, and on his forehead +were beads of perspiration though the +breeze across the hilltops was fresh with the +coming of evening. His answer broke from +his lips with the abruptness of an exclamation.</p> + +<p>“My God, man, I’m in panic!”</p> + +<p>The Kentuckian looked up in surprise, and +his bantering smile vanished. Evidently, he +was talking with a man who was suffering some +stress of emotion, and that man was his friend.</p> + +<p>For a moment, Saxon stood rigidly, looking +away with drawn brow, then he began with a +short laugh in which there was no vestige of +mirth:</p> + +<p>“When two men meet and find themselves +congenial companions,” he said slowly, “there +need be no questions asked. We met in a +Mexican hut.”</p> + +<p>Steele nodded.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>27]</a></span> +“Then,” went on Saxon, “we discovered a +common love of painting. That was enough, +wasn’t it?”</p> + +<p>Steele again bowed his assent.</p> + +<p>“Very well.” The greater painter spoke with +the painfully slow control of one who has taken +himself in hand, selecting tone and words to +safeguard against any betrayal into sudden outburst. +“As long as it’s merely you and I, +George, we know enough of each other. When +it becomes a matter of meeting your friends, +your own people, you force me to tell you something +more.”</p> + +<p>“Why?” Steele demanded; almost hotly. “I +don’t ask my friends for references or bonds!”</p> + +<p>Saxon smiled, but persistently repeated:</p> + +<p>“You met me in Mexico, seven months ago. +What, in God’s name, do you know about me?”</p> + +<p>The other looked up, surprised.</p> + +<p>“Why, I know,” he said, “I know——” +Then, suddenly wondering what he did know, +he stopped, and added lamely: “I know that +you are a landscape-painter of national reputation +and a damned good fellow.”</p> + +<p>“And, aside from that, nothing,” came the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>28]</a></span> +quick response. “What I am on the side, +preacher, porch-climber, bank-robber—whatever +else, you don’t know.” The speaker’s +voice was hard.</p> + +<p>“What do you mean?”</p> + +<p>“I mean that, before you present me to your +friends, to such people for example—well such +people as I met to-day—you have the right to +ask; and the unfortunate part of it is that, when +you ask, I can’t answer.”</p> + +<p>“You mean——” the Kentuckian halted in +perplexed silence.</p> + +<p>“I mean,” said Saxon, forcing his words, +“that God Almighty only knows who I am, or +where I came from. I don’t.”</p> + +<p>Of all the men Steele had ever known, Saxon +had struck him, through months of intimacy, +as the most normal, sane and cleanly constituted. +Eccentricity was alien to him. In the +same measure that all his physical bents were +straight and clean-cut, so he had been mentally +a contradiction of the morbid and irrational. +The Kentuckian waited in open-eyed astonishment, +gazing at the man whose own words had +just convicted him of the wildest insanity.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>29]</a></span> +Saxon went on, and even now, in the face +of self-conviction of lunacy, his words fell coldly +logical:</p> + +<p>“I have talked to you of my work and my +travels during the past five or six years. I +have told you that I was a cow-puncher on a +Western range; that I drifted East, and took +up art. Did I ever tell you one word of my life +prior to that? Do you know of a single episode +or instance preceding these few fragmentary +chapters? Do you know who, or what I +was seven years ago?”</p> + +<p>Steele was dazed. His eyes were studiously +fixed on the gnarled roots and twisted hole +of a scrub oak that hung out over the edge of +things with stubborn and distorted tenacity.</p> + +<p>“No,” he heard the other say, “you don’t, +and I don’t.”</p> + +<p>Again, there was a pause. The sun was setting +at their backs, but off to the east the hills +were bright in the reflection that the western +sky threw across the circle of the horizon. Already, +somewhere below them, a prematurely +tuneful whippoorwill was sending out its night +call.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>30]</a></span> +Steele looked up, and saw the throat of the +other work convulsively, though the lips grimly +held the set, contradictory smile.</p> + +<p>“The very name I wear is the name, not of +my family, but of my race. R. A. Saxon, +Robert Anglo Saxon or Robert Anonymous +Saxon—take your choice. I took that because +I felt that I was not stealing it.”</p> + +<p>“Go on,” prompted Steele.</p> + +<p>“You have heard of those strange practical +jokes which Nature sometimes—not often, only +when she is preternaturally cruel—plays on +men. They have pathological names for it, I +believe—loss of memory?”</p> + +<p>Steele only nodded.</p> + +<p>“I told you that I rode the range on the +Anchor-cross outfit. I did not tell you why. +It was because the Anchor-cross took me in +when I was a man without identity. I don’t +know why I was in the Rocky Mountains. I +don’t know what occurred there, but I do know +that I was picked up in a pass with a fractured +skull. I had been stripped almost naked. +Nothing was left as a clew to identity, except +this——”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>31]</a></span> +Saxon handed the other a rusty key, evidently +fitting an old-fashioned lock.</p> + +<p>“I always carry that with me. I don’t know +where it will fit a door, or what lies behind that +door. I only know that it is in a fashion the +key that can open my past; that the lock which +it fits bars me off from all my life except a fragment.”</p> + +<p>Steele mechanically returned the thing, and +Saxon mechanically slipped it back into his +pocket.</p> + +<p>“I know, too, that a scar I wear on my right +hand was not fresh when those many others +were. That, also, belongs to the veiled years.</p> + +<p>“Some cell of memory was pressed upon by a +splinter of bone, some microscopic atom of brain-tissue +was disturbed—and life was erased. I was +an interesting medical subject, and was taken +to specialists who tried methods of suggestion. +Men talked to me of various things: sought +in a hundred ways to stimulate memory, but +the reminder never came. Sometimes, it would +seem that I was standing on the verge of great +recollections—recollections just back of consciousness—as +a forgotten name will sometimes +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>32]</a></span> +tease the brain by almost presenting itself yet +remaining elusive.”</p> + +<p>Steele was leaning forward, listening while +the narrator talked on with nervous haste.</p> + +<p>“I have never told this before,” Saxon said. +“Slowly, the things I had known seemed to +come back. For example, I did not have to relearn +to read and write. All the purely impersonal +things gradually retrieved themselves, but, +wherever a fact might have a tentacle which +could grasp the personal—the ego—that fact +eluded me.”</p> + +<p>“How did you drift into art?” demanded +Steele.</p> + +<p>“That is it: I drifted into it. I had to +drift. I had no compass, no port of departure +or destination. I was a derelict without a flag +or name.”</p> + +<p>“At the Cincinnati Academy, where I first +studied, one of the instructors gave me a hint. +He felt that I was struggling for something +which did not lie the way of his teaching. By +that time, I had acquired some little efficiency +and local reputation. He told me that Marston +was the master for me to study, and he +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>33]</a></span> +advised me to go further East where I could see +and understand his work. I came, and saw, +‘The Sunset in Winter.’ You know the rest.”</p> + +<p>“But, now,” Steele found himself speaking +with a sense of relief, “now, you are Robert +A. Saxon. You have made yourself from unknown +material, but you have made yourself +a great painter. Why not be satisfied to abandon +this unknown past as the past has abandoned +you?”</p> + +<p>“Wait,” the other objected, with the cold +emphasis of a man who will not evade, or seek +refuge in specious alternatives.</p> + +<p>“Forget to-night who I am, and to-morrow +I shall have no assurance that the police are +not searching for me. Why, man, I may have +been a criminal. I have no way of knowing. I +am hand-tied. Possibly, I have a wife and family +waiting for me somewhere—needing me!”</p> + +<p>His breath came in agitated gasps.</p> + +<p>“I am two men, and one of them does not +know the other. Sometimes, it threatens me +with madness—sometimes, for a happy interval, +I almost forget it. At first, it was insupportable, +but the vastness of the prairie and the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>34]</a></span> +calm of the mountain seemed to soothe me into +sanity, and give me a grip on myself. The starlight +in my face during nights spent in the saddle—that +was soothing; it was medicine for my +sick brain. These things at least made me +physically perfect. But, since yesterday is +sealed, I must remain to some extent the recluse. +The sort of intercourse we call society +I have barred. That is why I am anxious for +your cabin, rather than your clubs and your +entertainments.”</p> + +<p>“You didn’t have to tell me,” said Steele +slowly, “but I’m glad you did. I and my +friends are willing to gauge your past by your +present. But I’m glad of your confidence.”</p> + +<p>Saxon raised his face, and his eyes wore an +expression of gratification.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I’m glad I told you. If I should go +out before I solve it, and you should ever +chance on the answer, I’d like my own name +over me—and both dates, birth as well as +death. My work is, of course, to learn it all—if +I can; and I hope—” he forced a laugh—“when +I meet the other man, he will be fit to +shake hands with.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>35]</a></span> +“Listen,” Steele spoke eagerly. “How long +has it been?”</p> + +<p>“Over six years.”</p> + +<p>“Then, why not go on and round out the +seven? Seven years of absolute disappearance +gives a man legal death. Let the old problem +lie, and go forward as Robert Saxon. That is +the simplest way.”</p> + +<p>The other shook his head.</p> + +<p>“That would be an evasion. It would prove +nothing. If I discover responsibilities surviving +from the past, I must take them up.”</p> + +<p>“What did the physicians say?”</p> + +<p>“They didn’t know.” Saxon shook his head. +“Perhaps, some strong reminder may at some +unwarned moment open the volume where it +was closed; perhaps, it will never open. To-morrow +morning, I may awaken Robert Saxon—or +the other man.” He paused, then added +quietly: “Such an unplaced personality had best +touch other lives as lightly as it can.”</p> + +<p>Steele went silently over, and cranked the machine. +As he straightened up, he asked abruptly:</p> + +<p>“Would you prefer calling off this dinner?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>36]</a></span> +“No.” The artist laughed. “We will take +a chance on my remaining myself until after +dinner, but as soon as convenient——”</p> + +<p>“To-morrow,” promised Steele, “we go to +the cabin.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>37]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap03" id="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III</h2> + + +<p>Perhaps, the same futile vanity that led +Mr. Bellton to import the latest sartorial novelties +from the <i>Rue de la Paix</i> for the adornment +of his person made him fond of providing foreign +notables to give color to his entertainments.</p> + +<p>Mr. Bellton was at heart the <i>poseur</i>, but he +was also the fighter. Even when he carried +the war of political reform into sections of the +town where the lawless elements had marked +him for violence, he went stubbornly in the +conspicuousness of ultra-tailoring. Though he +loved to address the proletariat in the name of +brotherhood, he loved with a deeper passion the +exclusiveness of presiding as host at a board +where his guests included the “best people.”</p> + +<p>Señor Ribero, who at home used the more +ear-filling entitlement of Señor Don Ricardo de +Ribero y Pierola, was hardly a notable, yet he +was a new type, and, even before the ladies had +emerged from their cloak-room and while the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>38]</a></span> +men were apart in the grill, the host felt that +he had secured a successful ingredient for his +mixture of personal elements.</p> + +<p>After the fashion of Latin-American diplomacy, +educated in Paris and polished by great +latitude of travel, the attaché had the art of +small talk and the charm of story-telling. To +these recommendations, he added a slender, almost +military carriage, and the distinction of +Castilian features.</p> + +<p>A punctured tire had interrupted the homeward +journey of Steele and Saxon, who had +telephoned to beg that the dinner go on, without +permitting their tardiness to delay the more +punctual.</p> + +<p>The table was spread in a front room with +a balcony that gave an outlook across the broad +lawn and the ancient trees which bordered the +sidewalk. At the open windows, the May air +that stirred the curtains was warm enough to +suggest summer, and new enough after the +lately banished winter to seem wonderful—as +though the rebirth of nature had wrought its +miracle for the first time.</p> + +<p>Ribero was the only guest who needed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>39]</a></span> +presentation, and, as he bowed over the hand of +each woman, it was with an almost ornate ceremoniousness +of manner.</p> + +<p>Duska Filson, after the spontaneous system +of her opinions and prejudices, disliked the +South American. To her imaginative mind, +there was something in his jetlike darkness and +his quick, almost tigerish movements that suggested +the satanic. But, if the impression she +received was not flattering to the guest, the impression +she made was evidently profound. +Ribero glanced at her with an expression of +extreme admiration, and dropped his dark +lashes as though he would veil eyes from which +he could not hope to banish flattery too fulsome +for new acquaintanceship.</p> + +<p>The girl found herself seated with the diplomat +at her right, and a vacant chair at her +left. The second vacant seat was across the +round table, and she found herself sensible of +a feeling of quarantine with an uncongenial +companion, and wondering who would fill the +empty space at her left. The name on the +place card was hidden. She rather hoped it +would be Saxon. She meant to ask him why +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>40]</a></span> +he did not break away from the Marston influence +that handicapped his career, and she +believed he would entertain her. Of course, +George Steele was an old friend and a very dear +one, but this was just the point: he was not +satisfied with that, and in the guise of lovers +only did she ever find men uninteresting. It +would, however, be better to have George make +love than to be forced to talk to this somewhat +pompous foreigner.</p> + +<p>“I just met and made obeisance to the new +Mrs. Billie Bedford,” declared Mr. Bellton, +starting the conversational ball rolling along the +well-worn groove of gossip. “And, if she +needs a witness, she may call on me to testify +that she’s as radiant in the part of Mrs. Billie +as she was in her former rôle of Mrs. Jack.”</p> + +<p>Miss Buford raised her large eyes. With +a winter’s popularity behind her, she felt aggrieved +to hear mentioned names that she did +not know. Surely, she had met everybody.</p> + +<p>“Who is Mrs. Bedford?” she demanded. +“I don’t think I have ever met her. Is she +a widow?”</p> + +<p>Bellton laughed across his consommé cup. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>41]</a></span> +“Of the modern school,” he enlightened. +“There were ‘no funeral baked meats to furnish +forth the marriage feast.’ Matrimonially +speaking, this charming lady plays in repertoire.”</p> + +<p>“What has become of Jack Spotswood?” +The older Miss Preston glanced up inquiringly. +“He used to be everywhere, and I haven’t +heard of him for ages.”</p> + +<p>“He’s still everywhere,” responded Mr. +Bellton, with energy; “everywhere but here. +You see, the papers were so busy with Jack’s +affairs that they crowded Jack out of his own +life.” Mr. Bellton smiled as he added: “And +so he went away.”</p> + +<p>“I wonder where he is now. He wasn’t such +a bad sort,” testified Mr. Cleaver, solemnly. +“Jack’s worse portion was his better half.”</p> + +<p>“Last heard,” informed Mr. Bellton, “he +was seen in some town in South America—the +name of which I forget.”</p> + +<p>Señor Ribero had no passport of familiarity +into local personalities, and he occupied the +moment of his own conversational disengagement +in a covert study of the face and figure +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>42]</a></span> +beside him. Just now, the girl was looking +away at the indolently stirring curtains with +an expression of detachment. Flippant gossip +was distasteful to her, and, when the current set +that way, she drew aside, and became the non-participant.</p> + +<p>Ribero read rightly the bored expression, and +resolved that the topic must be diverted, if Miss +Filson so wished.</p> + +<p>“One meets so many of your countrymen +in South America,” he suggested, “that one +might reasonably expect them to lose interest +as types, yet each of them seems to be the center +of some gripping interest. I remember in particular +one episode—”</p> + +<p>The recital was cut short by the entrance of +Steele and Saxon. Ribero, the only person +present requiring introduction, rose to shake +hands.</p> + +<div class="figcenter ipadboth" style="width: 383px;"> +<img src="images/kty03.jpg" width="383" height="600" +alt="Duska looks on as Saxon and Ribero shake hands" /> +</div> + +<p>The attaché was trained in diplomacy, and the +rudiments of diplomacy should teach the face +to become a mask when need be, yet, as his eyes +met those of Saxon, he suddenly and involuntarily +stiffened. For just a moment, his outstretched +hand hesitated with the impulse to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>43]</a></span> +draw back. The lips that had parted in a casual +smile hardened rigidly, and the eyes that +rested on the face of Steele’s celebrity were so +intently focused that they almost stared. The +byplay occupied only a moment, and, as Ribero +had half-turned from the table to greet those +entering at his back, it escaped the notice of +everyone except Saxon himself. The newcomer +felt the momentary bar of hostility that had +been thrown between them and as quickly withdrawn. +The next moment, he was shaking the +extended hand, and hearing the commonplace:</p> + +<p>“Much pleased, señor.”</p> + +<p>Ribero felt a momentary flash of shame for +the betrayal of such undiplomatic surprise, and +made amends with added courtesy when he +spoke.</p> + +<p>The artist, dropping into his seat at the side +of Miss Filson, felt a flush of pleasure at his +position. For the instant, the other man’s conduct +became a matter of negligible importance, +and, when she turned to him with a friendly +nod and smile, he forgot Ribero’s existence.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Ribero,” announced Mr. Bellton, +“was just about to tell us an interesting story +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>44]</a></span> +when you two delinquents came in. I’m sure +he still has the floor.”</p> + +<p>The diplomat had forgotten what he had +been saying. He was covertly studying the +features of the man just beyond Miss Filson. +The face was turned toward the girl, giving him +a full view, and it was a steady, imperturbable +face. Now, introduced as raconteur, he realized +that he must say something, and at the +moment, with a flash of inspiration, he determined +to relate a bit of history that would +be of interest at least to the narrator. It was +not at all the story he might have told had +he been uninterrupted, but it was a story that +appealed to his diplomatic taste, because he +could watch the other face as he told it and see +what the other face might betray. This newcomer +had jarred him from his usual poise. +Now, he fancied it was the other’s turn to be +startled.</p> + +<p>“It was,” he said casually, “the narrowest +escape from death that I have seen—and the +man who escaped was an American.”</p> + +<p>As Saxon raised his eyes, with polite interest, +to those of the speaker, he became aware that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>45]</a></span> +they held for him a message of almost sardonic +challenge. He felt that the story-teller was +only ostensibly addressing the table; that the +man was talking at him, as a prosecutor talks +at the defendant though he may direct himself +to the jury. The sense that brought this realization +was perhaps telepathic. To the other +eyes and ears, there were only the manner of +the raconteur and the impersonal tone of generality.</p> + +<p>“It occurred in Puerto Frio,” said the South +American, reminiscently. He paused for a moment, +and smiled at Saxon, as though expecting +a sign of confusion upon the mention of the +name, but he read only courteous interest and +impenetrability.</p> + +<p>“This countryman of yours,” he went on +smoothly, his English touched and softened by +the accent of the foreigner, “had indulged in +the dangerous, though it would seem alluring, +pastime of promoting a revolution. Despite +his unscrupulous character, he was possessed of +an engaging personality, and, on brief acquaintance, +I, for one, liked him. His skill and luck +held good so long that it was only when the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>46]</a></span> +insurgents were at the gates of the capital that +a summary court-martial gave him the verdict +of death. I have no doubt that by the laws +of war it was a just award, yet so many men +are guilty of peddling revolutions, and the demand +for such wares is so great in some quarters, +that he had my sympathy.” The speaker +bowed slightly, as though conceding a point to +a gallant adversary. It chanced that he was +looking directly at Saxon as he bowed.</p> + +<p>The painter became suddenly conscious that +he was according an engrossed attention, and +that the story-teller was narrowly watching his +fingers as they twisted the stem of his sauterne +glass. The fingers became at once motionless.</p> + +<p>“He bore himself so undeniably well when +he went out to his place against a blank wall +in the plaza, escorted by the firing squad,” proceeded +Señor Ribero evenly, “that one could +not withhold admiration. The picture remains +with me. The sun on the yellow cathedral +wall ... a vine heavy with scarlet blossoms +like splashes of blood ... and twenty paces +away the firing squad with their Mausers.”</p> + +<p>Once more, the speaker broke off, as though +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>47]</a></span> +lost in retrospection of something well-remembered. +Beyond the girl’s absorbed gaze, he +saw that of the painter, and his dark eyes for +an instant glittered with something like direct +accusation.</p> + +<p>“As they arranged the final details, he must +have reflected somewhat grimly on the irony +of things, for at that very moment he could +hear the staccato popping of the guns he had +smuggled past the vigilance of the customs. +The sound was coming nearer—telling him +that in a half-hour his friends would be victorious—too +late to save him.”</p> + +<p>As Ribero paused, little Miss Buford, leaning +forward across the table, gave a sort of gasp.</p> + +<p>“He was tall, athletic, gray-eyed,” announced +the attaché irrelevantly; “in his eyes +dwelt something of the spirit of the dreamer. +He never faltered.”</p> + +<p>The speaker lifted his sauterne glass to his +lips, and sipped the wine deliberately.</p> + +<p>“The <i>teniente</i> in command inquired if he +wished to pray,” Ribero added then, “but he +shook his head almost savagely. ‘No, damn +you!’ he snapped out, as though he were in a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>48]</a></span> +hurry about it all, ‘Go on with your rat-killing. +Let’s have it over with.’”</p> + +<p>The raconteur halted in his narrative.</p> + +<p>“Please go on,” begged Duska, in a low +voice. “What happened?”</p> + +<p>The foreigner smiled.</p> + +<p>“They fired.” Then, as he saw the slight +shudder of Duska’s white shoulder, he supplemented: +“But each soldier had left the +task for the others.... Possibly, they +sympathized with him; possibly, they sympathized +with the revolution; possibly, each +of the six secretly calculated that the other +five would be sufficient. <i>Quien sabe?</i> At all +events, he fell only slightly wounded. One +bullet—” he spoke thoughtfully, letting his eyes +drop from Saxon’s face to the table-cloth where +Saxon’s right hand lay—“one bullet pierced +his right hand from back to front.”</p> + +<p>Then, a half-whimsical smile crossed Ribero’s +somewhat saturnine features, for Miss Filson +had dropped her napkin on Saxon’s side, and, +when the painter had stooped to recover it, he +did not again replace the hand on the table.</p> + +<p>“Before he could be fired on a second +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>49]</a></span> +time,” concluded the diplomat with a shrug, +“a new <i>presidente</i> was on his way to the palace. +Your countryman was saved.”</p> + +<p>If the hero of Ribero’s narrative was a malefactor, +at least he was a malefactor with the +sympathy of Mr. Bellton’s dinner-party, as was +attested by a distinctly audible sigh of relief +at the end of the story. But Señor Ribero was +not quite through.</p> + +<p>“It is not, after all, the story that discredits +your countryman,” he explained, “but the sequel. +Of course, he became powerful in the +new régime. It was when he was lauded as a +national hero that his high fortunes intoxicated +him, and success rotted his moral fiber. Eventually, +he embezzled a fortune from the government +which he had assisted to establish. There +was also a matter of—how shall I say?—of a +lady. Then, a duel which was really an assassination. +He escaped with blood on his conscience, +presumably to enjoy his stolen wealth +in his own land.”</p> + +<p>“I have often wondered,” pursued Ribero, +“whether, if that man and I should ever be +thrown together again, he would know me ... +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>50]</a></span> +and I have often wished I could remember him +only as the brave adventurer—not also as the +criminal.”</p> + +<p>As he finished, the speaker was holding Saxon +with his eyes, and had a question in his glance +that seemed to call for some expression from +the other. Saxon bowed with a smile.</p> + +<p>“It is an engrossing story.”</p> + +<p>“I think,” said Duska suddenly, almost critically, +“the first part was so good that it was a +pity to spoil it with the rest.”</p> + +<p>Señor Ribero smiled enigmatically into his +wine-glass.</p> + +<p>“I fear, señorita, that is the sad difference +between fiction and history. My tale is a true +one.”</p> + +<p>“At all events,” continued the girl with +vigor, “he was a brave man. That is enough +to remember. I think it is better to forget the +rest.”</p> + +<p>It seemed to Ribero that the glance Saxon +flashed on her was almost the glance of gratitude.</p> + +<p>“What was his name?” she suddenly demanded.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>51]</a></span> +“He called himself—at that time—George +Carter,” Ribero said slowly, “but gentlemen +in the unrecognized pursuits quite frequently +have occasion to change their names. Now, it +is probably something else.”</p> + +<p>After the dinner had ended, while the guests +fell into groups or waited for belated carriages, +Saxon found himself standing apart, near the +window. It was open on the balcony, and the +man felt a sudden wish for the quiet freshness +of the outer air on his forehead. He drew +back the curtain, and stepped across the low sill, +then halted as he realized that he was not +alone.</p> + +<p>The sputtering arc-light swinging over the +street made the intervening branches and leaves +of the sidewalk sycamores stand out starkly +black, like a ragged drop hung over a stage.</p> + +<p>The May moon was only a thin sickle, and +the other figure on the darkly shadowed balcony +was vaguely defined, but Saxon at once recognized, +in its lithe slenderness and grace of pose, +Miss Filson.</p> + +<p>“I didn’t mean to intrude,” he hastily apologized. +“I didn’t know you were here.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>52]</a></span> +She laughed. “Would that have frightened +you?” she asked.</p> + +<p>She was leaning on the iron rail, and the man +took his place at her side.</p> + +<p>“I came with the Longmores,” she explained, +“and their machine hasn’t come yet. It’s cool +here—and I was thinking—”</p> + +<p>“You weren’t by any chance thinking of +Babylon?” he laughed, “or Macedonia?”</p> + +<p>She shook her head. “Mr. Ribero’s story +sticks in my mind. It was so personal, and—I +guess I’m a moody creature. Anyway, I +find myself thinking of it.”</p> + +<p>There was silence for a space, except for the +laughter that floated up from the verandah below +them, where a few of the members sat +smoking, and the softened clicking of ivory +from the open windows of the billiard-room. +The painter’s fingers, resting on the iron rail, +closed over a tendril of clambering moon-flower +vine, and nervously twisted the stem.</p> + +<p>With an impulsive movement, he leaned forward. +His voice was eager.</p> + +<p>“Suppose,” he questioned, “suppose you +knew such a man—can you imagine any +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>53]</a></span> +circumstances under which you could make excuses +for him?”</p> + +<p>She stood a moment weighing the problem. +“It’s a hard question,” she replied finally, then +added impulsively: “Do you know, I’m afraid +I’m a terrible heathen? I can excuse so much +where there is courage—the cold sort of chilled-steel +courage that he had. What do you +think?”</p> + +<p>The painter drew his handkerchief from his +pocket, and wiped his moist forehead, but, before +he could frame his answer, the girl heard +a movement in the room, and turned lightly to +join her chaperon.</p> + +<p>Following her, Saxon found himself saying +good-night to a group that included Ribero. +As the attaché shook hands, he held Saxon’s +somewhat longer than necessary, seeming to +glance at a ring, but really studying a scar.</p> + +<p>“You are a good story-teller, Mr. Ribero,” +said Saxon, quietly.</p> + +<p>“Ah,” countered the other quickly, “but +that is easy, señor, where one has so good a +listener. By the way, señor, did you ever +chance to visit Puerto Frio?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>54]</a></span> +The painter shook his head.</p> + +<p>“Not unless in some other life—some life +as dead as that of the pharaohs.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, well—” the diplomat turned away, still +smiling—“some of the pharaohs are remarkably +well preserved.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>55]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap04" id="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV</h2> + + +<p>Steele himself had not been a failure at +his art. There was in him no want of that +sensitive temperament and dream-fire which +gives the artist, like the prophet, a better +sight and deeper appreciation than is accorded +the generality. The only note missing was the +necessity for hard application, which might +have made him the master where he was satisfied +to be the dilettante. The extreme cleverness +of his brush had at the outset been his +handicap, lulling the hard sincerity of effort +with too facile results. Wealth, too, had +drugged his energies, but had not crippled his +abilities. If he drifted, it was because drifting +in smooth seas is harmless and pleasant, not +because he was unseaworthy or fearful of +stormier conditions. In Saxon, he had not only +recognized a greater genius, but found a friend, +and with the insouciance of a graceful philosophy +he reasoned it out to his own contentment. +Each craft after its own uses! Saxon +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>56]</a></span> +was meant for a greater commerce. His genius +was intended to be an argosy, bearing rich +cargo between the ports of the gods and those +of men. If, in the fulfillment of that destiny, +the shallop of his own lesser talent and influence +might act as convoy and guide, luring +the greater craft into wider voyaging, he +would be satisfied. Just now, that guidance +ought to be away from the Marston influence +where lay ultimate danger and limitation. He +was glad that where people discussed Frederick +Marston they also discussed his foremost +disciple. Marston himself had loomed large +in the star-chart of painting only a dozen years +ago, and was now the greatest of luminaries. +His follower had been known less than half +that long. If he were to surpass the man he +was now content to follow, he must break away +from Marston-worship and let his maturer efforts +be his own—his ultimate style his own. +Prophets and artists have from the beginning +of time arisen from second place to a preëminent +first—pupils have surpassed their teachers. +He had hoped that these months in a +new type of country and landscape would +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>57]</a></span> +slowly, almost insensibly, wean Saxon away +from the influence that had made his greatness +and now in turn threatened to limit its +scope.</p> + +<p>The cabin to which he brought his guest was +itself a reflection of Steele’s whim. Fashioned +by its original and unimaginative builders +only as a shelter, with no thought of appearances, +it remained, with its dark logs and +white “chinking,” a thing of picturesque +beauty. Its generous stone chimneys and wide +hearths were reminders of the ancient days. +Across its shingled roof, the sunlight was spotted +with shadows thrown down from beeches +and oaks that had been old when the Indian +held the country and the buffalo gathered at +the salt licks. Vines of honeysuckle and morning-glory +had partly preëmpted the walls. Inside +was the odd mingling of artistic junk that +characterizes the den of the painter.</p> + +<p>Saxon’s enthusiasm had been growing that +morning since the automobile had left the city +behind and pointed its course toward the line +of knobs. The twenty-mile run had been a +panorama sparkling with the life of color, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>58]</a></span> +tempered with tones of richness and soft with +haunting splendor. Forest trees, ancient as +Druids, were playing at being young in the almost +shrill greens of their leafage. There were +youth and opulence in the way they filtered +the sun through their gnarled branches with a +splattering and splashing of golden light. +Blossoming dogwood spread clusters of white +amid endless shades and conditions of green, +and, when the view was not focused into the +thickness of woodland interiors, it offered +leagues of yellow fields and tender meadows +stretching off to soberer woods in the distance. +Back of all that were the hills, going up from +the joyous sparkle of the middle distance to +veiled purple where they met the bluest of +skies. Saxon’s fingers had been tingling for a +brush to hold and his lids had been unconsciously +dropping, that his eyes might appraise +the colors in simplified tones and values.</p> + +<p>At last, they had ensconced themselves, and +a little later Saxon emerged from the cabin +disreputably clad in a flannel shirt and briar-torn, +paint-spotted trousers. In his teeth, he +clamped a battered briar pipe, and in his hand +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>59]</a></span> +he carried an equally battered sketching-easel +and paint-box.</p> + +<p>Steele, smoking a cigar in a hammock, looked +up from an art journal at the sound of a footstep +on the boards.</p> + +<p>“Did you see this?” he inquired, holding +out the magazine. “It would appear that +your eccentric demi-god is painting in Southern +Spain. He continues to remain the recluse, +avoiding the public gaze. His genius seems +to be of the shrinking type. Here’s his latest +sensation as it looks to the camera.”</p> + +<p>Saxon took the magazine, and studied the +half-tone reproduction.</p> + +<p>“His miracle is his color,” announced the +first disciple, briefly. “The black and white +gives no idea. As to his personality, it seems +to be that of the <i>poseur</i>—almost of the snob. +His very penchant for frequent wanderings incognito +and revealing himself only through his +work is in itself a bid for publicity. He arrogates +to himself the attributes of traveling +royalty. For my master as the man, I have +small patience. It’s the same affectation that +causes him to sign nothing. The arrogant +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>60]</a></span> +confidence that no one can counterfeit his +stroke, that signature is superfluous.”</p> + +<p>Steele laughed.</p> + +<p>“Why not show him that some one can do +it?” he suggested. “Why not send over an +unsigned canvas as a Marston, and drag him +out of his hiding place to assert himself and +denounce the impostor?”</p> + +<p>“Let him have his vanities,” Saxon said, +almost contemptuously. “So long as the world +has his art, what does it matter?” He turned +and stepped from the low porch, whistling as +he went.</p> + +<p>The stranger strolled along with a free +stride and confident bearing, tempted by each +vista, yet always lured on by other vistas beyond.</p> + +<p>At last, he halted near a cluster of huge +boulders. Below him, the creek reflected in +rippled counterpart the shimmer of overhanging +greenery. Out of a tangle of undergrowth +beyond reared two slender poplars. The middle +distance was bright with young barley, and +in the background stretched the hills in misty +purple.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>61]</a></span> +There, he set up his easel, and, while his eyes +wandered, his fingers were selecting the color +tubes with the deft accuracy of the pianist’s +touch on the keys.</p> + +<p>For a time, he saw only the thing he was to +paint; then, there rose before his eyes the face +of a girl, and beyond it the sinister visage of +the South American. His brow darkened. Always, +there had lurked in the background of +his thoughts a specter, some Nemesis who +might at any moment come forward, bearing +black reminders—possible accusations. At last, +it seemed the specter had come out of the +shadow, and taken the center of the stage, and +in the spotlight he wore the features of Señor +Ribero. He had intended questioning Ribero, +but had hesitated. The thing had been sudden, +and it is humiliating to go to a man one +has never met before to learn something of +one’s self, when that man has assumed an attitude +almost brutally hostile from the outset. +The method must first be considered, and, when +early that morning he had inquired about the +diplomat, it had been to learn that a night train +had taken the man to his legation in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>62]</a></span> +Washington. He must give the problem in its new +guise reflection, and, meanwhile, he must live in +the shadow of its possible tragedy.</p> + +<p>There was no element of the coward’s procrastination +in Saxon’s thoughts. Even his +own speculation as to what the other man +might have been, had never suggested the possibility +that he was a craven.</p> + +<p>He held up his hand, and studied the scar. +The bared forearm, under the uprolled sleeve, +was as brown and steady as a sculptor’s work +in bronze.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, he heard a laugh at his back, a +tuneful laugh like a trill struck from a xylophone, +and came to his feet with a realization +of a blue gingham dress, a girlish figure, a sunbonnet +and a huge cluster of dogwood blossoms. +The sunbonnet and dogwood branches +seemed conspiring to hide all the face except +the violet eyes that looked out from them. +Near by stood a fox terrier, silently and alertly +regarding him, its head cocked jauntily to the +side.</p> + +<p>But, even before she had lowered the dogwood +blossoms enough to reveal her face, the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>63]</a></span> +lancelike uprightness of her carriage brought +recognition and astonishment.</p> + +<p>“Do you mind my staring at you?” she demanded, +innocently. “Isn’t turn-about fair +play?”</p> + +<p>“But, Miss Filson,” he stammered, “I—I +thought you lived in town!”</p> + +<p>“Then, George didn’t tell you that we were +to be the closest sort of neighbors?” The +merriment of her laugh was spontaneous. She +did not confide to Saxon just why Steele’s silence +struck her as highly humorous. She +knew, however, that the place had originally +recommended itself to its purchaser by reason +of just that exact circumstance—its proximity.</p> + +<p>The man took a hasty step forward, and +spoke with the brusqueness of a cross-examiner:</p> + +<p>“No. Why didn’t he tell me? He should +have told me! He—” He halted abruptly, +conscious that his manner was one of resentment +for being led, unwarned, into displeasing +surroundings, which was not at all what +he meant. Then, as the radiant smile on the +girl’s face—the smile such as a very little girl +might have worn in the delight of perpetrating +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>64]</a></span> +an innocent surprise—suddenly faded into a +pained wonderment, he realized the depth of +his crudeness. Of course, she could not know +that he had come there to run away, to seek +asylum. She could not guess, that, in the isolation +of such a life as his uncertainty entailed, +associates like herself were the most hazardous; +that, because she seemed to him altogether +wonderful, he distrusted his power to quarantine +his heart against her artless magnetism. +As he stood abashed at his own crassness, he +wanted to tell her that he developed these +crude strains only when he was thrown into +touch with so fine grained a nature as her own; +that it was the very sense of his own pariah-like +circumstance. Then, before she had time +to speak, came a swift artistic leaping at his +heart. He should have known that she would +be here! It was her rightful environment! +She belonged as inherently under blossoming +dogwood branches as the stars belong beyond +the taint of earth-smoke. She was a dryad, +and these were her woods. After all, how +could it matter? He had run away bravely. +Now, she was here also, and the burden of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>65]</a></span> +responsibility might rest on the woodsprites or +the gods or his horoscope or wherever it belonged. +As for himself, he would enjoy the +present. The future was with destiny. Of +course, friendship is safe so long as love is +barred, and of course it would be only friendship! +Does the sun shine anywhere on trellised +vines with a more golden light than where +the slopes of Vesuvius bask just below the +smoking sands? He, too, would enjoy the radiance, +and risk the crater.</p> + +<p>She stood, not angry, but a trifle bewildered, +a trifle proud in her attitude of uptilted chin. +In all her little autocratic world, her gracious +friendliness had never before met anything so +like rebuff.</p> + +<p>Then, having resolved, the man felt an almost +boyish reaction to light-hearted gayety. +It was much the same gay abandonment that +comes to a man who, having faced ruin until +his heart and brain are sick, suddenly decides +to squander in extravagant and riotous pleasure +the few dollars left in his pocket.</p> + +<p>“Of course, George should have told me,” +he declared. “Why, Miss Filson, I come +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>66]</a></span> +from the world where things are commonplace, +and here it all seems a sequence of wonders: +this glorious country, the miracle of meeting +you again—after—” he paused, then smilingly +added—“after Babylon and Macedonia.”</p> + +<p>“From the way you greeted me,” she +naïvely observed, “one might have fancied +that you’d been running away ever since we +parted in Babylon and Macedon. You must +be very tired.”</p> + +<p>“I <em>am</em> afraid of you,” he avowed.</p> + +<p>She laughed.</p> + +<p>“I know you are a woman-hater. But I +was a boy myself until I was seventeen. I’ve +never quite got used to being a woman, so you +needn’t mind.”</p> + +<p>“Miss Filson,” he hazarded gravely, “when +I saw you yesterday, I wanted to be friends +with you so much that—that I ran away. +Some day, I’ll tell you why.”</p> + +<p>For a moment, she looked at him with a puzzled +interest. The light of a smile dies slowly +from most faces. It went out of his eyes as +suddenly as an electric bulb switched off, leaving +the features those of a much older man. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>67]</a></span> +She caught the look, and in her wisdom said +nothing—but wondered what he meant.</p> + +<p>Her eyes fell on the empty canvas. “How +did you happen to begin art?” she inquired. +“Did you always feel it calling you?”</p> + +<p>He shook his head, then the smile came back.</p> + +<p>“A freezing cow started me,” he announced.</p> + +<p>“A what?” Her eyes were once more puzzled.</p> + +<p>“You see,” he elucidated, “I was a cow-puncher +in Montana, without money. One +winter, the snow covered the prairies so long +that the cattle were starving at their grazing +places. Usually, the breeze from the Japanese +current blows off the snow from time to +time, and we can graze the steers all winter on +the range. This time, the Japanese current +seemed to have been switched off, and they +were dying on the snow-bound pastures.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she prompted. “But how did +that—?”</p> + +<p>“You see,” he went on, “the boss wrote +from Helena to know how things were going. +I drew a picture of a freezing, starving cow, +and wrote back, ‘This is how.’ The boss +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>68]</a></span> +showed that picture around, and some folk +thought it bore so much family resemblance to +a starving cow that on the strength of it they +gambled on me. They staked me to an education +in illustrating and painting.”</p> + +<p>“And you made good!” she concluded, enthusiastically.</p> + +<p>“I hope to make good,” he smiled.</p> + +<p>After a pause, she said:</p> + +<p>“If you were not busy, I’d guide you to +some places along the creek where there are +wonderful things to see.”</p> + +<p>The man reached for his discarded hat.</p> + +<p>“Take me there,” he begged.</p> + +<p>“Where?” she demanded. “I spoke of +several places.”</p> + +<p>“To any of them,” he promptly replied; +“better yet, to all of them.”</p> + +<p>She shook her head dubiously.</p> + +<p>“I ought not to begin as an interruption,” +she demurred.</p> + +<p>“On the contrary,” he argued confidently, +“the good general first acquaints himself with +his field.”</p> + +<p>An hour later, standing at a gap in a tangle +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>69]</a></span> +of briar, where the paw-paw trees grew thick, +he watched her crossing the meadow toward +the roof of her house which topped the foliage +not far away. Then, he held up his right hand, +and scrutinized the scar, almost invisible under +the tan. It seemed to him to grow larger as +he looked.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>70]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap05" id="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V</h2> + + +<p>Horton House, where Duska Filson made +her home with her aunt and uncle, was a half-mile +from the cabin in which the two painters +were lodged. That was the distance reckoned +via driveway and turnpike, but a path, linking +the houses, reduced it to a quarter of a mile. +This “air line,” as Steele dubbed it, led from +the hill where the cabin perched, through a +blackberry thicket and paw-paw grove, across +a meadow, and then entered, by a picket gate +and rose-cumbered fence, the old-fashioned +garden of the “big house.”</p> + +<p>Before the men had been long at their summer +place, the path had become as well worn +as neighborly paths should be. To the gracious +household at Horton House, they were +“the boys.” Steele had been on lifelong +terms of intimacy, and the guest was at once +taken into the family on the same basis as the +host.</p> + +<p>“Horton House” was a temple dedicated +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>71]</a></span> +to hospitality. Mrs. Horton, its delightful +mistress, occasionally smiled at the somewhat +pretentious name, but it had been “Horton +House” when the Nashville stage rumbled +along the turnpike, and the picturesque little +village of brick and stone at its back had been +the “quarters” for the slaves. It would no +more do to rechristen it than to banish the ripened +old family portraits, or replace the silver-laden +mahogany sideboard with less antique +things. The house had been added to from +time to time, until it sprawled a commodious +and composite record of various eras, but the +name and spirit stood the same.</p> + +<p>Saxon began to feel that he had never lived +before. His life, in so far as he could remember +it, had been varied, but always touched +with isolation. Now, in a family not his own, +he was finding the things which had hitherto +been only names to him and that richness of +congenial companionship which differentiates +life from existence. While he felt the wine-like +warmth of it in his heart, he felt its seductiveness +in his brain. The thought of its +ephemeral quality brought him moments of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>72]</a></span> +depression that drove him stalking away alone +into the hills to fight things out with himself. +At times, his canvases took on a new glow; +at times, he told himself he was painting daubs.</p> + +<p>About a week after their arrival, Mrs. Horton +and Miss Filson came over to inspect the +quarters and to see whether bachelor efforts +had made the place habitable.</p> + +<p>Duska was as delighted as a child among +new toys. Her eyes grew luminous with +pleasure as she stood in the living-room of the +“shack” and surveyed the confusion of canvases, +charcoal sketches and studio paraphernalia +that littered its walls and floor. Saxon +had hung his canvases in galleries where the +juries were accounted sternly critical; he had +heard the commendation of brother artists generously +admitting his precedence. Now, he +found himself almost flutteringly anxious to hear +from her lips the pronouncement, “Well done.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Horton, meanwhile, was sternly and +beneficently inspecting the premises from living-room +to pantry, with Steele as convoy, and +Saxon was left alone with the girl.</p> + +<p>As he brought canvas after canvas from +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>73]</a></span> +various unturned piles and placed them in a +favorable light, he found one at whose vivid +glow and masterful execution, his critic caught +her breath in a delighted little gasp.</p> + +<p>It was a thing done in daring colors and almost +blazing with the glare of an equatorial +sun. An old cathedral, partly vine-covered, +reared its yellowed walls and towers into a hot +sky. The sun beat cruelly down on the cobbled +street while a clump of ragged palms gave +the contrasting key of shade.</p> + +<p>Duska, half-closing her eyes, gazed at it +with uptilted chin resting on slender fingers. +For a time, she did not speak, but the man read +her delight in her eyes. At last, she said, her +voice low with appreciation:</p> + +<p>“I love it!”</p> + +<p>Turning away to take up a new picture, he +felt as though he had received an accolade.</p> + +<p>“It might have been the very spot,” she +said thoughtfully, “that Señor Ribero described +in his story.”</p> + +<p>Saxon felt a cloud sweep over the sunshine +shed by her praise. His back was turned, but +his face grew suddenly almost gray.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>74]</a></span> +The girl only heard him say quietly:</p> + +<p>“Señor Ribero spoke of South America. +This was in Yucatan.”</p> + +<p>When the last canvas had been criticized, +Saxon led the girl out to the shaded verandah.</p> + +<p>“Do you know,” she announced with severe +directness, “when I know you just a little better, +I’m going to lecture you?”</p> + +<p>“Lecture me!” His face mirrored alarm. +“Do it now—then, I sha’n’t have it impending +to terrorize better acquaintance.”</p> + +<p>She gazed away for a time, her eyes clouding +with doubt. At last, she laughed.</p> + +<p>“It makes me seem foolish,” she confessed, +“because you know so much more than I do +about the subject of this lecture—only,” she +added with conviction, “the little I know is +right, and the great deal you know may be +wrong.”</p> + +<p>“I plead guilty, and throw myself on the +mercy of the court.” He made the declaration +in a tone of extreme abjectness.</p> + +<p>“But I don’t want you to plead guilty. I +want you to reform.”</p> + +<p>Not knowing the nature of the reform required, +Saxon remained discreetly speechless.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>75]</a></span> +“You are the first disciple of Frederick +Marston,” she said, going to the point without +preliminaries. “You don’t have to be anybody’s +disciple. I don’t know a great deal +about art, but I’ve stood before Marston’s pictures +in the galleries abroad and in this country. +I love them. I’ve seen your pictures, too, +and you don’t have to play tag with Frederick +Marston.”</p> + +<p>For a moment, Saxon sat twisting his pipe +in his fingers. His silence might almost have +been an ungracious refusal to discuss the matter.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I know it’s sacrilege,” she said, leaning +forward eagerly, her eyes deep in their +sincerity, “but it’s true.”</p> + +<p>The man rose and paced back and forth for +a moment, then halted before her. When he +spoke, it was with a ring like fanaticism in his +voice.</p> + +<p>“There is no Art but Art, and Marston is +her prophet. That is my Koran of the palette.” +For a while, she said nothing, but shook +her head with a dissenting smile, which carried +up the corners of her lips in maddeningly +delicious fashion. Then, the man went on, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>76]</a></span> +speaking now slowly and in measured syllables:</p> + +<p>“Some day—when I can tell you my whole +story—you will know what Marston means to +me. What little I have done, I have done in +stumbling after him. If I ever attain his perfection, +I shall still be as you say only the copyist—yet, +I sometimes think I would rather be +the true copyist of Marston than the originator +of any other school.”</p> + +<p>She sat listening, the toe of one small foot +tapping the floor below the short skirt of her +gown, her brow delightfully puckered with +seriousness. A shaft of sun struck the delicate +color of her cheeks, and discovered coppery +glints in her brown hair. She was very slim +and wonderful, Saxon thought, and out beyond +the vines the summer seemed to set the world +for her, like a stage. The birds with tuneful +delirium provided the orchestration.</p> + +<p>“I know just how great he is,” she conceded +warmly; “I know how wonderfully he paints. +He is a poet with a brush for a pen. But +there’s one thing he lacks—and that is a thing +you have.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>77]</a></span> +The man raised his brows in challenged astonishment.</p> + +<p>“It’s the one thing I miss in his pictures, +because it’s the one thing I most admire—strength, +virility.” She was talking more rapidly +as her enthusiasm gathered headway. “A +man’s pictures are, in a way, portraits of his +nature. He can’t paint strong things unless +he is strong himself.”</p> + +<p>Saxon felt his heart leap. It was something +to know that she believed his canvases reflected +a quality of strength inherent to himself.</p> + +<p>“You and your master,” she went on, “are +unlike in everything except your style. Can +you fancy yourself hiding away from the +world because you couldn’t face the music of +your own fame? That’s not modesty—it’s insanity. +When I was in Paris, everybody was +raving about some new pictures from his +brush, but only his agent knew where he actually +was, or where he had been for years.”</p> + +<p>“For the man,” he acceded, “I have as +small respect as you can have, but for the work +I have something like worship! I began trying +to paint, and I was groping—groping +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>78]</a></span> +rather blindly after something—I didn’t know +just what. Then, one day, I stood before his +‘Winter Sunset.’ You know the picture?” +She nodded assent. “Well, when I saw it, I +wanted to go out to the Metropolitan entrance, +and shout Eureka up and down Fifth Avenue. +It told me what I’d been reaching through the +darkness of my novitiate to grasp. It seemed +to me that art had been revealed to me. Somehow,” +the man added, his voice falling suddenly +from its enthused pitch to a dead, low +one, “everything that comes to me seems to +come by revelation!”</p> + +<p>Into Duska’s eyes came quick light of sympathy. +He had halted before her, and now she +arose impulsively, and laid a light hand for a +moment on his arm.</p> + +<p>“I understand,” she agreed. “I think that +for most artists to come as close as you have +come would be triumph enough, but you—” she +looked at him a moment with a warmth of confidence—“you +can do a great deal more.” So +ended her first lesson in the independence of +art, leaving the pupil’s heart beating more +quickly than at its commencement.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>79]</a></span> +In the days that followed, as May gave way +to June and the dogwood blossoms dropped +and withered to be supplanted by flowering locust +trees, Saxon confessed to himself that he +had lost the first battle of his campaign. He +had resolved that this close companionship +should be platonically hedged about; that he +would never allow himself to cross the frontier +that divided the realm of friendship from +the hazardous territory of love. Then, as the +cool, unperfumed beauty of the dogwood was +forgotten for the sense-steeping fragrance of +the locust, he knew that he was only trying to +deceive himself. He had really crossed this +forbidden frontier when he passed through +the gate that separated the grandstand at +Churchill Downs from the club-house inclosure. +With the realization came the resolution +of silence. He was a man whose life might +at any moment renew itself in untoward developments. +Until he could drag the truth +from the sphinx that guarded his secret, his +love must be as inarticulate as was his sphinx. +He spent harrowing afternoons alone, and +swore with many solemn oaths that he would +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>80]</a></span> +never divulge his feelings, and, when he sought +about for the most sacred and binding of vows, +he swore by his love for Duska.</p> + +<p>Because of these things, he sometimes +shocked and startled her with sporadic demonstrations +of the brusquerie into which he withdrew +when he felt too potential an impulse urging +him to the other extreme. And she, not +understanding it, yet felt that there was some +riddle behind it all. It pained and puzzled +her, but she accepted it without resentment—belying +her customary autocracy. While she +had never gone into the confessional of her +heart as he had done, these matters sometimes +had the power of making her very miserable.</p> + +<p>His happiest achievements resulted from +sketching trips taken to points she knew in the +hills. He had called her a dryad when she +first appeared in the woods, and he had been +right, for she knew all the twisting paths in +the tangle of the knobs, unbroken and virgin +save where the orchards of peach-growers had +reclaimed bits of sloping soil. One morning +at the end of June, they started out together on +horseback, armed with painting paraphernalia, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>81]</a></span> +luncheon and rubber ponchos in the event of +rain. For this occasion, she had saved a coign +of vantage she knew, where his artist’s eye +might swing out from a shelving cliff over +miles of checkered valley and flat, and league +upon league of cloud and sky. She led the +way by zigzag hill roads where they caught +stinging blows from back-lashing branches and +up steep, slippery acclivities. It was one of +the times when Saxon was drinking the pleasant +nectar of to-day, refusing to think of to-morrow. +She sang as she rode in advance, and +he followed with the pleasure of a man to +whom being unmounted brings a sense of incompleteness. +He knew that he rode no better +than she—and he knew that he could ride. +In his ears was the exuberance of the birds saluting +the morning, and in his nostrils the loamy +aroma stirred by their horses’ hoofs from the +steeping fragrance of last year’s leaves. At +the end was a view that brought his breath in +deep draughts of delight.</p> + +<p>For two hours, he worked, and only once +his eyes left the front. On that occasion, he +glanced back to see her slim figure stretched +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>82]</a></span> +with childlike and unconscious grace in the +long grass, her eyes gazing unblinkingly and +thoughtfully up to the fleece that drifted across +the blue of the sky. Clover heads waved fragrantly +about her, and one long-stemmed blossom +brushed her cheek. She did not see him, +and the man turned his gaze back to the canvas +with a leap in his pulses. After that, he +painted feverishly. Finally, he turned to find +her at his elbow.</p> + +<p>“What is the verdict?” he demanded.</p> + +<p>She looked with almost tense eyes. Her +voice was low and thrilled with wondering delight.</p> + +<p>“There is something,” she said slowly, +“that you never caught before; something +wonderful, almost magical. I don’t know +what it is.”</p> + +<p>With a swift, uncontrollable gesture, he bent +a little toward her. His face was the face of +a man whose heart is in insurrection. His voice +was impassioned.</p> + +<p>“<em>I</em> know what it is,” he cried. Then, as she +read his look, her cheeks crimsoned, and it would +have been superfluous for him to have added, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>83]</a></span> +“Love.” He drew back almost with a start, +and began to scrape the paint smears from his +palette. He had quelled the insurrection. At +least in words, he had not broken his vow.</p> + +<p>For a moment, the girl stood silent. She felt +herself trembling; then, taking refuge in childlike +inconsequence, she peered over the edge +of the cliff.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” she exclaimed as though the last few +moments had not been lived through, “there +is the most wonderfulest flower!” Her voice +was disappointment-laden. “And it’s just out +of reach.”</p> + +<p>Saxon had regained control of himself. He +answered with a composure too calm to be genuine +and an almost flippant note that rang +false.</p> + +<p>“Of course. The most wonderfulest things +are always just out of reach. The edelweiss +grows only among the glaciers, and the excelsior +crop must be harvested on inaccessible pinnacles.”</p> + +<p>He came and looked over the edge, stopping +close to her shoulder. He wanted to demonstrate +his regained command of himself. A +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>84]</a></span> +delicate purple flower hung on the cliff below +as though it had been placed there to lure men +over the edge.</p> + +<p>He looked down the sheer drop, appraised +with his eye the frail support of a jutting root, +then slipped quietly over, resting by his arms +on the ledge of rock and groping for the root +with his toe.</p> + +<p>With a short, gasping exclamation, the girl +bent forward and seized both his elbows. Her +fingers clutched him with a strength belied by +their tapering slenderness.</p> + +<p>“What are you doing?” she demanded.</p> + +<p>She was kneeling on the ledge, and in her +eyes, only a few inches from his own, he read, +not only alarm, but back of that in the depths of +the pupils something else. It might have been +the reflection of what she had a few moments +before read in his own. He could feel the soft +play of her breath on his forehead, and his +heart pounded so wildly that it seemed to him +he must raise his voice to be heard above it. +Yet, his words and smile were sane.</p> + +<p>“I am going to gather flowers,” he assured +her. “You see,” he added with an irrelevant +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>85]</a></span> +whimsicality, “I want to see if the unattainable +is really beyond me.”</p> + +<p>“If you go,” she said with ominous quietness +of voice, “I shall come, too.”</p> + +<p>The man clambered back to the ledge. +“I’m not going,” he announced.</p> + +<p>For a time, neither spoke. Each, with a consciousness +of being much shaken, was seeking +about for the safe ground of commonplace. +The man’s face had suddenly become almost +drawn. He was conscious of having been too +close to the edge in more ways than one, and +with the consciousness came the old sense of +necessity for silence. He was approaching +one of the moods that puzzled the girl: the +attitude of fighting her off; the turtle’s churlish +defense of drawing into himself.</p> + +<p>It was Duska who spoke first. She laughed +as she said lightly:</p> + +<p>“For a man who is a great artist, you are +really very young and very silly.”</p> + +<p>His voice was hard.</p> + +<p>“I’m worse than that,” he acceded.</p> + +<p>For a moment more, there was awkward silence; +then, Duska asked simply:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>86]</a></span> +“Aren’t you going to paint any more?”</p> + +<p>He was gazing at the canvas moodily, almost +savagely.</p> + +<p>“No,” he answered shortly; “if I were to +touch it now, I should ruin it.”</p> + +<p>The girl said nothing. She half-turned away +from him, and her lips set themselves tightly.</p> + +<p>As he began packing the impedimenta, +storm-pregnant clouds rolled swiftly forth over +the valley, and emptied themselves in a deluge +on the two wanderers. The girl, riding under +dripping trees, her poncho and “nor’wester” +shining like metal under the slanting lines of +rain, went on ahead. In her man’s saddle, she +sat almost rigidly erect, and the gauntleted +hand that held the reins of the heavy cavalry +bridle clutched them with unconscious tautness +of grip. Saxon’s face was a picture of struggle, +and neither spoke until they had come to +the road at the base of the hill where two +horses could go abreast. Then, he found himself +quoting:</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Her hand was still on her sword hilt, the spur was still on her heel,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She had not cast her harness of gray war-dinted steel;<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>87]</a></span> +<span class="i0">High on her red-splashed charger, beautiful, bold and browned,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bright-eyed out of the battle, the Young Queen rode to be crowned.”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p>He did not realize that he had repeated the +lines aloud, until she turned her face and spoke +with something nearer to bitterness than he +had ever heard in her voice:</p> + +<p>“Rode to be crowned—did you say?” And +she laughed unhappily.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>88]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap06" id="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2> + + +<p>For more than a week after the ride to the +cliff, Duska withdrew herself from the orbit +in which Saxon revolved, and the man, feeling +that she wished to dismiss him, in part at +least, used the “air line” much less frequently +than in the days that had been. Once, when +Steele had left the cabin early to dine at the +“big house,” Saxon protested that he must +stay and write letters. He slipped away, however, +in the summer starlight, and took one of +the canoes from the boat-house on the river. +He drove the light craft as noiselessly and +gloomily as a funeral barge along the shadow +of the bank, the victim of utter misery, and his +blackness of mood was intensified when he saw +a second canoe pass in mid-channel, and recognized +Steele’s tenor in the drifting strains of a +sentimental song. There was no moon, and the +river was only a black mirror for the stars. +The tree-grown banks were blacker fringes of +shadow, but he could make out a slender figure +wielding the stern paddle with an easy grace +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>89]</a></span> +which he knew was Duska’s. His sentiment +was in no wise jealousy, but it was in every wise +heart-hunger.</p> + +<p>When they did meet, she was cordial and +friendly, but the old intimate régime had been +disturbed, and for the man the sun was clouded. +He was to send a consignment of pictures to +his Eastern agent for exhibition and sale, and +he wished to include several of the landscapes +he had painted since his arrival at the cabin. +Finding creative work impossible, he devoted +himself to that touching up and varnishing +which is largely mechanical, and made frequent +trips to town for the selection of frames.</p> + +<p>So much of his time had been spent at Horton +House that unbroken absence would have been +noticeable. His visits were, however, rarer, +and on one occasion Mrs. Horton made an announcement +which he found decidedly startling.</p> + +<p>“I have been wanting to take a trip to Cuba +early in the fall, and possibly go on to Venezuela +where some old friends are in the diplomatic +service,” she said, “but Mr. Horton +pleads business, and I can’t persuade Duska to +go with me.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>90]</a></span> +At once, Steele had taken up the project with +enthusiasm, asking to be admitted to the party +and beginning an outline of plans.</p> + +<p>Saxon found himself shuddering at the idea +of the girl’s going to the coast where perhaps +he himself had a criminal record. He had +procrastinated too long. He had secretly +planned his own trip of self-investigation for +a time when the equatorial heat had begun to +abate its midsummer ferocity. Evidently, he +must hasten his departure. But the girl’s answer +in part reassured him.</p> + +<p>“It doesn’t appeal, Aunty. Why not get +the Longmores? They are always ready to go +touring. They’ve exhausted the far East, and +are weeping for new worlds.”</p> + +<p>Saxon went back early that night, and once +more tramped the woods. Steele lingered, and +later, while the whippoorwills were calling and +a small owl plaintively lamenting, he and Duska +sat alone on the white-columned verandah.</p> + +<p>“Duska,” he said suddenly, “is there no +chance for me—no little outside chance?”</p> + +<p>She looked up, and shook her head slowly.</p> + +<p>“I wish I could say something else, George,” +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>91]</a></span> +she answered earnestly, “because I love you as +a very dearest brother and friend, but that is +all it can ever be.”</p> + +<p>“Is there no way I can remake or remold +myself?” he urged. “I have held the Platonic +attitude all summer, but to-night makes +all the old uncontrollable thoughts rise up and +clamor for expression. Is there no way?”</p> + +<p>“George”—her voice was very soft—“it +hurts me to hurt you—but I’d have to lie to you +if I said there was a way. There can’t be—ever.”</p> + +<p>“Is there any—any new reason?” he asked.</p> + +<p>For a moment, she hesitated in silence, and +the man bent forward.</p> + +<p>“I shouldn’t have asked that, Duska—I don’t +ask it,” he hastened to amend. “Whether +there is a new reason or just all the old ones, +is there any way I can help—any way, leaving +myself out of it, of course?”</p> + +<p>Again, she shook her head.</p> + +<p>“I guess there’s no way anyone can help,” +she said.</p> + +<p>Back at the cabin, Steele found his guest +moodily pacing the verandah. The glow of his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>92]</a></span> +pipe bowl was a point of red against the black. +The Kentuckian dropped into a chair, and for +a time neither spoke.</p> + +<p>At last, Steele said slowly:</p> + +<p>“Bob, I have just asked Duska if I had a +chance.”</p> + +<p>The other man wheeled in astonishment. +Steele had indeed maintained his Platonic pose +so well that the other had not suspected the +fire under what he believed to be an extinct +crater. His own feeling had been the one +thing he had not confided. They had never +spoken to each other of Duska in terms of love.</p> + +<p>“You!” he said, dully. “I didn’t know—”</p> + +<p>Steele rose. With his hand on the door-knob, +he paused.</p> + +<p>“Bob,” he said, “the answer was the old +one. It’s also been, ‘No.’ I’ve had my +chance. Of course, I really knew it all the +while, and yet I had to ask once more. I +sha’n’t ask again. It hurts her—and I want +to see her happy.” He turned and went in, +closing the door behind him.</p> + +<p>But Duska was far from happy, however +much Steele and others might wish to see her +so. She spent much time in solitary rides and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>93]</a></span> +walks. She knew now that she loved Saxon, +and she knew that he had shown in every wordless +way that he loved her, yet could she be +mistaken? Would he ever speak, since he had +not spoken at the cliff? Her own eyes had held +a declaration, and she had read in his that he +understood the message. His silence at that +time must be taken to mean silence for all time.</p> + +<p>Saxon had reached his conclusion. He knew +that he had hurt her pride, had rejected his opportunity. +But that might be a transient grief +for her. For him, it would of course be permanent. +Men may love at twenty, and recover +and love again, even to the number of many +times, but to live to the age which he guessed +his years would total, and then love as he did, +was irremediable. For just that reason, he +must remain silent, and must go away. To enter +her life by the gate she seemed willing to +open for him would mean the taking into that +sacred inclosure of every hideous possibility +that clouded his own future. He must not enter +the gate, and, in order to be sure that a second +mad impulse would not drive him through it, +he must put distance between himself and the +gate.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>94]</a></span> +On one point, he temporized. He was eager +to do one piece of work that should be his +masterpiece. The greatest achievement of his +art life must be her portrait. He wanted to +paint it, not in the conventional evening-gown +in which she seemed a young queen among +women, but in the environment that he liked +to think was her own by divine right. It was +the dryad that he sought to put on canvas.</p> + +<p>He asked her with so much genuine pleading +in his voice that she smilingly consented, +and the sittings began in the old-fashioned garden +at Horton House. She was posed under +a spread of branches and in such a position that +the sun struck down through the leaves, kissing +into color her cheeks and eyes and hair. It +was a pose that called for a daring palette, +one which, if he succeeded in getting on his canvas +what he felt, would give a result whereon +he might well rest his reputation. But to him +it meant more than just that, for it was giving +expression to what he saw through his love of +art and his art of love.</p> + +<p>The hours given to the first sittings were silent +hours, but that was not remarkable. Saxon +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>95]</a></span> +always worked in silence, though there were +times when he painted with gritted teeth because +of thoughts he read in the face he was +studying—thoughts which the model did not +know her face revealed. At times, Mrs. Horton +sat in the shade near by, and watched the +hand that nursed the canvas with its brush, the +steady, bare forearm that needed no mahlstick +for support and the eyes that were narrowed +to slits as he studied his tones and wide +as he painted. Sometimes, Steele lingered near +with a novel which he read aloud, but it happened +that in the final sittings there was no one +save painter and model.</p> + +<p>It was now late in July, and the canvas had +begun to take form with a miraculous quality +and glow. Perhaps, the man himself did not +realize that he could never again paint such a +portrait, or any landscape that would be comparable +with it. Some men write love-letters +that are wonderful heart documents, but they +write them in black and white, with words. +Saxon was not only writing a love-letter, but +was painting all that his resolve did not let him +say. He was putting into the work pent-up +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>96]</a></span> +love of such force that it was almost bursting +his heart. Here on canvas as through some +wonderful safety-valve, he was passionately +converting it all into the vivid eloquence of +color.</p> + +<p>It had been his fancy, since the picture had +become something more than a strong, preliminary +sketch, that Duska should not see it until +it neared completion, and she, wishing to have +her impression one unspoiled by foretastes, had +assented to the idea. Each day after the posing +ended, and while he rested, and let her rest, +the face of the canvas was covered with another +which was blank. Finally came the time +to ask her opinion. The afternoon light had +begun to change with the hint of lengthening +shadows. The out-door world was aglow with +gracious weather and the air had the wonderful, +almost pathetic softness that sometimes +comes to Kentucky for a few days in July, +bringing, as it seems, a fragment strayed out of +Indian Summer and lost in the mid-heat of the +year.</p> + +<p>The man stood back and covered the portrait, +then, when the girl had seated herself before +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>97]</a></span> +the easel, he stepped forward, and laid his hand +on the covering. He hesitated a moment, and +his fingers on the blank canvas trembled. He +was unveiling the effort of his life, and to him +she was the world. If he had failed! Then, +with a deft movement, he lifted the concealing +canvas, and waited.</p> + +<p>For a moment, the girl looked with bated +breath, then something between a groan and a +stifled cry escaped her. She turned her eyes +to him, and rose unsteadily from her seat. Her +hands went to her breast, and she wavered as +though she would fall. Saxon was at her side +in a moment, and, as he supported her, he felt +her arm tremble.</p> + +<p>“Are you ill?” he asked, in a frightened +voice.</p> + +<p>She shook her head, and smiled. She had +read the love-letters, and she had read, too, +what silence must cost him. Other persons +might see only wonderful art in the portrait, +but she saw all the rest, and, because she saw it, +silence seemed futile.</p> + +<p>“It is a miracle!” she whispered.</p> + +<p>The man stood for a moment at her side, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>98]</a></span> +then his face became gray, and he half-wheeled +and covered it with his hands.</p> + +<p>The girl took a quick step to his side, and her +young hands were on his shoulders.</p> + +<p>“What is it, dear?” she asked.</p> + +<p>With an exclamation that stood for the +breaking of all the dykes he had been building +and fortifying and strengthening through the +past months, he closed his arms around her, +and crushed her to him.</p> + +<p>For a moment, he was oblivious of every +lesser thing. The past, the future had no existence. +Only the present was alive and vital and +in love. There was no world but the garden, +and that world was flooded with the sun and +the light of love. The present could not conceivably +give way to other times before or after. +It was like the hills that looked down—unchangeable +to the end of things!</p> + +<p>Nothing else could count—could matter. +The human heart and human brain could not +harbor meaner thoughts. She loved him. She +was in his arms, therefore his arms circled the +universe. Her breath was on his face, and life +was good.</p> + +<p>Then came the shock of realization. His +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>99]</a></span> +sphinx rose before him—not a sphinx that kept +the secrets of forty dead centuries, but one that +held in cryptic silence all the future. He could +not offer a love tainted with such peril without +explaining how tainted it was. Now, he must +tell her everything.</p> + +<p>“I love you,” he found himself repeating +over and over; “I love you.”</p> + +<p>He heard her voice, through singing stars:</p> + +<p>“I love you. I have never said that to anyone +else—never until now. And,” she added +proudly, “I shall never say it again—except to +you.”</p> + +<p>In his heart rose a torrent of rebellion. To +tell her now—to poison her present moment, +wonderful with the happiness of surrender—would +be cruel, brutal. He, too, had the right +to his hour of happiness, to a life of happiness! +In the strength of his exaltation, it seemed to +him that he could force fate to surrender his +secret. He would settle things without making +her a sharer in the knowledge that peril shadowed +their love. He would find a way!</p> + +<p>Standing there with her close to his heart, +and her own palpitating against his breast, he +felt more than a match for mere facts and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>100]</a></span> +conditions. It seemed ridiculous that he had allowed +things to bar his way so long. Now, he +was thrice armed, and must triumph!</p> + +<p>“I know now why the world was made,” he +declared, joyfully. “I know why all the other +wonderful women and all the other wonderful +loves from the beginning of time have been! +It was,” he announced with the supreme egotism +of the moment, “that I might compare +them with this.”</p> + +<p>And so the resolve to be silent was cast away, +and after it went the sudden resolve to tell +everything. Saxon, feeling only triumph, did +not realize that he had, in one moment, lost his +second and third battles.</p> + +<p>An hour later, they strolled back together +toward the house. Saxon was burdened with +the canvas on which he had painted his masterpiece. +They were silent, but walking on the +milky way, their feet stirring nothing meaner +than star-dust. On the verandah, Steele met +them, and handed his friend a much-forwarded +letter, addressed in care of the Louisville club +where he had dined. It bore the stamp of a +South American Republic.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>101]</a></span> +It was not until he had gone to his room that +night that the man had time to glance at it, +or even to mark its distant starting point. Then, +he tore open the envelope, and read this message:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“<span class="smcap">My Erstwhile Comrade</span>:</p> + +<p>“Though I’ve had no line from you in these +years I don’t flatter myself that you’ve forgotten +me. It has come to my hearing through +certain channels—subterranean, of course—that +your present name is Saxon and that you’ve +developed genius and glory as a paint-wizard.</p> + +<p>“It seems you are now a perfectly respectable +artist! Congratulations—also bravo!</p> + +<p>“My object is to tell you that I’ve tried to +get word to you that despite appearances it was +not I who tipped you off to the government. +That is God’s truth and I can prove it. I would +have written before, but since you beat it to +God’s Country and went West your whereabouts +have been a well-kept secret. I am innocent, +as heaven is my witness! Of course, I +am keeping mum.</p> + +<p class="sig">“H. S. R.”</p> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>102]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap07" id="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII</h2> + + +<p>A short time ago, Saxon had felt stronger +than all the forces of fate. He had believed +that circumstances were plastic and man invincible. +Now, as he bent forward in his +chair, the South American letter hanging in +limp fingers and the coal-oil lamp on the table +throwing its circle of light on the foreign postmark +and stamp of the envelope, he realized +that the battle was on. The forces of which +he had been contemptuous were to engage him +at once, with no breathing space before the +combat. Viewing it all in this light, he felt +the qualms of a general who encounters an +aggressive enemy before his line is drawn and +his battle front arranged.</p> + +<p>He had so entirely persuaded himself that +his duty was clear and that he must not speak +to the girl of love that now, when he had done +so, his entire plan of campaign must be revised, +and new problems must be considered. +When he had been swept away on the tide that +carried him to an avowal, it had been with the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>103]</a></span> +vague sense of realization that, if he spoke at +all, he must tell the whole story. He had not +done so, and now came a new question: Had +he the right to tell the story until, in so far as +possible, he had probed its mystery? Suppose +his worst fears proved themselves. The certainty +would be little harder to confess than +the presumption and the suspense. Suppose, +on the other hand, the fighting chance to which +every man clings should, after all, acquit him? +Would it not be needless cruelty to inflict on +her the fears that harried his own thoughts? +Must he not try first to arm himself with a +definite report for, or against, himself?</p> + +<p>After all, he argued weakly, or perhaps it +was the devil’s advocate that whispered the +insidious counsel, there might be a mistake. +The man of Ribero’s story might still be some +one else. He had never felt the instincts of +murder. Surely, he had not been the embezzler, +the libertine, the assassin! But, in answer +to that argument, his colder logic contended +there might have been to his present +Dr. Jekyll a Mr. Hyde of the past. The letter +he held in his hand of course meant nothing +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>104]</a></span> +more than that Ribero had talked to some one. +It might be merely the fault of some idle gossip +in a Latin-American café, when the claret +flowed too freely. The writer, this unknown +“H. S. R.,” had probably taken Ribero’s testimony +at its face value. Then, out of the page +arose insistently the one sentence that did mean +something more, the new link in a chain of +definite conclusion. “Since you beat it to God’s +Country and went West—” That was the new +evidence this anonymous witness had contributed. +He had certainly gone West!</p> + +<p>Assuredly, he must go to South America, and +prosecute himself. To do this meant to thrust +himself into a situation that held a hundred +chances, but there was no one else who could +determine it for him. It was not merely a matter +of collecting and sifting evidence. It was +also a test of subjecting his dormant memory +to the stimulus of place and sights and sounds +and smells. When he stood at the spot where +Carter had faced his executioners, surely, if he +were Carter, he would awaken to self-recognition. +He would slip away on some pretext, and +try out the issue, and then, when he spoke to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>105]</a></span> +Duska, he could speak in definite terms. And +if he were the culprit? The question came +back as surely as the pendulum swings to the +bottom of the arc, and rested at the hideous +conviction that he must be the malefactor. +Then, Saxon rose and paced the floor, his hand +convulsively crushing the letter into a crumpled +wad.</p> + +<p>Well, he would not come back! If that were +his world, he would not reënter it. He was +willing to try himself—to be his own prosecutor, +but, if the thing spelled a sentence of disgrace, +he reserved the right to be also his own executioner.</p> + +<p>Then, the devil’s advocate again whispered +seductively into his perplexity.</p> + +<p>Suppose he went and tested the environment, +searching conscience and memory—and suppose +no monitor gave him an answer. Would he +not then have the right to assume his innocence? +Would he not have the right to feel +certain that his memory, so stimulated and still +inactive, was not only sleeping, but dead? +Would he not be justified in dismissing the fear +of a future awakening, and, as Steele had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>106]</a></span> +suggested, in going forward in the person of Robert +A. Saxon, abandoning the past as completely +as he had perhaps abandoned previous incarnations?</p> + +<p>So, for the time, he stilled his fears, and under +his brush the canvases became more wonderful +than they had ever been. He had Duska +at his side, not only in the old intimacy, but in +the new and more wonderful intimacy that had +come of her acknowledged love. He would +finish the half-dozen pictures needed to complete +the consignment for the Eastern and European +exhibits, then he would start on his +journey.</p> + +<p>A week later, Saxon took Duska to a dance at +the club-house on the top of one of the hills of +the ridge, and, after she had tired of dancing, +they had gone to a point where the brow of the +knob ran out to a jutting promontory of rock. +It was a cape in the dim sea of night mist which +hung upon, and shrouded, the flats below. Beyond +the reaches of silver gray, the more distant +hills rose in mystic shadow-shapes of deep +cobalt. There were stars overhead, but they +were pale in the whiter light of the moon, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>107]</a></span> +all the world was painted, as the moon will +paint it, in silvers and blues.</p> + +<p>Back of them was the softened waltz-music +that drifted from the club-house and the bright +patches of color where the Chinese lanterns +swung among the trees.</p> + +<p>As they talked, the man felt with renewed +force that the girl had given him her love in +the wonderful way of one who gives but once, +and gives all without stint or reserve. It was +as though she had presented him unconditionally +with the key to the archives of her heart, +and made him possessor of the unspent wealth +of all the Incas.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, he realized that his plan of leaving +her without explanation, on a quest that might +permit no return, was meeting her gift with +half-confidence and deception. What he did +with himself now, he did with her property. He +was not at liberty to act without her full understanding +and sympathy in his undertakings. +The plan was one of infinite brutality.</p> + +<p>He must tell her everything, and then go. +He struck a match for his cigar, to give himself +a moment of arranging his words, and, as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>108]</a></span> +he stood shielding the light against a faintly +stirring breeze, the miniature glare fell on her +delicately chiseled lips and nose and chin. Her +expression made him hesitate. She was very +young, very innocently childlike and very happy. +To tell her now would be like spoiling a little +girls’ party. It must be told soon, but not while +the dance music was still in their ears and the +waxy smell of the dance candles still in their +nostrils.</p> + +<p>When he left her at Horton House, he did +not at once return to the cabin. He wanted +the open skies for his thoughts, and there was +no hope of sleep.</p> + +<p>He retraced his steps from the road, and +wandered into the old-fashioned garden. At +last, he halted by the seat where he had posed +her for the portrait. The moon was sinking, +and the shadows of the garden wall and trees +and shrubs fell in long, fantastic angles across +the silvered earth. The house itself was dark +except where the panes of her window still +glowed. Standing between the tall stalks of +the hollyhocks, he held his watch up to the +moon. It was half-past two o’clock.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>109]</a></span> +Then, he looked up and started with surprise +as he saw her standing in the path before him. +At first, he thought that his imagination had +projected her there. Since she had left him at +the stairs, the picture she had made in her white +gown and red roses had been vividly permanent, +though she herself had gone.</p> + +<p>But, now, her voice was real.</p> + +<p>“Do you prowl under my windows all night, +kind sir?” she laughed, happily. “I believe +you must be almost as much in love as I am.”</p> + +<p>The man reached forward, and seized her +hand.</p> + +<p>“It’s morning,” he said. “What are you doing +here?”</p> + +<p>“I couldn’t sleep,” she assured him. Then, +she added serenely: “Do you suppose that the +moon shines like this every night, or that I can +always expect times like these? You know,” +she taunted, “it was so hard to get you to admit +that you cared that it was an achievement. +I must be appreciative, mustn’t I? You are an +altogether reserved and cautious person.”</p> + +<p>He seized her in his arms with neither reserve +nor caution.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>110]</a></span> +“Listen,” he said in an impassioned voice, +“I have no right to touch you. In five minutes, +you will probably not even let me speak +to you. I had no right to speak. I had no +right to tell you that I loved you!”</p> + +<p>She did not draw away. She only looked +into his eyes very solemnly.</p> + +<p>“You had no right?” she repeated, in a bewildered +voice. “Don’t you love me?”</p> + +<p>“You don’t have to ask that,” he avowed. +“You know it. Your own heart can answer +such questions.”</p> + +<p>“Then,” she decreed with womanlike philosophy, +“you had a right to say so—because +I love you, and that is settled.”</p> + +<p>“No,” he expostulated, “I tell you I did +not have the right. You must forget it. You +must forget everything.” He was talking with +mad impetuosity.</p> + +<p>“It is too late,” she said simply. “Forget!” +There was an indignant ring in her words. +“Do you think that I could forget—or that, if +I could, I would? Do you think it is a thing +that happens every day?”</p> + +<p>From a tree at the fence line came the softly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>111]</a></span> +lamenting note of a small owl, and across the +fields floated the strident shriek of a lumbering +night freight.</p> + +<p>To Saxon’s ears, the inconsequential sounds +came with a painful distinctness. It was only +his own voice that seemed to him muffled in a +confusion of roaring noises. His lips were so +dry that he had to moisten them with his +tongue.</p> + +<p>To hesitate, to temporize, even to soften his +recital, would mean another failure in the telling +of it. He must plunge in after his old +method of directness, even brutality, without +preface or palliation.</p> + +<p>Here, at all events, brutality were best. If +his story appalled and repelled her, it would be +the blow that would free her from the thraldom +of the love he had unfairly stolen. If she turned +from him with loathing, at least anger would +hurt her less than heartbreak.</p> + +<p>“Do you remember the story Ribero so +graphically told of the filibuster and assassin +and the firing squad in the plaza?” As he +spoke, Saxon knew with a nauseating sense of +certainty that his brain had never really doubted +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>112]</a></span> +his identity. He had futilely argued with himself, +but it was only his eagerness of wish that +had kept clamoring concerning the possibility +of a favorable solution. All the while, his reason +had convicted him. Now, as he spoke, he +felt sure, as sure as though he could really remember, +and he felt also his unworthiness to +speak to her, as though it were not Saxon, but +Carter, who held her in his arms. He suddenly +stepped back and held her away at arms’ length, +as though he, Saxon, were snatching her from +the embrace of the other man, Carter. Then, +he heard her murmuring:</p> + +<p>“Yes, of course I remember.”</p> + +<p>“And did you notice his look of astonishment +when I came? Did you catch the covert +innuendoes as he talked—the fact that he talked +at me—that he was accusing me—my God! +recognizing me?”</p> + +<p>The girl put up her hands, and brushed the +hair back from her forehead. She shook her +head as though to shake off some cloud of bewilderment +and awaken herself from the shock +of a nightmare. She stood so unsteadily that +the man took her arm, and led her to the bench +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>113]</a></span> +against the wall. There, she sank down with +her face in her hands. It seemed a century, but, +when she looked up again, her face, despite its +pallor in the moonlight, was the face of one +seeking excuses for one she loves, one trying to +make the impossible jibe with fact.</p> + +<p>“I suppose you did not catch the full significance +of that narrative. No one did except the +two of us—the unmasker and the unmasked. +Later, he studied a scar on my hand. It’s too +dark to see, but you can feel it.”</p> + +<p>He caught her fingers in his own. They were +icy in his hot clasp, as he pressed them against +his right palm.</p> + +<p>“Tell me how it happened. Tell me that—that +the sequel was a lie!” She imperiously +commanded, yet there was under the imperiousness +a note of pleading.</p> + +<p>“I can’t,” he answered. “He seemed to +know the facts. I don’t.”</p> + +<p>Her senses were unsteady, reeling things, and +he in his evening clothes was an axis of black +and white around which the moonlit world +spun drunkenly.</p> + +<p>Her voice was incredulous, far away.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>114]</a></span> +“You don’t know?” she repeated, slowly. +“You don’t know what you did?”</p> + +<p>Then, for the first time, he remembered that +he had not told her of the blind door between +himself and the other years. He had presented +himself only on a plea of guilty to the charge, +without even the palliation of forgetfulness.</p> + +<p>Slowly steeling himself for the ordeal, he +went through his story. He told it as he had +told Steele, but he added to it all that he had +not told Steele—all of the certainty that was +building itself against his future out of his past. +He presented the case step by step as a prosecutor +might have done, adding bit of testimony +after bit of testimony, and ending with the sentence +from the letter, which told him that he +had gone West. He had played the coward +long enough. Now, he did not even mention +the hope he had tried to foster, that there +might be a mistake. It was all so horribly certain +that those hopes were ghosts, and he could +no longer call them from their graves. The +girl listened without a word or an interruption +of any sort.</p> + +<p>“And so,” he said calmly at the end, “the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>115]</a></span> +possibility that I vaguely feared has come forward. +The only thing that I know of my other +life is a disgraceful thing—and ruin.”</p> + +<p>There was a long, torturing silence as she sat +steadily, almost hypnotically, gazing into his +eyes.</p> + +<p>Then, a remarkable thing happened. The +girl came to her feet with the old lithe grace +that had for the moment forsaken her, leaving +her a shape of slender distress. She rose buoyantly +and laughed! With a quick step forward, +she threw her arms around his neck, and stood +looking into his drawn face.</p> + +<p>He caught at her arms almost savagely.</p> + +<p>“Don’t!” he commanded, harshly. “Don’t!”</p> + +<p>“Why?” Her question was serene.</p> + +<p>“Because it was Robert Saxon that you +loved. You sha’n’t touch Carter. I can’t let +Carter touch you.” He was holding her wrists +tightly, and pressing her away from him.</p> + +<p>“I have never touched Carter,” she said, confidently. +“They lied about it, dear. You were +never Carter.”</p> + +<p>In the white light, her upturned eyes were +sure with confidence.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>116]</a></span> +“Now, you listen,” she ordered. “You told +me a case that your imagination has constructed +from foundation to top. It is an ingenious +case. Its circumstantial evidence is skilfully +woven into conviction. They have hanged men +on that sort of evidence, but here there is a +court of appeals. I know nothing about it. +I have only my woman’s heart, but my woman’s +heart knows you. There is no guilt in you—there +never has been. You have tortured yourself +because you look like a man whose name +is Carter.”</p> + +<p>She said it all so positively, so much with the +manner of a decree from the supreme bench, +that, for a moment, the ghosts of hope began to +rise and gather in the man’s brain; for a moment, +he forgot that this was not really the final +word.</p> + +<p>He had crucified himself in the recital to +make it easier for her to abandon him. He +had told one side only, and she had seen only +the force of what he had left unsaid. If that +could be possible, it might be possible she was +right. With the reaction came a wild momentary +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>117]</a></span> +joyousness. Then, his face grew grave +again.</p> + +<p>“I had sworn by every oath I knew,” he told +her, “that I would speak no word of love to +you until I was no longer anonymous. I must +go to Puerto Frio at once, and determine it.”</p> + +<p>Her arms tightened about his neck, and she +stood there, her hair brushing his face as though +she would hold him away from everything past +and future except her own heart.</p> + +<p>“No! no!” she passionately dissented. +“Even if you were the man, which you are not, +you are no more responsible for that dead life +than for your acts in some other planet. You +are mine now, and I am satisfied.”</p> + +<p>“But, if afterward,” he went on doggedly, +“if afterward I should awake into another +personality—don’t you see? Neither you nor +I, dearest, can compromise with doubtful +things. To us, life must be a thing clean beyond +the possibility of blot.”</p> + +<p>She still shook her head in stubborn negation.</p> + +<p>“You gave yourself to me,” she said, “and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>118]</a></span> +I won’t let you go. You won’t wake up in another +life. I won’t let you—and, if you do—” +she paused, then added with a smile on her lips +that seemed to settle matters for all time—“that +is a bridge we will cross when we come to it—and +we will cross it together.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>119]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap08" id="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + + +<p>When he reached the cabin, Saxon found +Steele still awake. The gray advance-light of +dawn beyond the eastern ridges had grown rosy, +and the rosiness had brightened into the blue of +living day when an early teamster, passing +along the turnpike, saw two men garbed in +what he would have called “full-dress suits,” +still sitting over their cigars on the verandah +of the hill shack. A losing love either expels a +man into the outer sourness of resentment, or +graduates him into a friendship that needs no +further testing. Steele was not the type that +goes into an embittered exile. His face had become +somewhat fixed as he listened, but there +had been no surprise. He had known already, +and, when the story was ended, he was an ally.</p> + +<p>“There are two courses open to you,” he +said, when he rose at last from his seat, “the +plan you have of going to South America, and +the one I suggested of facing forward and leaving +the past behind. If you do the first, whether +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>120]</a></span> +or not you are the man they want, the circumstantial +case is strong. You know too little of +your past to defend yourself, and you are placing +yourself in the enemy’s hands. The result +will probably be against you with equal +certainty whether innocent or guilty.”</p> + +<p>“Letting things lie,” demurred Saxon, +“solves nothing.”</p> + +<p>“Why solve them?” Steele paused at his +door. “It would seem to me that with her in +your life you would be safe against forgetting +your present at all events—and that present is +enough.”</p> + +<p>The summer was drawing to its close while +Saxon still wavered. Unless he faced the +charge that seemed impending near the equator, +he must always stand, before himself at least, +convicted. Yet, Duska was immovable in her +decision, and Steele backed her intuition with so +many plausible, masculine arguments that he +waited. He was packing and preparing the +pictures that were to be shipped to New York. +Some of them would be exhibited and sold +there. Others, to be selected by his Eastern +agent, would go on to the Paris market. He +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>121]</a></span> +had included the landscape painted on the cliff, +on the day when the purple flower lured him +over the edge, and the portrait of the girl. +These pictures, however, he specified, were only +for exhibition, and were not under any circumstances +to be sold.</p> + +<p>Each day, he insisted on the necessity of his +investigation, and argued it with all the forcefulness +he could command, but Duska steadfastly +overruled him.</p> + +<p>Once, as the sunset dyed the west with the +richness of gold and purple and orange and +lake, they were walking their horses along a +hill lane between pines and cedars. The girl’s +eyes were drinking in the color and abundant +beauty, and the man rode silent at her saddle +skirt. She had silenced his continual argument +after her usual decisive fashion. Now, she +turned her head, and demanded:</p> + +<p>“Suppose you went and settled this, would +you be nearer your certainty? The very disproving +of this suspicion would leave you where +you were before Señor Ribero told his story.”</p> + +<p>“It would mean this much,” he argued. “I +should have followed to its end every clew that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>122]</a></span> +was given me. I should have exhausted the +possibilities, and I could then with a clear conscience +leave the rest to destiny. I could go on +feeling that I had a right to abandon the past +because I had questioned it as far as I knew.”</p> + +<p>She was resolute.</p> + +<p>“I should,” he urged, “feel that in letting +you share the danger I had at least tried to +end it.”</p> + +<p>She raised her chin almost scornfully, and +her eyes grew deeper.</p> + +<p>“Do you think that danger can affect my +love? Are we the sort of people who have no +eyes in our hearts, and no hearts in our eyes, +who live and marry and die, and never have a +hint of loving as the gods love? I want to love +you that way—audaciously—taking every chance. +If the stars up there love, they love like that.”</p> + +<p>Some days later, Mrs. Horton again referred +to her wish to make the trip to Venezuela. To +the man’s astonishment, Duska appeared this +time more than half in favor of it, and spoke as +though she might after all reconsider her refusal +to be her aunt’s traveling companion. +Later, when they were alone, he questioned her, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>123]</a></span> +and she laughed with the note of having a profound +secret. At last, she explained.</p> + +<p>“I am interested in South America now,” she +informed him. “I wasn’t before. I shouldn’t +think of letting you go there, but I guess I’m +safe in Puerto Frio, and I might settle your +doubts myself. You see,” she added judicially, +“I’m the one person you can trust not to betray +your secret, and yet to find out all about this +mysterious Mr. Carter.”</p> + +<p>Saxon was frankly frightened. Unless she +promised that she would do nothing of the sort, +he would himself go at once. He had waited in +deference to her wishes, but, if the thing were to +be recognized as deserving investigation at all, +he must do it himself. He could not protect +himself behind her as his agent. She finally +assented, yet later Mrs. Horton once more referred +to the idea of the trip as though she expected +Duska to accompany her.</p> + +<p>Then it was that Saxon was driven back on +strategy. The idea was one that he found it +hard to accept, yet he knew that he could never +gain her consent, and her suggestion proved +that, though she would not admit it, at heart +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>124]</a></span> +she realized the necessity of a solution. The +hanging of his canvases for exhibition afforded +an excuse for going to New York. On his arrival +there, he would write to her, explaining his +determination to take a steamer for the south, +and “put it to the touch, to win or lose it all.” +There seemed to be no alternative.</p> + +<p>He did not take Steele into his confidence, +because Steele agreed with Duska, and should +be able to say, when questioned, that he had not +been a party to the conspiracy. When Saxon +stood, a few days later, on the step of an inbound +train, the girl stood waving her sunbonnet, +slenderly outlined against the green background +of the woods beyond the flag-station. +A sudden look of pain crossed the man’s face, +and he leaned far out for a last glimpse of her +form.</p> + +<p>Steele saw Duska’s smile grow wistful as the +last car rounded the curve.</p> + +<p>“I can’t quite accustom myself to it,” he said, +slowly: “this new girl who has taken the place +of the other, of the girl who did not know how +to love.”</p> + +<p>“I know more about it,” she declared, “than +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>125]</a></span> +anybody else that ever lived. And I’ve only +one life to give to it.”</p> + +<p>Saxon’s first mistake was born of the precipitate +haste of love. He wrote the letter to +Duska that same evening on the train. It was +a difficult letter to write. He had to explain, +and explain convincingly, that he was disobeying +her expressed command only because his +love was not the sort that could lull itself into +false security. If fate held any chance for him, +he would bring back victory. If he laid the +ghost of Carter, he would question his sphinx +no further.</p> + +<p>The writing was premature, because he had +to stop in Washington and seek Ribero. He +had some questions to ask. But, at Washington, +he learned that Ribero had been recalled by +government. Then, hurrying through his business +in New York, Saxon took the first steamer +sailing. It happened to be by a slow line, necessitating +several transfers.</p> + +<p>It was characteristic of Duska that, when she +received the letter hardly a day after Saxon’s +departure, she did not at once open it, but, slipping +it, dispatch-like, into her belt, she called +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>126]</a></span> +the terrier, and together they went into the +woods. Here, sitting among the ferns with +the blackberry thicket at her back and the creek +laughing below, she read and reread the pages.</p> + +<p>For a while, she sat stunned, her brow drawn; +then, she said to the terrier in a voice as nearly +plaintive as she ever allowed it to be:</p> + +<p>“I don’t like it. I don’t want him ever to +go away—and yet—” she tossed her head upward—“yet, +I guess I shouldn’t have much use +for him if he didn’t do just such things.”</p> + +<p>The terrier evidently approved the sentiment, +for he cocked his head gravely to the side, and +slowly wagged his stumpy tail.</p> + +<p>But the girl did not remain long in idleness. +For a time, her forehead was delicately corrugated +under the stress of rapid thinking as she +sat, her fingers clasped about her updrawn +knees, then she rose and hurried to Horton +House. There were things to be done and +done at once, and it was her fashion, once reaching +resolution, to act quickly.</p> + +<p>It was necessary to take Mrs. Horton into +her full confidence, because it was necessary that +Mrs. Horton should be ready to go with her, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>127]</a></span> +as fast as trains and steamers could carry them, +to a town called Puerto Frio in South America, +and South America was quite a long way off. +Mrs. Horton had known for weeks that something +more was transpiring than showed on the +surface. She had even inferred that there was +“an understanding” between her niece and the +painter, and this inference she had not found +displeasing. The story that Duska told did +astonish her, but under her composure of manner +Mrs. Horton had the ability to act with +prompt decision. Mr. Horton knew only part, +but was complacent, and saw no reason why a +trip planned for a later date should not be “advanced +on the docket,” and it was so ordered.</p> + +<p>Steele, of course, already knew most of the +story, and it was he who kept the telephone busy +between the house and the city ticket-offices. +While the ladies packed, he was acquiring vast +information as to schedules and connections. +He learned that they could catch an outgoing +steamer from New Orleans, which would probably +put them at their destination only a day or +two behind Saxon. Incidentally, in making +these arrangements, Steele reserved accommodations +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>128]</a></span> +for himself as well as Mrs. Horton and +her niece.</p> + + +<p class="hrpad">With the American coast left behind, Saxon’s +journey through the Caribbean, even with the +palliation of the trade-winds, was insufferably +hot. The slenderly filled passenger-list gave +the slight alleviation of an uncrowded ship. +Those few travelers whose misfortunes doomed +them to such a cruise at such a time, lay listlessly +under the awnings, and watched the face +of the water grow bluer, bluer, bluer to the hot +indigo of the twentieth parallel, where nothing +seemed cool enough for energy or motion except +the flying fish and the pursuing gull.</p> + +<p>There were several days of this to be endured, +and the painter, thinking of matters further +north and further south, found no delight +in its beauty. He would stand, deep in thought, +at the bow when day died and night was +born without benefit of twilight, watching the +disk of the sun plunge into the sea like a diver. +It seemed that Nature herself was here sudden +and passionate in matters of life and death. He +saw the stars come out, low-hanging and large, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>129]</a></span> +and the water blaze with phosphorescence wherever +a wave broke, brilliantly luminous where +the propeller churned the wake. It was to him +an ominous beauty, fraught with crowding portents +of ill omen.</p> + +<p>The entering and leaving of ports became +monotonous. Each was a steaming village of +hot adobe walls, corrugated-iron custom houses +and sweltering, ragged palms. At last, at a +town no more or less appealing than the others, +just as the ear-splitting whistle screeched its last +warning of departure, a belated passenger came +over the side from a frantically-driven row-boat. +The painter was looking listlessly out at +the green coast line, and did not notice the new +arrival.</p> + +<p>The newcomer followed his luggage up the +gangway to the deck, his forehead streaming +perspiration, his none-too-fresh gray flannels +splashed with salt water. At the top, he shook +the hand of the second officer, with the manner +of an old acquaintance.</p> + +<p>“I guess that was close!” he announced, as +he mopped his face with a large handkerchief, +and began fanning himself with a stained Panama +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>130]</a></span> +hat. “Did the—the stuff get aboard all +right at New York?”</p> + +<p>The officer looked up, with a quick, cautious +glance about him.</p> + +<p>“The machinery is stowed away in the hold,” +he announced.</p> + +<p>“Good,” replied the newcomer, energetically. +“That machinery must be safeguarded. It is +required in the development of a country that +needs developin’. Do I draw my usual stateroom? +See the purser? Good!”</p> + +<p>The tardy passenger was tall, a bit under six +feet, but thin almost to emaciation. His face +was keen, and might have been handsome except +that the alertness was suggestive of the fox or +the weasel—furtive rather than intelligent. The +eyes were quick-seeing and roving; the nose, +aquiline; the lips, thin. On them sat habitually +a half-satirical smile. The man had black hair +sprinkled with gray, yet he could not have been +more than thirty-six or seven.</p> + +<p>“I’ll just run in and see the purser,” he announced, +with his tireless energy. Saxon, turning +from the hatch, caught only a vanishing +glimpse of a tall, flannel-clad figure disappearing +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>131]</a></span> +into the doorway of the main saloon, as he +himself went to his stateroom to freshen himself +up for dinner.</p> + +<p>As the painter emerged from his cabin a few +minutes before the call of the dinner-bugle, the +thin man was lounging against the rail further +aft.</p> + +<p>Saxon stood for a moment drinking in the +grateful coolness that was creeping into the air +with the freshening of the evening breeze.</p> + +<p>The stranger saw him, and started. Then, he +looked again, with the swift comprehensiveness +that belonged to his keen eyes, and stepped +modestly back into the protecting angle where +he could himself be sheltered from view by the +bulk of a tarpaulined life-boat. When Saxon +turned and strolled aft, the man closely followed +these movements, then went into his own cabin.</p> + +<p>That evening, at dinner, the new passenger +did not appear. He dined in his stateroom, +but later, as Saxon lounged with his own +thoughts on the deck, the tall American was +never far away, though he kept always in the +blackest shadow thrown by boats or superstructure +on the moonlit deck. If Saxon turned +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>132]</a></span> +suddenly, the other would flatten himself furtively +and in evident alarm back into the blackness. +He had the manner of a man who is +hunted, and who has recognized a pursuer.</p> + +<p>Saxon, ignorant even of the other’s presence, +had no knowledge of the interest he was himself +exciting. Had his curiosity been aroused +to inquiry, he might have learned that the man +who had recently come aboard was one Howard +Stanley Rodman. It is highly improbable, +however, that he would have discovered the +additional fact that the “stuff” Rodman had +asked after as he came aboard was not the +agricultural implements described in its billing, +but revolutionary muskets to be smuggled off at +sunrise to-morrow to the coast village La +Punta, five miles above Puerto Frio.</p> + +<p>Not knowing that a conspirator was hiding +away in a cabin through fear of him, Saxon +was of course equally unconscious of having as +shipmate a man as dangerous as the cornered +wolf to one who stands between itself and +freedom.</p> + +<p>La Punta is hardly a port. The shipping +for this section of the east coast goes to Puerto +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>133]</a></span> +Frio, and Saxon had not come out of his cabin +the next morning when Rodman left. The +creaking of crane chains disturbed his sleep, +but he detected nothing prophetic in the sound. +To have done so, he must have understood that +the customs officer at this ocean flag station was +up to his neck in a revolutionary plot which +was soon to burst; that the steamship line, +because of interests of its own which a change +of government would advance, had agreed to +regard the rifles in the hold as agricultural implements, +and that Mr. Rodman was among +the most expert of traveling salesmen for revolutions +and organizers of <i>juntas</i>. To all that +knowledge, he must then have added the quality +of prophecy. It is certain, however, that, had +he noted the other’s interest in himself and +coupled with that interest the coincidence that +the initials of the furtive gentleman’s name on +the purser’s list were “H. S. R.,” he would +have slept still more brokenly.</p> + +<p>If he had not looked Mr. Rodman up on the +list, Mr. Rodman had not been equally delinquent. +The name Robert A. Saxon had by no +means escaped his attention.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>134]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap09" id="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX</h2> + + +<p>Puerto Frio sits back of its harbor, a medley +of corrugated iron roofs, adobe walls and +square-towered churches. Along the water +front is a fringe of ragged palms. At one end +of the semicircle that breaks the straight coast +line, a few steamers come to anchorage; at +the other rise jugged groups of water-eaten +rocks, where the surf runs with a cannonading +of breakers, and tosses back a perpetual lather +of infuriated spray. From the mole, Saxon had +his first near view of the city. He drew a +long inhalation of the hot air, and looked anxiously +about him.</p> + +<p>He had been asking himself during the +length of his journey whether a reminder would +be borne in on his senses, and awaken them to a +throb of familiarity. He had climbed the slippery +landing stairs with the oppressing consciousness +that he might step at their top into a +new world—or an old and forgotten world. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>135]</a></span> +Now, he drew to one side, and swept his eyes +questioningly about.</p> + +<p>Before him stretched a broad open space, +through which the dust swirled hot and indolent. +Beyond lay the Plaza of Santo Domingo, +and on the twin towers of its church two crosses +leaned dismally askew. A few barefooted natives +slouched across the sun-refracting square, +their shadows blue against the yellow heat. +Saxon’s gaze swung steadily about the radius of +sight, but his brain, like a paralyzed nerve, +touched with the testing-electrode, gave no reflex—no +response.</p> + +<p>There was a leap at his heart which became +hope as his cab jolted on to the Hotel Frances +y Ingles over streets that awoke no convicting +memories. He set out almost cheerfully for +the American Legation to present the letters of +introduction he had brought from New York +and to tell his story. Thus supplied with credentials +and facts, the official might be prepared +to assist him.</p> + +<p>His second step—the test upon which he +mainly depended—involved a search for a +yellow cathedral wall, surrounded with red +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>136]</a></span> +flowers and facing an open area. There, Saxon +wanted to stand, for a moment, against the +masonry, with the sounds of the street in his +ears and the rank fragrance of the vine in his +nostrils. There he would ask his memory, under +the influence of these reminders, the question +the water-front had failed to answer.</p> + +<p>That wandering, however, should be reserved +for the less conspicuous time of night. +He would spend the greater part of the day, +since his status was so dubious, in the protection +of his room at the hotel.</p> + +<p>If night did not answer the question, he would +go again at sunrise, and await the early glare +on the wall, since that would exactly duplicate +former conditions. The night influences would +be softer, less cruel—and less exact, but he +would go first by darkness and reconnoiter the +ground—unless his riddle were solved before.</p> + +<p>The American Legation, he was informed, +stood as did his hostelry, on the main Plaza, +only a few doors distant and directly opposite +the palace of the President.</p> + +<p>He was met by Mr. Partridge, the secretary +of legation. The minister was spending +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>137]</a></span> +several days at Miravista, but was expected back +that evening, or to-morrow morning at the +latest. In the meantime, if the secretary could +be of service to a countryman, he would be glad. +The secretary was a likable young fellow with +frank American eyes. He fancied Saxon’s face, +and was accordingly cordial.</p> + +<p>“There is quite a decent club here for Anglo-Saxon +exiles,” announced Mr. Partridge. +“Possibly, you’d like to look in? I’m occupied +for the day, but I’ll drop around for you this +evening, and make you out a card.”</p> + +<p>Saxon left his letters with the secretary to +be given to the chief on arrival, and returned +to the “Frances y Ingles.”</p> + +<p>He did not again emerge from his room until +evening, and, as he left the <i>patio</i> of the hotel +for his journey to the old cathedral, the moon +was shining brightly between the shadows of +the adobe walls and the balconies that hung +above the pavements. As he went out through +the street-door, Mr. Howard Stanley Rodman +glanced furtively up from a corner table, and +tossed away a half-smoked cigarette.</p> + +<p>The old cathedral takes up a square. In the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>138]</a></span> +niches of its outer wall stand the stone effigies +of many saints. Before its triple, iron-studded +doors stretches a tiled terrace. At its right +runs a side-street, and, attracted by a patch of +clambering vine on the time-stained walls, +where the moon fell full upon them, Saxon +turned into the byway. At the far end, the +façade rose blankly, fronting a bare drill-ground, +and there he halted. The painter had +not counted on the moon. Now, as he took his +place against the wall, it bathed him in an +almost effulgent whiteness. The shadows of +the abutments were inky in contrast, and the +disused and ancient cannon, planted at the curb +for a corner post, stood out boldly in relief. +But the street was silent and, except for himself, +absolutely deserted.</p> + +<p>For a time, he stood looking outward. From +somewhere at his back, in the vaultlike recesses +of the building, drifted the heavy pungency of +incense burning at a shrine.</p> + +<p>His ears were alert for the sounds that +might, in their drifting inconsequence, mean +everything. Then, as no reminder came, he +closed his eyes, and wracked his imagination in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>139]</a></span> +concentrated thought as a monitor to memory. +He groped after some detail of the other time, +if the other time had been an actual fragment +of his life. He strove to recall the features of +the officer who commanded the death squad, +some face that had stood there before him on +that morning; the style of uniforms they wore. +He kept his eyes closed, not only for seconds, +but for minutes, and, when in answer to his focused +self-hypnotism and prodding suggestion +no answer came, there came in its stead a torrent +of joyous relief.</p> + +<p>Then, he heard something like a subdued +ejaculation, and opened his eyes upon a startling +spectacle.</p> + +<p>Leaning out from the shadow of an abutment +stood a thin man, whose face in the moon +showed a strange mingling of savagery and +terror. It was a face Saxon did not remember +to have seen before. The eyes glittered, and +the teeth showed as the thin lips were drawn +back over them in a snarling sort of smile. +But the most startling phase of the tableau, to +the man who opened his eyes upon it without +warning, was the circumstance of the unknown’s +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>140]</a></span> +pressing an automatic pistol against his breast. +Saxon’s first impression was that he had +fallen prey to a robber, but he knew instinctively +that this expression was not that of a +man bent on mere thievery. It had more depth +and evil satisfaction. It was the look of a +man who turns a trick in an important game.</p> + +<p>As the painter gazed at the face and figure +bending forward from the abutment’s sooty +shadow like some chimera or gargoyle fashioned +in the wall, his first sentiment was less +one of immediate peril than of argument with +himself. Surely, so startling a dénouement +should serve to revive his memory, if he had +faced other muzzles there!</p> + +<p>When the man with the pistol spoke, it was +in words that were illuminating. The voice +was tremulous with emotion, probably nervous +terror, yet the tone was intended to convey +irony, and was partly successful.</p> + +<p>“I presume,” it said icily, “you wished to +enjoy the sensation of standing at that point—this +time with the certainty of walking away +alive. It must be a pleasant reminiscence, but +one never can tell.” The thin man paused, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>141]</a></span> +then began afresh, his voice charged with a +bravado that somehow seemed to lack genuineness.</p> + +<p>“Last time, you expected to be carried away +dead—and went away living. This time, you +expected to walk away in safety, and, instead, +you’ve got to die. Your execution was only +delayed.” He gave a short, nervous laugh, +then his voice came near breaking as he went +on almost wildly: “I’ve got to kill you, Carter. +God knows I don’t want to do it, but I +must have security! This knowledge that you +are watching me to drop on me like a hawk on +a rat, will drive me mad. They’ve told me up +and down both these God-forsaken coasts, from +Ancon to Buenos Ayres, from La Boca to Concepcion, +that you would get me, and now it’s +sheer self-defense with me. I know you never +forgave a wrong—and God knows that I never +did you the wrong you are trying to revenge. +God knows I am innocent.”</p> + +<p>Rodman halted breathless, and stood with +his flat chest rising and falling almost hysterically. +He was in the state when men are most +irresponsible and dangerous.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>142]</a></span> +Meanwhile, a pistol held in an unsteady +hand, its trigger under an uncertain finger, +emphasized a situation that called for electrical +thinking. To assert a mistake in identity +would be ludicrous. Saxon was not in a position +to claim that. The other man seemed to +have knowledge that he himself lacked. Moreover, +that knowledge was the information +which Saxon, as self-prosecutor, must have. +The only course was to meet the other’s bravado +with a counter show of bravado, and keep +him talking. Perhaps, some one would pass in +the empty street.</p> + +<p>“Well,” demanded Rodman between gasping +breaths, “why in hell don’t you say something?”</p> + +<p>Saxon began to feel the mastery of the +stronger man over the weaker, despite the fact +that the weaker supplemented his inferiority +with a weapon.</p> + +<p>“It appears to me,” came the answer, and it +was the first time Rodman had heard the voice, +now almost velvety, “it appears to me that +there isn’t very much for me to say. You seem +to be in the best position to do the talking.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>143]</a></span> +“Yes, damn you!” accused the other, excitedly. +“You are always the same—always +making the big pyrotechnic display! You +have grandstanded and posed as the debonair +adventurer, until it’s come to be second +nature. That won’t help now!” The thin +man’s braggadocio changed suddenly to something +like a whine.</p> + +<p>“You know I’m frightened, and you’re +throwing a bluff. You’re a fool not to realize +that it’s because I’m so frightened that I am +capable of killing you. I’ve craned my neck +around every corner, and jumped at every +shadow since that day—always watching for +you. Now, I’m going to end it. I see your +plan as if it were printed on a glass pane. +You’ve discovered my doings, and, if you left +here alive, you’d inform the government.”</p> + +<p>Here, at least, Saxon could speak, and speak +truthfully.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know anything, or care anything, +about your plans,” he retorted, curtly.</p> + +<p>“That’s a damned lie!” almost shrieked +the other man. “It’s just your style. It’s +just your infernal chicanery. I wrote you that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>144]</a></span> +letter in good faith, and you tracked me. You +found out where I was and what I was doing. +How you learned it, God knows, but I suppose +it’s still easy for you to get into the confidence +of the <i>juntas</i>. The moment I saw you on the +boat, the whole thing flashed on me. It was +your fine Italian brand of work to come down +on the very steamer that carried my guns—to +come ashore just at the psychological moment, +and turn me over to the authorities on the exact +verge of my success! Your brand of humor +saw irony in that—in giving me the same sort +of death you escaped. But it’s too late. +Vegas has the guns in spite of you! There’ll +be a new president in the palace within three +days.” The man’s voice became almost triumphant. +He was breathing more normally +once again, as his courage gained its second +wind.</p> + +<p>Saxon was fencing for time. Incidentally, he +was learning profusely about the revolution of +to-morrow, but nothing of the revolution of +yesterday.</p> + +<p>“I neither know, nor want to know, anything +about your dirty work,” he said, shortly. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>145]</a></span> +“Moreover, if you think I’m bent on vengeance, +you are a damned fool to tell me.”</p> + +<p>Rodman laughed satirically.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’m not so easy as you give me credit +for being. You are trying to ‘kiss your way +out,’ as the thieves put it. You’re trying to +talk me out of killing you, but do you know +why I’m willing to tell you all this?” He +halted, then went on tempestuously. “I’ll tell +you why. In the first place, you know it already, +and, in the second place, you’ll never +repeat any information after to-night. It’s +idiotic perhaps, but my reason for not killing +you right at the start is that I’ve got a fancy +for telling you the true facts, whether you +choose to believe them or not. It will ease my +conscience afterward.”</p> + +<p>Saxon stood waiting for the next move, bracing +himself for an opportunity that might +present itself, the pistol muzzle still pointed at +his chest.</p> + +<p>“I’m not timid,” went on the other. “You +know me. Howard Rodman, speakin’ in +general, takes his chances. But I am afraid +of you, more afraid than I am of the devil in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>146]</a></span> +hell. I know I can’t bluff you. I saw you +stand against this wall with the soldiers out +there in front, and, since you can’t be frightened +off, you must be killed.” The man’s voice +gathered vehemence as he talked, and his face +showed growing agitation. “And the horrible +part is that it’s all a mistake, that I’d rather be +friends with you, if you’d let me. I never was +informant against you.”</p> + +<p>He paused, exhausted by his panic and his +flow of words. Saxon, with a strong effort, collected +his staggered senses.</p> + +<p>“Why do you think I come for vengeance?” +he asked.</p> + +<p>“Why do I think it?” The thin man +laughed bitterly. “Why, indeed? What except +necessity or implacable vengeance could +drive a man to this God-forsaken strip of +coast? And you—you with money enough to +live richly in God’s country, you whose very +face in these boundaries invites imprisonment +or death! What else could bring you? But I +knew you’d come—and, so help me God, I’m +innocent.”</p> + +<p>A sudden idea struck Saxon. This might be +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>147]</a></span> +the cue to draw on the frightened talker without +self-revelation.</p> + +<p>“What do you want me to believe were the +real facts?” he demanded, with an assumption +of the cold incredulity that seemed expected of +him.</p> + +<p>The other spoke eagerly.</p> + +<p>“That morning when General Ojedas’ +forces entered Puerto Frio, and the government +seized me, you were free. Then, I was +released, and you arrested. You drew your +conclusions. Oh, they were natural enough. +But, before heaven, they were wrong!”</p> + +<p>Saxon felt that, until he had learned the full +story, he must remain the actor. Accordingly, +he allowed himself a skeptical laugh. Rodman, +stung by the implied disbelief, took up his +argument again:</p> + +<p>“You think I’m lying. It sounds too fishy! +Of course, it was my enterprise. It was a revolution +of my making. You were called in as +the small lawyer calls in the great one. I concede +all that. For me to have sacrificed you +would have been infamous, but I didn’t do it. +I had been little seen in Puerto Frio. I was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>148]</a></span> +not well known. I had arranged it all from +the outside while you had been in the city. +You were less responsible, but more suspected. +You remember how carefully we planned—how +we kept apart. You know that even you and +I met only twice, and that I never even saw +your man, Williams.”</p> + +<p>Through the bitterness of conviction, a part +of Saxon’s brain seemed to be looking on impersonally +and marveling, almost with amusement, +at the remarkable position in which he +found himself. Here stood a man before him +with a pistol pressed close to his chest, threatening +execution, denouncing, cursing, yet all +the while giving evidence of terror, almost +pleading with his victim to believe his story! +It was the armed man who was frightened, +who dreaded the act he declared he was about +to commit. And, as Saxon stood listening, it +dawned upon him, in the despair of the moment, +that it was a matter of small concern to +himself whether or not the other fired. The +story he had heard had already done the injury. +The bullet would be less cruel.... Rodman +went on:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>149]</a></span> +“I bent every effort to saving you, but Williams +had confessed. He was frightened. It +was his first experience. He didn’t know of +my connection with the thing. So help me +God, that is the true version.”</p> + +<p>The story sickened Saxon, coming to him as it +did in a form he could no longer disbelieve. +He raised his hands despairingly. At last, he +heard the other’s voice again.</p> + +<p>“When the scrap ended, and you were in +power, I had gone. I was afraid to come +back. I knew what you would think, and then, +after you left the country, I couldn’t find where +you had gone.”</p> + +<p>“You may believe me or not,” the painter +said apathetically, “but I have forgotten all +that. I have no resentment, no wish for +vengeance. I had not even suspected you. I +give you my word on that.”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” retorted Rodman excitedly, +“you’d say that. You’re looking down a gun-barrel. +You’re talking for your life. Of +course, you’d lie.”</p> + +<p>Then, the revolutionist did a foolish and unguarded +thing. He came a step nearer, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>150]</a></span> +pressed the muzzle closer against Saxon’s chest, +his own eyes glaring into those of his captive. +The movement threw Saxon’s hands out of his +diminished field of sight. In an instant, the +painter had caught the wrist of the slighter man +in a grip that paralyzed the hand, and forced it +aside. The pistol fell from the nerveless fingers, +and dropped clattering to the flagstones. +As it struck, Saxon swept it backward with his +foot.</p> + +<p>Rodman leaped frantically backward, and +stood for a moment rearranging his crumpled +cuff with the dazed manner of a man who hopes +for no quarter. His lower jaw dropped, and +he remained trembling, almost idiotic of mien. +Then, as Saxon picked up the weapon and stood +fingering its trigger, the filibuster drew himself +up really with dignity. He stretched out both +empty hands, and shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>The fear of an enemy silently stalking him +had filled his days with terror. Now that he +regarded death as certain, his cowardice +dropped away like a discarded cloak.</p> + +<p>“I don’t ask much,” he said simply; “only, +for God’s sake kill me here! Don’t surrender +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>151]</a></span> +me to the government! At least, let the other +fellows know that I was dead before their plans +were betrayed.”</p> + +<p>“I told you,” said Saxon in a dull voice, +“that I had no designs on you. I meant it! +I told you I had forgotten. I meant it!”</p> + +<p>As he spoke, Saxon’s head dropped forward +on his chest, and he stood breathing heavily. +The moonlight, falling full on his face, showed +such heart-broken misery as might have belonged +to the visage of some unresting ghost +in an Inferno. His eyes were the eyes of utter +despair, and the hand that held the pistol hung +limp at his side, the weapon lying loose in its +palm. Rodman stood wide-eyed before him. +Had he already been killed and returned to +life, he could hardly have been more astonished, +and, when Saxon at last raised his face +and spoke again, the astonishment was greater +than ever.</p> + +<p>“Take your gun,” said the painter, raising +his hand slowly, and presenting the weapon +stock first. “If you want to kill me—go ahead.”</p> + +<p>Rodman, for an instant, suspected some subterfuge; +then, looking into the eyes before him, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>152]</a></span> +he realized that they were too surcharged with +sadness to harbor either vengeance or treachery. +He could not fathom the meaning, but he +realized that from this man he had nothing +to fear. He slowly reached out his hand, and, +when he had taken the pistol, he put it away in +his pocket.</p> + +<p>Saxon laughed bitterly.</p> + +<p>“So, that’s the answer!” he muttered.</p> + +<p>Without a word, the painter turned, and +walked toward the front of the cathedral; +without a word, Rodman fell in by his side, and +walked with him. When they had gone a +square, Saxon was again himself except for a +stonily set face. Rodman was wondering how +to apologize. Carter had never been a liar. +If Carter said he had no thought of vengeance, +it was true, and Rodman had insulted him +with the surmise.</p> + +<p>Finally, the thin man inquired in a different +and much softer voice:</p> + +<p>“What are you doing in Puerto Frio?”</p> + +<p>“It has nothing to do with revenge or punishment,” +replied Saxon, “and I don’t want +to hear intrigues.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>153]</a></span> +A quarter of an hour later, they reached the +main plaza, Rodman still mystified and Saxon +walking on aimlessly at his side. He had no +definite destination. Nothing mattered. After +a long silence, Rodman demanded:</p> + +<p>“Aren’t you taking a chance—risking it in +Puerto Frio?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know.”</p> + +<p>There was another pause, broken at last by +Rodman:</p> + +<p>“Take this from me. Get at once in touch +with the American legation, and keep in touch! +Stand on your good behavior. You may get +away with it.” He interrupted himself abruptly +with the question: “Have you been keeping +posted on South American affairs of late?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know who is President,” replied +Saxon.</p> + +<p>“Well, I’ll tip you off. The only men who +held any direct proof about—about the $200,000 +in gold that left about the same time you +did”—Saxon winced—“went into oblivion with +the last revolution. Time is a great restorer, +and so many similar affairs have intervened +that you are probably forgotten. But, if I were +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>154]</a></span> +you, I would get through my affairs early and—beat +it. It’s a wise boy that is not where he +is, when he’s wanted by some one he doesn’t +want.”</p> + +<p>Saxon made no reply.</p> + +<p>“Say,” commented the irrepressible revolutionist, +as they strolled into the arcade at the +side of the main plaza, “you’ve changed a bit +in appearance. You’re a bit heavier, aren’t +you?”</p> + +<p>Saxon did not seem to hear.</p> + +<p>The plaza was gay with the life of the miniature +capital. Officers strolled about in their +brightest uniforms, blowing cigarette smoke +and ogling the señoritas, who looked shyly back +from under their mantillas.</p> + +<p>From the band-stand blared the national air. +Natives and foreigners sauntered idly, taking +their pleasure with languid ease. But Rodman +kept to the less conspicuous sides and the shadows +of the arcade, and Saxon walked with him, +unseeing and deeply miserable.</p> + +<p>Between the electric glare of the plaza and +the first arc-light of the <i>Calle Bolivar</i> is a corner +comparatively dark. Here, the men met +two army officers in conversation. Near them +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>155]</a></span> +waited a handful of soldiers. As the Americans +came abreast, an officer fell in on either +side of them.</p> + +<p>“Pardon, señors,” said one, speaking in +Spanish with extreme politeness, “but it is necessary +that we ask you to accompany us to the +Palace.”</p> + +<p>The soldiers had fallen in behind, following. +Now, they separated, and some of them came +to the front, so that the two men found themselves +walking in a hollow square. Rodman +halted.</p> + +<p>“What does this signify?” he demanded in +a voice of truculent indignation. “We are +citizens of the United States!”</p> + +<p>“I exceedingly deplore the inconvenience,” +declared the officer. “At the Palace, I have +no doubt, it will be explained.”</p> + +<p>“I demand that we be taken first to the +United States Legation,” insisted Rodman.</p> + +<p>The officer regretfully shook his head. +“Doubtless, señors,” he assured them, “your +legation will be immediately communicated +with. I have no authority to deviate from my +orders.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>156]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap10" id="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X</h2> + + +<p>At the Palace, the Americans were separated. +Saxon was ushered into a small room, +barely furnished. Its one window was barred, +and the one door that penetrated its thick +wall was locked from the outside. It seemed +incredible that under such stimulus his memory +should remain torpid. This must be an absolute +echo from the past—yet, he could not remember. +But Rodman remembered—and evidently +the government remembered.</p> + +<p>About the same hour, Mr. Partridge called +at the “Frances y Ingles,” where he learned +that Señor Saxon had gone out. He called +again late in the evening. Saxon had not returned.</p> + +<p>The following morning, the Hon. Charles +Pendleton, Envoy Extraordinary and Minister +Plenipotentiary of the United States of America, +read Saxon’s letters of introduction. The +letters sufficiently established the standing of +the artist to assure him his minister’s interest. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>157]</a></span> +Partridge was dispatched to the hotel to bring +the traveler to the legation. Partridge came +back within the hour, greatly perturbed. Having +found that Saxon had not returned during +the night, and knowing the customs of the country, +he had spent a half-hour in investigating +by channels known to himself. He learned, at +the end of much questioning and cross-questioning, +that the señor, together with another gentleman +evidently also an <i>Americano del Nordo</i>, +had passed the street-door late in the evening, +with military escort.</p> + +<p>Mr. Partridge hastened to his legation at a +rate of speed subversive of all Puerto Frio traditions. +In Puerto Frio, haste is held to be an +affront to dignity, and dignity is esteemed.</p> + +<p>The Hon. Charles Pendleton listened to his +subordinate’s report with rising choler.</p> + +<p>His diplomacy was of the aggressive type, +and his first duty was that of making the protecting +pinions of the spread eagle stretch wide +enough to reach every one of those entitled to +its guardianship.</p> + +<p>Saxon and Rodman had the night before +entered the frowning walls of the Palace +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>158]</a></span> +through a narrow door at the side. The American +minister now passed hastily between files +of presented arms. Inside, he learned that his +excellency, <i>el Presidente</i>, had not yet finished +his breakfast, but earnestly desired his excellency, +<i>el ministro</i>, to share with him an alligator +pear and cup of coffee.</p> + +<p>In the suave presence of the dictator, the minister’s +choler did not cease. Rather, it smoldered +while he listened perfunctorily to flattering +banalities. He had struck through intermediary +stages; had passed over the heads of +departments and holders of portfolios, to issue +his ultimatum to the chief executive. Yet, in +approaching his subject, he matched the other’s +suavity with a pleasantness that the dictator +distrusted. The dark face of the autocrat became +grave until, when Mr. Pendleton reached +the issue, it was deeply sympathetic, surprised +and attentive.</p> + +<p>“I am informed that some one—I can not +yet say who—wearing your excellency’s uniform, +seized an American citizen of prominence +on the streets of Puerto Frio last evening.”</p> + +<p>The President was shocked and incredulous.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>159]</a></span> +“Impossible!” he exclaimed with deep distress; +then, again: “Impossible!”</p> + +<p>From the diplomat’s eloquent sketching of +the situation, it might have been gathered that +the United States war department stood anxiously +watching for such affronts, and that the +United States war department would be very +petulant when notification of the incident +reached it. Mr. Pendleton further assured +his excellency, <i>el Presidente</i>, that it would be +his immediate care to see that such notification +had the right of way over the Panama cable.</p> + +<p>“I have information,” began the dictator +slowly, “that two men suspected of connection +with an insurgent <i>junta</i> have been arrested. As +to their nationality, I have received no details. +Certainly, no American citizen has been seized +with my consent. The affair appears grave, and +shall be investigated. Your excellency realizes +the necessity of vigilance. The revolutionist +forfeits his nationality.” He spread +his hands in a vague gesture.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Robert Saxon,” retorted the minister, +“should hardly be a suspect. The fact that he +was not a guest at my legation, and for the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>160]</a></span> +time a member of my family, was due only to +the accident of my absence from the city on his +arrival yesterday.”</p> + +<p>With sudden bustle, the machinery of the Palace +was set in motion. Of a surety, some one +had blundered, and “some one” should be condignly +punished!</p> + +<p>It was a very irate gentleman, flushed from +unwonted exertion in the tropics, who was ushered +at last into Saxon’s room. It was a very +much puzzled and interested gentleman who +stood contemplatively studying the direct eyes +of the prisoner a half-hour later.</p> + +<p>Saxon had told Mr. Pendleton the entire narrative +of his quest of himself, and, as he told it, +the older man listened without a question or +interruption, standing with his eyes fixed on the +teller, twisting an unlighted cigar in his fingers.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Saxon, I am here to safeguard the interests +of Americans. Our government does +not, however, undertake to chaperon filibustering +expeditions. It becomes necessary to question +you.”</p> + +<p>There followed a brief catechism in which +the replies seemed to satisfy the questioner. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>161]</a></span> +When he came to the incident of his meeting +with Rodman, Saxon paused.</p> + +<p>“As to Rodman,” he said, “who was arrested +with me, I have no knowledge that +would be evidence. I know nothing except +from the hearsay of his recital.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Pendleton raised his hand.</p> + +<p>“I am only questioning you as to yourself. +This other man, Rodman, will have to prove +his innocence. I’m afraid I can’t help him. +According to their own admissions, they know +nothing against you beyond the fact that you +were seen with him last night.”</p> + +<p>Saxon came to his feet, bewildered.</p> + +<p>“But the previous matter—the embezzlement?” +he demanded. “Of course, I had +nothing to do with this affair. It was that +other for which I was arrested.”</p> + +<p>The envoy laughed.</p> + +<p>“You punched cows six years ago. You cartooned +five years ago, and you have painted +landscapes ever since. I presume, if it became +necessary, you could prove an alibi for almost +seven years?”</p> + +<p>Saxon nodded. He fancied he saw the drift +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>162]</a></span> +of the argument. It was to culminate in the +same counsel that Steele had given. He would +be advised to allow the time to reach the +period when his other self should be legally +dead.</p> + +<p>Mr. Pendleton paced the floor for a space, +then came back and halted before the cot, on +the edge of which the prisoner sat.</p> + +<p>“I have been at this post only two years, but +I am, of course, familiar with the facts of that +case.” He paused, then added with irrelevance: +“It may be that you bear a somewhat striking +resemblance to this particularly disreputable +conspirator. Of course, that’s possible, but—”</p> + +<p>“But highly improbable,” admitted Saxon.</p> + +<p>“Oh, you are not that man! That can be +mathematically demonstrated,” asserted Mr. +Pendleton suddenly. “I was only reflecting on +the fallibility of circumstantial evidence. I am +a lawyer, and once, as district attorney, I convicted +a man on such evidence. He’s in the +penitentiary now, and it set me wondering +if—”</p> + +<p>But Saxon stood dumfounded, vainly trying +to speak. His face was white, and he had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>163]</a></span> +seized the envoy by the arm with a grip too +emphatic for diplomatic etiquette.</p> + +<p>“Do you know what you are saying?” he +shouted. “I am not that man! How do you +know that?”</p> + +<p>“I know it,” responded Mr. Pendleton +calmly, “because the incident of the firing-squad +occurred five years ago—and the embezzlement +only four years back.”</p> + +<p>Saxon remained staring in wide-eyed amazement. +He felt his knees grow suddenly weak, +and the blood cascaded through the arteries of +his temples. Then, he turned, and, dropping +again to the edge of the cot, covered his face +with his hands.</p> + +<p>“You see,” explained Mr. Pendleton, “there +is only one ground upon which any charge +against you can be reinstated—an impeachment +of your evidence as to how you have put in +the past five years. And,” he smilingly summarized, +“since the case comes before this +court solely on your self-accusation, since you +have journeyed some thousands of miles merely +to prosecute yourself, I regard your evidence +on that point as conclusive.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>164]</a></span> +Later, the envoy, with his arm through that +of the liberated prisoner, walked out past deferential +sentries into the Plaza.</p> + +<p>“And, now, the blockade being run,” he amiably +inquired, “what are your plans?”</p> + +<p>“Plans!” exclaimed Saxon scornfully; “plans, +sir, is plural. I have only one: to catch the +next boat that’s headed north. Why,” he explained, +“there is soon going to be an autumn +in the Kentucky hills with all the woods +a blaze of color.”</p> + +<p>The minister’s eyes took on a touch of nostalgia.</p> + +<p>“I guess there’s nothing much the matter +with the autumn in Indiana, either,” he affirmed.</p> + +<p>They walked on together at a slow gait, for +the morning sun was already beginning to beat +down as if it were focused through a burning-glass.</p> + +<p>“And say,” suggested Mr. Pendleton at last, +“if you ever get to a certain town in Indiana +called Vevay, which is on some of the more +complete maps, walk around for me and look +at the Davis building. You won’t see much—only +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>165]</a></span> +a hideous two-story brick, with a metal +roof and dusty windows, but my shingle used +to hang out there—and it’s in God’s country!”</p> + +<p>Before they had reached the legation, Saxon +remembered that his plans involved another +detail, and with some secrecy he sought the +cable office, and wrote a message to Duska. Its +composition consumed a half-hour, yet he felt +it was not quite the masterpiece the occasion +demanded. It read:</p> + +<p>“Arrived yesterday. Slept in jail. Out to-day. +Am not he.”</p> + +<p>The operator, counting off the length with +his pencil, glanced up thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>“It costs a dollar a word, sir,” he vouchsafed.</p> + +<p>But Saxon nodded affluently, for he knew +that the <i>City of Rio</i> sailed north that afternoon, +and he did not know that her sister ship, +the <i>Amazon</i>, with Duska on board, was at this +moment nosing its way south through the +tepid water—only twenty-four hours away.</p> + +<p>As the <i>City of Rio</i> wound up her rusty +anchor chains that afternoon, Saxon was jubilantly +smoking his pipe by the rail.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>166]</a></span> +In the launch just putting off from the steamer’s +side stood the Hon. Mr. Pendleton, waving +his hat, and Jimmy Partridge wildly shouting, +“Give my regards to Broadway!” The +minister’s flag, which had floated over the +steamer while the great personage was on +board, was just dipping, and Saxon’s hand was +still cramped under the homesick pressure of +the farewell grips.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, the traveler had a feeling of a +presence at his elbow, and, turning, was profoundly +astonished to behold again the complacent +visage of Mr. Rodman.</p> + +<p>“You see, I still appear to be among those +present,” announced the filibuster, with some +breeziness of manner. “It’s true that I stand +before you, ‘my sweet young face still haggard +with the anguish it has worn,’ but I’m +here, which is, after all, the salient feature of +the situation. Say, what did you do to them?”</p> + +<p>“I?” questioned Saxon. “I did nothing. +The minister came and took me out of their +Bastile.”</p> + +<p>“Well, say, he must have thrown an awful +scare into them.” Mr. Rodman thoughtfully +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>167]</a></span> +stroked his chin with a thin forefinger. “He +must have intimidated them unmercifully and +brutally. They stampeded into my wing of +the Palace, and set me free as though they were +afraid I had the yellow-fever. ‘Wide they +flung the massive portals’—all that sort of +thing. Now, what puzzles me is, why did they +do it? They had the goods on me—almost. +However, I’m entirely pleased.” Rodman +laughed as he lighted a cigar, and waved his +hand with mock sentiment toward the shore. +“And I had put the rifles through, too,” he declared, +jubilantly. “I’d turned them over to +the <i>insurrecto</i> gentleman in good order. Did +they clamor for your blood about the $200,000?”</p> + +<p>“Rodman,” said Saxon slowly, “I hardly +expect you to believe it, but that was a case of +mistaken identity. I’m not the man you think. +I was never in Puerto Frio before.”</p> + +<p>Rodman let the cigar drop from his astonished +lips, and caught wildly after it as it fell +overboard.</p> + +<p>“What?” he demanded, at last. “How’s +that?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>168]</a></span> +“It was a man who looked like me,” elucidated +Saxon.</p> + +<p>“You are damned right—he looked like +you!” Rodman halted, amazed into silence. At +last, he said: “Well, you have got the clear +nerve! What’s the idea, anyhow. Don’t you +trust me?”</p> + +<p>The artist laughed.</p> + +<p>“I hardly thought you would credit it,” he +said. “After all, that doesn’t make much difference. +The point is, my dear boy, <em>I</em> know it.”</p> + +<p>But Rodman’s debonair smile soon returned. +He held up his hand with a gesture of acceptance.</p> + +<p>“What difference does it make? A gentleman +likes to change his linen—why not +his personality? I dare say it’s a very decent +impulse.”</p> + +<p>For a moment, Saxon looked up with an instinctive +resentment for the politely phrased +skepticism of the other. Then, his displeasure +changed to a smile. He had, for a moment, felt +the same doubt when Mr. Pendleton brought +his verdict. Rodman had none of the facts, and +a glance at the satirical features showed that it +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>169]</a></span> +would be impossible for this unimaginative adventurer +to construe premises to a seemingly +impossible conclusion. He was the materialist, +and dealt in palpable appearances. After all, +what did it matter? He had made his effort, +and would, as he had promised Duska, vex his +Sphinx with no more questioning. He would +go on as Robert Saxon, feeling that he had +done his best with conscientious thoroughness. +It was, after all, only cutting the Gordian knot +in his life. After a moment, he looked up.</p> + +<p>“Which way do you go?” he inquired.</p> + +<p>The other man shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>“I go back to Puerto Frio—after the blow-off.”</p> + +<p>“After the blow-off?” Saxon repeated, in interrogation.</p> + +<p>“Sure!” Rodman stretched his thin hand +shoreward, and dropped his voice. “Take a +good look at yon fair city,” he laughed, “for, +before you happen back here again, it may have +fallen under fire and sword.”</p> + +<p>The soldier of fortune spoke with some of +the pride that comes to the man who feels he +is playing a large game, whether it be a game +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>170]</a></span> +of construction or destruction, or whether, as +is oftener the case, it be both destruction and +construction.</p> + +<p>The painter obediently looked back at the +adobe walls and cross-tipped towers.</p> + +<p>“Puerto Frio has been very good to me,” +he said, in an enigmatical voice.</p> + +<p>But Rodman was thinking too much of his +own plans to notice the comment.</p> + +<p>“Do you see the mountain at the back of +the city?” he suddenly demanded. “That’s +San Francisco. Do you see anything queer +about it?”</p> + +<p>The artist looked at the peak rearing its +summit against the hot blue overhead, and saw +only a sleeping tropical background for the +indolent tropical panorama stretching at its +base.</p> + +<p>“Well—” Rodman dropped his voice yet +lower—“if you had a pair of field glasses and +studied the heights, you could see a few black +specks that are just now disused guns. By day +after to-morrow, or, at the latest, one day more, +each of those specks will be a crater, and the +town will be under a shower of solid shot. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>171]</a></span> +There’s some class to work that can turn as +mild a mannered hill as that into a volcano—no?”</p> + +<p>Saxon stood gazing with fascination.</p> + +<p>“Meanwhile,” he heard the other comment, +“shipboard is good enough for yours truly—because, +as you know, shipboard is neutral +ground for political offenders—and the next +gentleman who occupies the Palace will be a +friend who owes me something.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>172]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap11" id="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI</h2> + + +<p>Saxon denied himself the lure of the deck +that evening. Though he would probably be +close behind his messages in arriving, he was +devoting himself to a full narration embodied +in a love-letter.</p> + +<p>He bent over the task in the closeness of the +dining saloon, with such absorption that he did +not rise to investigate even when, with a protracted +shrieking of whistles, there came sudden +cessation from the jarring throb of screw-shaft +and engines. Then, the <i>City of Rio</i> +came to a full stop. He vaguely presumed +that another important port had been reached, +and did not suspect that the vessel lay out +of sight of land, and that a second steamer, +southbound, had halted on signal, and lay likewise +motionless, her lights glittering just off +the starboard bow.</p> + +<p>When, almost two hours later, he had folded +the last of many pages, and gone on deck for +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>173]</a></span> +a breath before turning in, the engines were +once more noisily throbbing, and he saw only +the bulk and lights of another vessel pointed +down-world under steam.</p> + +<p>But, as usual, Rodman, gentleman of multifarious +devices, was not letting facts escape +him. Indeed, it was at Rodman’s instance that +two mail ships, the <i>City of Rio</i> and the +<i>Amazon</i>, had marked time for an hour and a +half. In the brewing of affairs, Rodman was +just now an important personage, and the commanders +of these lines were under instructions +from their offices to regard his requests as +orders, and to obey them with due respect and +profound secrecy. The shifting of administrations +at Puerto Frio meant certain advantages +in the way of concessions to gentlemen in Wall +Street whose word, with these steamers, was +something more than influential.</p> + +<p>Mr. Rodman had been rowed across from +the <i>Rio</i> to the <i>Amazon</i>, and he had taken with +him the hand-luggage that made his only impedimenta. +In Mr. Rodman’s business, it was +important to travel light. If he found Señor +Miraflores among the passengers of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>174]</a></span> +<i>Amazon</i>, it was his intention to right-about-face, +and return south again.</p> + +<p>Señor Miraflores had been in the States as +the secret and efficient head of that <i>junta</i> which +Rodman served. He had very capably directed +the shipping of rifles and many <i>sub-rosa</i> +details that must be handled beyond the frontier, +when it is intended to change governments +without the knowledge or consent of armed +and intrenched incumbents. The home-coming +of Señor Miraflores must of necessity be unostentatious, +since his arrival would be the signal +for the conversion of the quiet steeps of San +Francisco into craters.</p> + +<p>Rodman knew that, if the señor were on +board the <i>Amazon</i>, his name would not be on +the sailing-list, and his august personality would +be cloaked in disguise. His point of debarkation +would be some secluded coast village where +fellow conspirators could hide him. His advent +into the capital itself would not be made at all +unless made at the head of an invading army, +and, if so made, he would remain as minister +of foreign affairs in the cabinet of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>175]</a></span> +General Vegas, to whom just now, as to himself, +the city gates were closed.</p> + +<p>But Señor Miraflores had selected a more +cautious means of entry than the ship, which +might bear travelers who knew him. Rodman +spent an hour on the downward steamer. He +managed to see the face of every passenger, +and even investigated the swarthy visages in +the steerage. He asked of some tourists casual +questions as to destination, and chatted artlessly, +then went over the side again, and was rowed +back across the intervening strip of sea. Immediately +upon his departure overside, the +<i>Amazon</i> proceeded on her course, and five minutes +later the <i>City of Rio</i> was also under way.</p> + +<p>The next morning, after a late breakfast, +Saxon was lounging at the rail amidship. He +had ceased looking backward, and all his gaze +was for the front. Ahead of him, the white +superstructure, the white-duck uniform of the +officer pacing the bridge, the whiteness of the +holystoned deck, all stood boldly out against +the deep cobalt of the gently swelling sea. +Saxon was satisfied with life, and, when he saw +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>176]</a></span> +Rodman sauntering toward him, he looked up +with a welcoming nod.</p> + +<p>“Hello, Carter—I mean Saxon.” The gun-smuggler +corrected his form of address with a +laugh.</p> + +<p>The breezy American was a changed and improved +man. The wrinkled gray flannels had +given way to natty white duck. His Panama +hat was new and of such quality that it could +be rolled and drawn through a ring as large as +a half-dollar. He was shaven to an extreme +pinkness of face. As Saxon glanced up, his +eyes wearing tell-tale recognition of the transformation, +the thin man laughed afresh.</p> + +<p>“Notice the difference, don’t you?” he genially +inquired, rolling a cigarette. “The gray +grub is splendidly changed into the snow-white +butterfly. I’m a very flossy bug, eh, Saxon?”</p> + +<p>The painter admitted the soft self-impeachment +with a qualification.</p> + +<p>“I begin to think you are a very destructive +one.”</p> + +<p>“I am,” announced Rodman, calmly. “I +could spin you many a yarn of intrigue, but +for the fact that, since you began wearing a halo +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>177]</a></span> +instead of a hat, you have become too sanctified +to listen.”</p> + +<p>“Inasmuch,” smilingly suggested the painter, +“as we might yet be languishing in the <i>cuartel</i> +except for the fact that I was able to give so +good an account of myself, I don’t see that you +have any reasonable quarrel with my halo.”</p> + +<p>Rodman raised his brows.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I never lost sight of the fact that you +had some reason for the saint rôle, and, as you +say, I was in on the good results. But, now that +you are flitting northward, what’s the idea of +keeping your ears stopped?”</p> + +<p>“They are open,” declared Mr. Saxon graciously; +“you are at liberty to tell me anything +you like, but only what you like. I’m not +thirsting for criminal confessions.”</p> + +<p>“That’s all right, but you—” Rodman +broke off, and his lips twisted into ironical good +humor—“no, I apologize—I mean, a fellow +who looked remarkably like you used to be so +deeply versed in international politics that I +think this new adventure would appeal to you. +Ever remember hearing of one Señor Miraflores?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>178]</a></span> +Saxon shook his head, whereupon Rodman +laughed with great sophistication. Carter had +known Señor Miraflores quite well, and Rodman +knew that Carter had known him.</p> + +<p>“Very consistent acting,” he approved. +“You’re a good comedian. In the Chinese +theaters, they put flour on the comedian’s nose +to show that he’s not a tragedian, but you don’t +need the badge. You’re all right. You know +how to get a laugh. But this isn’t dramatic +criticism. It’s wars and rumors of wars.”</p> + +<p>The adventurer drew a long puff from his +cigarette, inhaled it deeply, and stood idly +watching the curls of outward-blown smoke +hanging in the hot air, before he went on.</p> + +<p>“Well, Miraflores has once more been at the +helm. Of course, in the lower commissions of +the <i>insurrecto</i> organization, we have the usual +assortment of foreign officers, odds and ends, +but the chief difference between this enterprise +and the other one—the one Carter knew about—is +the fact that we have some artillery, and +that, when we start things going, we can come +pretty near battering down the old town.”</p> + +<p>Rodman proceeded to sketch the outlines of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>179]</a></span> +the conspiracy. It was much the stereotyped +arrangement with a few variations. Two regiments +in the city barracks, suspected of disloyalty, +had been practically disarmed by the +President, but these troops had been secretly rearmed +with a part of the guns brought in by +Rodman, and would be ready to rise at the signal, +together with several other disaffected commands—not +for the government, but against it.</p> + +<p>The mountain of San Francisco is really not +a mountain at all, but a foot hill of the mountains. +Yet, it looks down on the city of Puerto +Frio as Marathon on the sea, and here are guns +trained inward as well as outward. These +guns can shell the capital into ruins in the space +of a few hours; then, they can hurl their projectiles +further, and play havoc with the environs. +Also, they can guard the city from the +approach that lies along the roads from the interior. +A commander who holds San Francisco +stands at the door of Puerto Frio with a +latch-key in his hand. The revolutionists under +Vegas had arranged their attack on the basis +of unwarned assault. The Dictator had indeed +some apprehensions, but they were fears for the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>180]</a></span> +future—not for the immediate present. The +troops garrisoned on San Francisco, ostensibly +the loyal legion of the Dictator’s forces, were +in reality watching the outward approaches +only as doors through which they were to welcome +friends. The guns that were trained and +ready to belch fire on signal from Vegas, were +the guns trained inward on the city, and, when +they opened, the main plaza would resemble +nothing so much as the far end of a bowling +alley when an expert stands on the foul-line, and +the palace of the President would be the kingpin +for their gunnery. The <i>insurrecto</i> forces +were to enter San Francisco without resistance, +and the opening of its crater was to be the signal +for hurling through the streets of the city +itself those troops that had been secretly armed +with the smuggled weapons, completing the +confusion and throwing into stampeding panic +the demoralized remnants upon which the government +depended.</p> + +<p>Unless there were a traitor in very exclusive +and carefully guarded councils, there would +hardly be a miscarriage of the plans.</p> + +<p>Saxon stood idly listening to these +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>181]</a></span> +confidences. Nothing seemed strange to him, and +least of all the entire willingness of the conspirator +to tell him things that involved life +and death for men and governments. He knew +that, in spite of all he had said, or could say, +to the other man, he was the former ally in +crime. He had thought at first that Rodman +would ultimately discover some discrepancy in +appearance which would undeceive him, but +now he realized that the secret of the continued +mistake was an almost miraculous resemblance, +and the fact that the other man had, in the +former affair, met him in person only twice, and +that five years ago.</p> + +<p>“And so,” went on Rodman in conclusion, +“I’m here adrift, waiting for the last act. I +thought Miraflores might possibly be on the +<i>Amazon</i> last night, and so, while you sat dawdling +over letter-paper and pen, little Howard +Stanley was up and doing. I went across to the +other boat, and made search, but it was another +case of nothing transpiring. Miraflores was +too foxy to go touring so openly.”</p> + +<p>Saxon felt that some comment was expected +from him, yet his mind was wandering far +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>182]</a></span> +afield from the doings of <i>juntas</i>. All these +seemed as unreal as scenes from an extravagantly +staged musical comedy. What appeared +to him most real at that moment was the picture +of a slim girl walking, dryad-like, through +the hills of her Kentucky homeland, and the +thought that he would soon be walking with +her.</p> + +<p>“It looks gloomy for the city,” he said, abstractedly.</p> + +<p>“Say,” went on Rodman, “do you know +that the only people on that boat booked for +Puerto Frio were three fool American tourists, +and that, of the three, two were women? Now, +what chance have those folks got to enjoy themselves? +Do you think Puerto Frio, say day +after to-morrow, will make a hit with them?” +The informant laughed softly to himself, but +Saxon was still deep in his own thoughts. It +suddenly struck him with surprised discovery +that the view from the deck was beautiful. And +Rodman, also, felt the languid invitation of the +sea air, and it made him wish to talk. So, unmindful +of a self-absorbed listener, he went on +garrulously.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>183]</a></span> +“You know, I felt like quoting to them, ‘Into +the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell, sailed +the three tourists,’ but that would have been +to tip off state secrets. If people will fare +forth for adventure, I guess they’ve got to have +it.”</p> + +<p>“Do you suppose,” asked Saxon perfunctorily, +“they’ll be in actual danger?”</p> + +<p>“Danger!” repeated the filibuster with sarcasm. +“Danger, did you say? Oh, no, of course +not. It will be a pink tea! You know that +town as well as I do. You know there are two +places in it where American visitors can stop—the +<i>Frances y Ingles</i>, where you were, and the +American Legation. By day after to-morrow, +that plaza will be the bull’s-eye for General +Vegas’s target-practice. General Vegas has a +mountain to rest his target-gun on, and it’s +loaded with shell. Oh, no, there won’t be any +danger!”</p> + +<p>“Wasn’t there some pretext on which you +could warn them off?” inquired the painter.</p> + +<p>Rodman shook his head.</p> + +<p>“You see, I have to be careful in my talk. +I might say too much. As it was, I knocked +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>184]</a></span> +the town to the fellow all I could. But he +seemed hell-bent on getting there, and getting +there quick. He was a fool Kentuckian, and +you can’t head off a bull-headed Kentuckian +with subtleties or hints. I’ve met one or two +of them before. And there was a girl along +who seemed as anxious to get there as he was. +That girl was all to the good!”</p> + +<p>Saxon leaned suddenly forward.</p> + +<p>“A Kentuckian?” he demanded. “Did you +hear his name?”</p> + +<p>“Sure,” announced Mr. Rodman. “Little +Howard Stanley picks up information all along +the way. The chap was named George Steele, +and——”</p> + +<p>But the speaker broke off in his story, to stand +astounded at the conduct of his auditor.</p> + +<p>“And the girl!” shouted Saxon. “Her +name?”</p> + +<p>“Her name,” replied the intriguer, “was +Miss Filson.”</p> + +<p>Suddenly, the inattention of the other had +fallen away, and he had wheeled, his jaw dropping. +For an instant, he stood in an attitude +of bewildered shock, gripping the support of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>185]</a></span> +the rail like a prize-fighter struggling against +the groggy blackness of the knock-out blow.</p> + +<p>Saxon stood such a length of time as it might +have required for the referee to count nine over +him, had the support he gripped been that of +the prize-ring instead of the steamer’s rail. +Then, he stepped forward, and gripped Rodman’s +arm with fingers that bit into the flesh.</p> + +<p>“Rodman,” he said in a low voice that was +almost a whisper, between his labored breathings, +“I’ve got to talk to you—alone. There’s +not a minute to lose. Come to my stateroom.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>186]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap12" id="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII</h2> + + +<p>Below, in the narrow confines of the cabin, +Saxon paced back and forth excitedly as he +talked. For five minutes, he did not pause, and +the other man, sitting on the camp-stool in a +corner of the place, followed him with eyes +much as a lion-tamer, shut in a cage with his +uncertain charge, keeps his gaze bent on the +animal. As he listened, Rodman’s expression +ran a gamut from astonishment, through sympathy, +and into final distrust. At last, Saxon +ended with:</p> + +<p>“And, so, I’ve got to get them away from +there. I’ve got to get back to that town, +and you must manage it. For God’s sake, don’t +delay!” The painter had not touched on the +irrelevant point of his own mystery, or why the +girl had followed him. That would have been +a story the other would not have believed, and +there was no time for argument and futile personalities. +The slow northward fifteen knots +had all at once become a fevered racing in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>187]</a></span> +wrong direction, and each throb of the shafts +in the engine-room seemed to hurl him madly +through space away from his goal.</p> + +<p>When he halted in his narrative, the other +man looked sternly up, and his sharp features +were decisively set.</p> + +<p>“Suppose I should get you there,” he began +swiftly. “Suppose it were possible to get back +in time, what reason have I to trust you? Suppose +I were willing to trust you absolutely, +what right have I—a mere agent of a cause +that’s bigger than single lives—to send you back +there, where a word from you would spoil everything? +My God, man, there are thousands of +people there who are risking their lives to +change this government. Hundreds of them +must die to do it. For months, we have worked +and planned, covering and secreting every detail +of our plotting. We have all taken our +lives in our hands. Now, a word of warning, +an indiscreet act, the changing of the garrison +on San Francisco, and where would we be? +Every platoon that follows Vegas and Miraflores +marches straight into a death-trap! The +signal is given, and every man goes to destruction +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>188]</a></span> +as swift as a bat out of hell. That’s what +you are asking me to do—to play traitor to my +cause. And you calmly tell me I must do it +simply because you’ve got friends in town.”</p> + +<p>The man came to his feet with an excited +gesture of anger.</p> + +<p>“You know that in this business no man can +trust his twin brother, and you ask me to trust +you to the extent of laying in your hands everything +I’ve worked for—the lives of an army!” +His tones rose to a climax of vehemence: “And +that’s what you ask!”</p> + +<p>“You know you can trust me,” began Saxon, +conscious of the feeble nature of his argument. +“You didn’t have to tell me. I didn’t ask your +confidence. I warned you not to tell me.”</p> + +<p>“Maybe I was a damned fool, and maybe +you were pretty slick, playing me along with +your bait of indifference,” retorted Rodman, +hotly. “How am I to know whom you really +mean to warn? You insist that I shall harbor a +childlike faith in you, yet you won’t trust me +enough to quit your damned play-acting. You +call on me to believe in you, yet you lie to me, +and cling to your smug alias. You won’t +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>189]</a></span> +confess who you are, though you know I know it. +No, Mr. Carter, I must decline.”</p> + +<p>Saxon stood white and rigid. Every moment +wasted in argument imperiled more deeply the +girl and the friends he must save, for whose +hazarded lives he was unwittingly responsible. +Yet, he could do nothing except with Rodman’s +assistance. The only chance lay in convincing +him, and that must be done at any cost. This +was no time for selecting methods.</p> + +<p>“I don’t have to tell a syllable of your +plans,” he contended, desperately. “They will +go with me without asking the reason. I have +only to see them. You have my life in your +hands: you can go with me. You can disarm +me, and keep me in view every moment of the +time. You can kill me at the first false move. +You can——”</p> + +<p>“Cut out the tommy-rot,” interrupted Rodman, +with fierce bluntness. “I can do better +than that, and you know it. My word on this +ship goes the same as if I were an admiral. I +can say to the captain that you assaulted me, +and it will be my testimony against yours. I +can have you put in irons, and thrown down in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>190]</a></span> +the hold, and, by God, I’m going to do it!” +The man moved toward the cabin bell, and +halted with his finger near the button. “Now, +damn you! my platform is <i>Vegas y Libertad</i>, +and I’m not the sucker I may have seemed. +If this is a trick of yours, you aren’t going to +have the chance to turn it.”</p> + +<p>“Give me a moment,” pleaded Saxon. He +realized with desperation that every word the +other spoke was true, that he was helpless +unless he could be convincing.</p> + +<p>“Listen, Rodman,” he hurried on, ready to +surrender everything else if he could carry his +own point. “For God’s sake, listen to me! +You trusted me in the first place. I could have +left the boat at any point, and wired back!” He +looked into the face of the other man so steadily +and with such hypnotic intensity that his own +eyes were the strongest argument of truth he +could have put forward.</p> + +<p>“You say I have distrusted you, that I have +not admitted my identity as Carter. I don’t +care a rap for my life. I’m not fighting for +that now. I have no designs on you or your +designs. Let me put a hypothetical question: +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>191]</a></span> +Suppose you had come to a point where your +past life was nothing more to you than the life +of another man—a man you hated as your +deadliest enemy; suppose you lived in a world +that was as different from the old one as though +it had never existed; suppose a woman had +guided you into that new world, would you, or +would you not, turn your back on the old? Suppose +you learned as suddenly as I learned, from +you, on deck, that that woman was in danger, +would you, or would you not, go to her?”</p> + +<p>Men rarely find the most eloquent or convincing +words when they stand at sudden crises, but +usually men’s voices and manners at such times +can have a force of convincing veracity that +means more. Possibly, it may have been the +hypnotic quality of Saxon’s eyes, but, whatever +it was, Rodman found it impossible to disbelieve +him when he spoke in this fashion. In +the plaza, he had suddenly turned the scales and +held power of life and death over Rodman, +and his only emotion had been that of heart-broken +misery. Carter had been, like Rodman +himself, the intriguer, but he had always been +trustworthy with his friends. He had been +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>192]</a></span> +violent, bitter, avenging, but never mean in +small ways. That had been one of the reasons +why Rodman, once convinced that the danger +of vengeance was ended, had remained almost +passionately anxious to prove to the other that +he himself had not been a traitor. Carter had +been the Napoleonic adventurer, and Rodman +only the pettier type. For Carter, he held a +sort of hero-worship. Rodman’s methods were +those of chicane, but rightly or wrongly he believed +that he could read the human document.</p> + +<p>If this other man were telling the truth, and +if love of a woman were his real motive, he +could be stung into fury with a slur. If that +were only a pretext, the other would not allow +his resentment to imperil his plans—he would +repress it, or simulate it awkwardly.</p> + +<p>“So,” he commented satirically, “it’s the +good-looking young female that’s got you buffaloed, +is it? The warrior has been taken into +camp by the squaw.” The tone held deliberate +intent to insult.</p> + +<p>Saxon’s lips compressed themselves into a +dangerously straight line, and his face whitened +to the temples. As he took a step +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>193]</a></span> +forward, the slighter man stepped quickly back, +and raised a hand with a gesture of explanation. +Saxon had evidently told the truth. The revolutionist +had satisfied himself, and his somewhat +erratic method of judging results had +been to his own mind convincing. And, at the +same moment, Saxon halted. He realized that +he stood in a position where questions of life +and death, not his own, were involved. His +anger was driving him dangerously close to action +that would send crashing to ruin the one +chance of winning an effective ally. He half-turned +with something like a groan.</p> + +<p>He was called out of his stupor of anxiety +by the voice of the other. Rodman had been +thinking fast. He would take a chance, though +not such a great chance as it would seem. Indeed, +in effect, he would be taking the other +prisoner. He would in part yield to the request, +but in the method that occurred to him +he would have an ample opportunity of studying +the other man under conditions which the +other man would not suspect. He would have +Saxon at all times in his power and under his +observation while he set traps for him. If his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>194]</a></span> +surmise of sincerity proved false, he could act +at once as he chose, before Saxon would have +the opportunity to make a dangerous move. +He would seem to do a tremendously hazardous +thing in the name of friendship, but all the +while he would have the cards stacked. If at +the proper moment he still believed in the other, +he would permit the man, under supervision, to +save these friends. If not, Rodman would still +be master of the situation. Besides, he had +been seriously disappointed in not meeting +Miraflores. He had felt that there might yet +be advantages in coming closer to the theater +of the drama than this vessel going north, +though he must still remain under the protection +of a foreign flag.</p> + +<p>“So, you are willing to admit that your proper +name is Mr. Carter?” he demanded, coolly.</p> + +<p>“I am willing to admit anything, if I can get +to Puerto Frio and through the lines,” responded +Saxon, readily.</p> + +<p>“If I take you back, you will go unarmed, +under constant supervision,” stipulated Rodman. +“You will have to obey my orders, and +devise some pretext for enticing your friends +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>195]</a></span> +away, without telling them the true reason. I +shall be running my neck into a noose perhaps. +I have no right to run that of <i>Vegas y Libertad</i> +into a noose as well. Are those terms satisfactory?”</p> + +<p>“Absolutely!” Saxon let more eagerness +burst from his lips than he had intended.</p> + +<p>“Then, come with me to the captain.” Suddenly, +Rodman wheeled, and looked at the other +man with a strange expression. “Do you know +why I’m doing this? It’s a fool reason, but I +want to prove to you that I’m not the sort that +would be apt to turn an ally over to his executioners. +That’s why.”</p> + +<p>Five minutes later, the two stood in the captain’s +cabin, and Saxon noted that the officer +treated Rodman with a manner of marked deference.</p> + +<p>“Is Cartwright’s steam yacht still at Mollera?” +demanded the soldier of fortune, incisively.</p> + +<p>“It’s held there for emergencies,” replied the +officer.</p> + +<p>“It’s our one chance! Mr. Saxon and +myself must get to Puerto Frio at once. When +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>196]</a></span> +do we strike Mollera?” Rodman consulted +his watch.</p> + +<p>“In an hour.”</p> + +<p>“Have us put off there. Send a wireless to +the yacht to have steam up, and arrange for +clearance. Put on all steam ahead for Mollera.”</p> + +<p>It was something, reflected Saxon, to have +such toys to play with as this thin ally of his +could, for the moment at least, command.</p> + +<p>“Now, I fully realize,” said Rodman, as they +left the captain’s cabin together, “that I’m embarking +on the silliest enterprise of a singularly +silly career. But I’m no quitter. Cartwright,” +he explained, “is one of the owners of the line. +He’s letting his yacht be used for a few things +where it comes in handy.”</p> + +<p>There was time to discuss details on the way +down the coast in the <i>Phyllis</i>. The yacht +had outwardly all the idle ease of a craft designed +merely for luxurious loafing over smooth +seas, but Cartwright had built it with one or +two other requisite qualities in mind. The +<i>Phyllis</i> could show heels, if ever matters +came to a chase, to anything less swift than a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>197]</a></span> +torpedo-boat destroyer. Her mastheads were +strung with the parallel wires that gave her +voice in the Marconi tongue, and Saxon had no +sooner stepped over the side than he realized +that the crew recognized in Mr. Rodman a person +to be implicitly obeyed.</p> + +<p>If Rodman had seemed to be won over with +remarkable suddenness to Saxon’s request that +he undertake a dangerous rescue, it was now +evident to the painter that the appearance had +been in part deceiving. Here, he was more at +Rodman’s mercy than he had been on the +steamer. If Rodman’s word had indeed been +as he boasted, that of an admiral on the <i>City +of Rio</i>, it was, on the <i>Phyllis</i>, that of an +admiral on his own flagship. By a thousand +little, artful snares thrown into their discussions +of ways and means, Rodman sought to +betray the other into any utterance or action +that might show underlying treachery, and, before +the yacht had eaten up the route back to +the strip of coast where the frontier stretched +its invisible line, he had corroborated his belief +that the artist was telling the truth. Had he +not been convinced, Rodman had only to speak, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>198]</a></span> +and every man from the skipper to the Japanese +cabin boy would have been obedient to his +orders.</p> + +<p>“We will not try to get to Puerto Frio harbor,” +explained Rodman. “It would hardly be +safe. We shall steam past the city, and anchor +at Bellavista, five miles beyond. Bellavista is +a seaside resort, and there a boat like this will +attract less attention. Also, the consulate is better +suited to our needs as to the formalities of +entering and leaving port. There, we will take +horses, and ride to town. I’ll read the signs, +and, if things look safe, we can get in, collect +your people, and get out again at once. They +can go with us to the yacht, and, if you like fireworks, +we can view them from a safe distance.”</p> + +<p>La Punta, as they passed, lay sleepy by her +beach, her tattered palms scarcely stirring their +fronds in the breathless air. Later, Puerto Frio +went alongside, as quiet and untouched with any +sense of impending disturbance as the smaller +town. Behind the scattered outlying houses, the +incline went up to the base of San Francisco, +basking in the sun. The hill was a huge, inert +barrier between the green and drab of the earth +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>199]</a></span> +and the blue of the sky. Saxon drew a long +breath as he watched it in the early morning +when they passed. It was difficult to think of +even an artificial volcano awakening from such +profound slumber and indolence.</p> + +<p>“You’d better go below, and get ready for +the ride. We go horseback. Got any riding +togs?” Rodman spoke rapidly, in crisp brevities. +“No? Well, I guess we can rig you out. +Cartwright has all sorts of things on board. +Change into them quick. You won’t need anything +else. This is to be a quick dash.”</p> + +<p>When the anchor dropped off Bellavista, +Saxon stood in a fever of haste on deck, garbed +in riding-clothes that almost fitted him, though +they belonged to Cartwright or some of the +guests who had formerly been pleasuring on the +yacht.</p> + +<p>As their motor-boat was making its way shoreward +over peacefully glinting water, the painter +ran his hand into his coat-pocket for a handkerchief. +He found that he had failed to provide +himself. The other pockets were equally +empty, save for what money had been loose in +his trousers-pocket when he changed, and the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>200]</a></span> +old key he always carried there. These things +he had unconsciously transferred by mere force +of habit. Everything else he had left behind. +He felt a mild sense of annoyance. He had +wanted, on meeting her, to hand Duska the letter +he had written on the night that their ships +passed, but haste was the watchword, and one +could not turn back for such trifles as pocket +furnishings.</p> + +<p>Rodman proved the best of guides. He knew +a liveryman from whom Argentine ponies could +be obtained, and led the way at a brisk canter +out the smooth road toward the capital.</p> + +<p>For a time, the men rode in silence between +the <i>haciendas</i>, between scarlet clustered vines, +clinging with heavy fragrance to adobe walls, +and the fringed spears of palms along the cactus-lined +roadsides.</p> + +<p>Hitherto, the man’s painting sense had lain +dormant. Now, despite his anxiety and the +nervous prodding of his heels into the flanks of +his vicious little mount, he felt that he was going +toward Duska, and with the realization came +satisfaction. For a time, his eyes ceased to be +those of the man hurled into new surroundings +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>201]</a></span> +and circumstances, and became again those of +Frederick Marston’s first disciple.</p> + +<p>They rode before long into the country that +borders the town. Rodman’s eyes were fixed +with a fascinated gaze on the quiet summit of +San Francisco. He had himself no definite +knowledge when the craters might open, and +as yet he had seen no sign of war. The initial +note must of course come drifting with the first +wisp of smoke and the first detonation from the +mouths of those guns.</p> + +<p>At the outskirts of the town, they turned a +sharp angle hidden behind high monastery +walls, and found themselves confronted by a +squad of native soldiery with fixed bayonets.</p> + +<p>With an exclamation of surprise, Rodman +drew his pony back on its flanks. For a moment, +he leaned in his saddle, scrutinizing the +men who had halted him. There was, of course, +no distinction of uniforms, but he reasoned that +no government troops would be guarding that +road, because, as far as the government knew, +there was no war. He leaned over and whispered:</p> + +<p>“<i>Vegas y Libertad.</i>”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>202]</a></span> +The sergeant in command saluted with a +grave smile, and drew his men aside, as the two +horsemen rode on.</p> + +<p>“Looks like it’s getting close,” commented +Rodman shortly. “We’d better hurry.”</p> + +<p>Where the old market-place stands at the +junction of the <i>Calle Bolivar</i> with a lesser street, +Rodman again drew down his pony, and his +cheeks paled to the temples. From the center +of the city came the sudden staccato rattle of +musketry. The plotter threw his eyes up to the +top of San Francisco, visible above the roofs, +but the summit of San Francisco still slept the +sleep of quiet centuries. Then, again, came the +clatter from the center of the town, and again +the sharp rattle of rifle fire ripped the air. +There was heavy fighting somewhere on ahead.</p> + +<p>“Good God!” breathed the thin man. +“What does it mean?”</p> + +<p>The two ponies stood in the narrow street, +and the air began to grow heavier with the +noise of volleys, yet the hill was silent.</p> + +<p>Rodman rattled his reins on the pony’s neck, +and rode apathetically forward. Something +had gone amiss! His dreams were crumbling. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>203]</a></span> +At the next corner, they drew to one side. A +company of troops swept by on the double-quick. +They had been in action. Their faces +streamed with sweat, and many were bleeding. +A few wounded men were being carried by their +comrades. Rodman recognized <i>Capitan</i> Morino, +and shouted desperately; but the officer +shook his head wildly, and went on.</p> + +<p>Then, they saw a group of officers at the door +of a crude café. Among them, Rodman recognized +Colonel Martiñez, of Vegas’ staff, and +Colonel Murphy of the Foreign Legion, yet +they stood here idle, and their faces told the +story of defeat. The filibuster hurled himself +from the saddle, and pushed his way to the +group, followed by Saxon.</p> + +<p>“What does it mean, Murphy?” he demanded, +breathlessly. “What in all hell can it +mean?”</p> + +<p>Murphy looked up. He was wrapping his +wrist with a handkerchief, one end of which he +held between his teeth. Red spots were slowly +spreading on the white of the bandage.</p> + +<p>“Sure, it means hell’s broke loose,” replied +the soldier of fortune, with promptness. Then, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>204]</a></span> +seeing Saxon, he shot him a quick glance of +recognition. The eyes were weary, and showed +out of a face pasted with sweat and dust.</p> + +<p>“Hello, Carter,” he found time to say. +“Glad you’re with us—but it’s all up with our +outfit.”</p> + +<p>This time, Saxon did not deny the title.</p> + +<p>“What happened?” urged Rodman, in a +frenzy of anxiety. The roaring of rifles did +not seem to come nearer, except for detached +sounds of sporadic skirmishing. The central +plaza and its environs were holding the interest +of the combatants.</p> + +<p>“Sure, it means there was a leak. When the +boys marched up to San Francisco, they were +met with artillery fire. It had been tipped off, +and the government had changed the garrison.” +The Irish adventurer, who had led men under +half a dozen tatterdemalion flags, smiled sarcastically. +“Sure, it was quite simple!”</p> + +<p>“And where is the fighting?” shouted Rodman, +as though he would hold these men responsible +for his shattered scheme of empire.</p> + +<p>“Everywhere. Vegas was in too deep to +pull out. The government couldn’t shell its +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>205]</a></span> +own capital, and so it’s street to street scrappin’ +now. But we’re licked unless—” He halted +suddenly, with the gleam of an inspired idea in +his eyes. The leader of the Foreign Legion +was sitting on a table. Saxon noted for the first +time that, besides the punctured wrist, he was +disabled with a broken leg.</p> + +<p>“Unless what?” questioned Colonel Martiñez. +That officer was pallid under his dark +skin from loss of blood. One arm was bandaged +tightly against his side.</p> + +<p>“Unless we can hold them for a time, and get +word to the diplomatic corps to arbitrate. A +delay would give us a bit of time to pull ourselves +together.”</p> + +<p>Martiñez, shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>“Impossible,” he said, drearily.</p> + +<p>“Wait. Pendleton, the American minister, +is dean of the corps. Carter here is practically +a stranger in town these days, and he’s got +nerve. I know him. As an American, he might +possibly make it to the legation. Carter, will +you try to get through the streets to the American +Legation? Will you?”</p> + +<p>Saxon had leaped forward. He liked the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>206]</a></span> +direct manner of this man, and the legation was +his destination.</p> + +<p>“It’s a hundred to one shot, Carter, that ye +can’t do it.” Murphy’s voice, in its excitement, +dropped into brogue. “Will ye try? Will ye +tell him to git th’ diplomats togither, and ask +an armistice? Ye know our countersign, ‘<i>Vegas +y Libertad</i>.’”</p> + +<p>But Saxon had already started off in the general +direction of the main plaza. For two +squares, he met no interference. For two more, +he needed no other passport than the countersign, +then, as he turned a corner, it seemed to +him that he plunged at a step into a reek of +burnt powder and burning houses. There was a +confused vista of men in retreat, a roar that +deafened him, and a sudden numbness. He +dropped to his knees, attempted to rise to his +feet, then seemed to sink into a welcome sleep, +as he stretched comfortably at length on the +pavement close to a wall, a detachment of +routed <i>insurrectos</i> sweeping by him in full flight.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>207]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap13" id="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII</h2> + + +<p>The passing of the fugitive <i>insurrectos</i>; +their mad turning at bay for one savage rally; +their wavering and breaking; their disorganized +stampede spurred on by a decimating fire +and the bayonet’s point: these were all incidents +of a sudden squall that swept violently through +the narrow street, to leave it again empty and +quiet. It was empty except for the grotesque +shapes that stretched in all the undignified awkwardness +of violent death and helplessness, +feeding thin lines of red that trickled between +the cobblestones. It was silent except for echoes +of the stubborn fighting coming from the freer +spaces of the plazas and <i>alamedas</i>, where the +remnants of the invading force clung to their +positions behind improvised barricades with the +doggedness of men for whom surrender holds +no element of hope or mercy.</p> + +<p>Into the canyon-like street where the frenzy +of combat had blazed up with such a sudden +spurt and burned itself out so quickly, Saxon +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>208]</a></span> +had walked around the angle of a wall, just in +time to find himself precipitated into one of the +fiercest incidents of the bloody forenoon.</p> + +<p>Vegas and Miraflores had not surrendered. +Everywhere, the insistent noise told that the opposing +forces were still debating every block of +the street, but in many outlying places, as in this +<i>calle</i>, the revolutionists were already giving +back. The attacking army had counted on +launching a blow, paralyzing in its surprise, and +had itself encountered surprise and partial preparedness. +It had set its hope upon a hill, and +the hill had failed. A prophet might already +read that <i>Vegas y Libertad</i> was the watchword +of a lost cause, and that its place in history belonged +on a page to be turned down.</p> + +<p>But the narrow street in which Saxon lay remained +quiet. An occasional balcony window +would open cautiously, and an occasional head +would be thrust out to look up and down its +length. An occasional shape on the cobbles +would moan painfully, and shift its position with +the return of consciousness, or grow more grotesque +in the stiffness of death as the hours wore +into late afternoon, but the great iron-studded +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>209]</a></span> +street-doors of the houses remained barred, and +no one ventured along the sidewalks.</p> + +<p>Late in the day, when the city still echoed to +the snapping of musketry, and deeper notes +rumbled through the din, as small field-pieces +were brought to bear upon opposing barricades, +the thing that Saxon had undertaken to bring +about occurred of its own initiative. Word +reached the two leaders that the representatives +of the foreign powers requested an armistice +for the removal of the wounded and a conference +at the American Legation, looking toward +possible adjustment. Both the government and +the <i>insurrecto</i> commanders grasped at the opportunity +to let their men, exhausted with close-fighting, +catch a breathing space, and to remove +from the zone of fire those who lay disabled in +the streets.</p> + +<p>Then, as the firing subsided, some of the +bolder civilians ventured forth in search for such +acquaintances as had been caught in the streets +between the impact of forces in the unwarned +battle. For this hour, at least, all men were +safe, and there were some with matters to arrange, +who might not long enjoy immunity.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>210]</a></span> +Among them was Howard Rodman, who followed +up the path he fancied Saxon must have +taken. Rodman was haggard and distrait. +His plans were all in ruins, and, unless an amnesty +were declared, he must be once more the +refugee. His belief that Saxon was really Carter +led him into two false conclusions. First, he +inferred from this premise that Saxon’s life +would be as greatly imperiled as his own, and +it followed that he, being in his own words “no +quitter,” must see Saxon out of the city, if the +man were alive. He presumed that in the effort +to reach the legation Saxon had taken, as would +anyone familiar with the streets, a circuitous +course which would bring him to the “<i>Club Nacional</i>,” +from which point he could reach the +house he sought over the roofs. He had no +doubt that the American had failed in his mission, +because, by any route, he must make his +way through streets where he would encounter +fighting.</p> + +<p>Rodman’s search became feverish. There +was little time to lose. The conference might +be brief—and, after that, chaos! But fortune +favored him. Chance led him into the right +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>211]</a></span> +street, and he found the body. Being alone, he +stood for a moment indecisive. He was too +light a man to carry bodily the wounded friend +who lay at his feet. He could certainly not +leave the man, for his ear at the chest, his finger +on the pulse, assured him that Saxon was +alive. He had been struck by a falling timber +from a balcony above, and the skull seemed +badly hurt, probably fractured.</p> + +<p>As Rodman stood debating the dilemma, a +shadow fell across the pavement. He turned +with a nervous start to recognize at his back a +newcomer, palpably a foreigner and presumably +a Frenchman, though his excellent English, +when he spoke, was only slightly touched with +accent. The stranger dropped to his knee, and +made a rapid examination, as Rodman had done. +It did not occur to him at the moment that the +man standing near him was an acquaintance of +the other who lay unconscious at their feet.</p> + +<p>“The gentleman is evidently a non-combatant—and +he is badly hurt, monsieur,” he volunteered. +“We most assuredly cannot leave +him here to die.”</p> + +<p>Rodman answered with some eagerness:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>212]</a></span> +“Will you help me to carry him to a place +where he’ll be safe?”</p> + +<p>“Gladly.” The Frenchman looked about. +“Surely, he can be cared for near here.”</p> + +<p>But Rodman laid a persuasive hand on the +other’s arm.</p> + +<p>“He must be taken to the water front,” he +declared, earnestly. “After the conference, he +would not be safe here.”</p> + +<p>The stranger drew back, and stood for a moment +twisting his dark mustache, while his eyes +frowned inquiringly. He was disinclined to +take part in proceedings that might have political +after-effects. He had volunteered to assist +an injured civilian, not a participant, or refugee. +There were many such in the streets.</p> + +<p>“This is a matter of life and death,” urged +Rodman, rapidly. “This man is Mr. Robert +Saxon. He had left this coast with a clean bill +of health. I explain all this because I need your +help. When he had made a part of his return +journey, he learned by chance that the city was +threatened, and that a lady who was very important +to him was in danger. He hastened +back. In order to reach her, he became +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>213]</a></span> +involved, and used the <i>insurrecto</i> countersign. +Mr. Saxon is a famous artist.” Rodman was +giving the version of the story he knew the +wounded man would wish to have told. He +said nothing of Carter.</p> + +<p>At the last words, the stranger started forward.</p> + +<p>“A famous painter!” His voice was full +of incredulous interest. “Monsieur, you can +not by any possibility mean that this is Robert +A. Saxon, the first disciple of Frederick Marston!” +The man’s manner became enthused +and eager. “You must know, monsieur,” he +went on, “that I am Louis Hervé, myself a +poor copyist of the great Marston. At one +time, I had the honor to be his pupil. To me, it +is a pleasure to be of any service to Mr. Saxon. +What are we to do?”</p> + +<p>“There is a small sailors’ tavern near the +mole,” directed Rodman; “we must take him +there. I shall find a way to have him cared for +on a vessel going seaward. I have a yacht five +miles away, but we can hardly reach it in time.”</p> + +<p>“But medical attention!” demurred Monsieur +Hervé. “He must have that.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>214]</a></span> +Rodman was goaded into impatience by the +necessity for haste. He was in no mood for +debate.</p> + +<p>“Yes, and a trained nurse!” he retorted, +hotly. “We must do the best we can. If +we don’t hurry, he will need an undertaker and +a coroner. Medical attention isn’t very good in +Puerto Frio prisons!”</p> + +<p>The two men lifted Saxon between them, and +carried the unconscious man toward the mole.</p> + +<p>Their task was like that of many others. +They passed a sorry procession of litters, +stretchers, and bodies hanging limply in the +arms of bearers. No one paid the slightest attention +to them, except an occasional sentry who +gazed on in stolid indifference.</p> + +<p>At the tavern kept by the Chinaman, Juan, +and frequented by the roughest elements that +drift against a coast such as this, Rodman exchanged +greetings with many acquaintances. +There were several wounded officers of the +Vegas contingent, taking advantage of the armistice +to have their wounds dressed and discuss +affairs over a bottle of wine. Evidently, +they had come here instead of to more central +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>215]</a></span> +and less squalid places, with the same idea that +had driven Rodman. They were the rats about +to leave the sinking ship—if they could find a +way to leave.</p> + +<p>The tavern was an adobe building with a corrugated-iron +roof and a large open <i>patio</i>, where +a dismal fountain tinkled feebly, and one or +two frayed palms stood dusty and disconsolate +in the tightly trodden earth. About the walls +were flamboyant portraits of saints. From a +small perch in one corner, a yellow and green +parrot squawked incessantly.</p> + +<p>But it was the life about the rough tables of +the area that gave the picture its color and variety. +Some had been pressed into service to +support the wounded. About others gathered +men in tattered uniforms; men with bandaged +heads and arms in slings. Occasionally, one saw +an alien, a sailor whose clothes declared him to +have no place in the drama of the scene. These +latter were usually bolstering up their bravado +with <i>aguardiente</i> against the sense of impending +uncertainty that freighted the atmosphere.</p> + +<p>The Frenchman, sharing with Rodman the +burden of the unconscious painter, instinctively +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>216]</a></span> +halted as the place with its wavering shadows +and flickering lights met his gaze at the door. +It was a picture of color and dramatic intensity. +He seemed to see these varied faces, upon which +sat defeat and suffering, sketched on a broad +canvas, as Marston or Saxon might have +sketched them.</p> + +<p>Then, he laid Saxon down on a corner table, +and stood watching his chance companion who +recognized brother intriguers. Suddenly, Rodman’s +eyes brightened, and he beckoned his lean +hand toward two men who stood apart. Both +of them had faces that were in strong contrast +to the swarthy Latin-American countenances +about them. One was thin and blond, the +other dark and heavy. The two came across +the <i>patio</i> together, and after a hasty glance the +slender man bent at once over the prostrate +figure on the table. His deft fingers and manner +proclaimed him the surgeon. His uniform +was nondescript; hardly more a uniform than +the riding clothes worn by Saxon himself, but +on his shoulders he had pinned a major’s straps. +This was Dr. Cornish, of the Foreign Legion, +but for the moment he was absorbed in his work +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>217]</a></span> +and forgetful of his disastrously adopted profession +of arms.</p> + +<p>He called for water and bandages, and, while +he worked, Rodman was talking with the other +man. Hervé stood silently looking on. He +recognized that the dark man was a ship-captain—probably +commanding a tramp freighter.</p> + +<p>“When did you come?” inquired Rodman.</p> + +<p>“Called at this port for coal,” responded the +other. “I’ve been down to Rio with flour, and +I have to call at La Guayra. I sail in two +hours.”</p> + +<p>“Where do you go from Venezuela?”</p> + +<p>“I sailed out of Havre, and I’m going back +with fruit. The Doc’s had about enough. I’m +goin’ to take him with me.”</p> + +<p>For a moment, Rodman stood speculating, +then he bent eagerly forward.</p> + +<p>“Paul,” he whispered, “you know me. I’ve +done you a turn or two in the past.”</p> + +<p>The sailor nodded.</p> + +<p>“Now, I want you to do me a turn. I want +you to take this man with you. He must get +out of here, and he can’t care for himself. He’ll +be all right—either all right or dead—before +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>218]</a></span> +you land on the other side. The Doc here will +look after him. He’s got money. Whatever +you do for him, he’ll pay handsomely. He’s a +rich man.” The filibuster was talking rapidly +and earnestly.</p> + +<p>“Where do I take him?” asked the captain, +with evident reluctance.</p> + +<p>“Wherever you’re going; anywhere away +from here. He’ll make it all right with you.”</p> + +<p>The captain caught the surgeon’s eyes, and +the surgeon nodded.</p> + +<p>Rodman suddenly remembered Saxon’s story, +the story of the old past that was nothing +more to him than another life, and the other +man upon whom he had turned his back. Possibly, +there might even be efforts at locating the +conspirators. He leaned over, and, though he +sunk his voice low, Hervé heard him say:</p> + +<p>“This gentleman doesn’t want to be found +just now. If people ask about him, you don’t +know who he is, <i>comprende</i>?”</p> + +<p>“That’s no lie, either,” growled the ship-master. +“I ain’t got an idea who he is. I +ain’t sure I want him on my hands.”</p> + +<p>A sudden quiet came on the place. An officer +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>219]</a></span> +had entered the door, his face pale, and, as +though with an instantaneous prescience that he +bore bad tidings, the noises dropped away. The +officer raised his hand, and his words fell on absolute +silence as he said in Spanish:</p> + +<p>“The conference is ended. Vegas surrenders—without +terms.”</p> + +<p>“You see!” exclaimed Rodman, excitedly. +“You see, it’s the last chance! Paul, you’ve got +to take him! In a half-hour, the armistice will +be over. For God’s sake, man!” He ended +with a gesture of appeal.</p> + +<p>The place began to empty.</p> + +<p>“Get him to my boat, then,” acceded the +captain. “Here, you fellows, lend a hand. +Come on, Doc.” The man who had a ship at +anchor was in a hurry. “Don’t whisper that +I’m sailing; I can’t carry all the people that +want to leave this town to-night. I’ve got to +slip away. Hurry up.”</p> + +<p>A quarter of an hour later, Hervé stood at +the mole with Rodman, watching the row-boat +that took the other trio out to the tramp +steamer, bound ultimately for France. Rodman +seized his watch, and studied its face under a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>220]</a></span> +street-lamp with something akin to frantic +anxiety.</p> + +<p>“Where do you go, monsieur?” inquired +the Frenchman.</p> + +<p>“Go? God knows!” replied Rodman, as he +gazed about in perplexity. “But I’ve got to +beat it, and beat it quick.”</p> + +<p>A moment later, he was lost in the shadows.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>221]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap14" id="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV</h2> + + +<p>When Duska Filson had gone out into the +woods that day to read Saxon’s runaway letter, +she had at once decided to follow, with regal +disdain of half-way methods. To her own +straight-thinking mind, unhampered with petty +conventional intricacies, it was all perfectly +clear. The ordinary woman would have waited, +perhaps in deep distress and tearful anxiety, for +some news of the man she loved, because he had +gone away, and it is not customary for the +woman to follow her wandering lover over a +quadrant of the earth’s circumference. Duska +Filson was not of the type that sheds tears or +remains inactive. To one man in the world, +she had said, “I love you,” and to her that settled +everything. He had gone to the place +where his life was imperiled in the effort to +bring back to her a clear record. If he were +fortunate, her congratulation, direct from her +own heart and lips, should be the first he heard. +If he were to be plunged into misery, then above +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>222]</a></span> +all other times she should be there. Otherwise, +what was the use of loving him?</p> + +<p>But, when the steamer was under way, crawling +slowly down the world by the same route he +had taken, the days between quick sunrise and +sudden sunset seemed interminable.</p> + +<p>Outwardly, she was the blithest passenger on +the steamer, and daily she held a sort of <i>salon</i> +for the few other passengers who were doomed +to the heat and the weariness of such a voyage.</p> + +<p>But, when she was alone with Steele in the +evening, looking off at the moonlit sea, or in +her own cabin, her brow would furrow, and her +hands would clench with the tensity of her anxiety. +And, when at last Puerto Frio showed +across the purple water with a glow of brief +sunset behind the brown shoulder of San Francisco, +she stood by the rail, almost holding her +breath in suspense, while the anchor chains ran +out.</p> + +<p>As soon as Steele had ensconced Mrs. Horton +and Duska at the <i>Frances y Ingles</i>, he hurried +to the American Legation for news of +Saxon. When he left Duska in the hotel <i>patio</i>, +he knew, from the anxious little smile she threw +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>223]</a></span> +after him, that for her the jury deciding the +supreme question was going out, leaving her as +a defendant is left when the panel files into the +room where they ballot on his fate. He rushed +over to the legation with sickening fear that, +when he came back, it might have to be like +the juryman whose verdict is adverse.</p> + +<p>As it happened, he caught Mr. Pendleton +without delay, and before he had finished his +question the envoy was looking about for his +Panama hat. Mr. Pendleton wanted to do several +things at once. He wanted to tell the story +of Saxon’s coming and going, and he wanted to +go in person, and have the party moved over +to the legation, where they must be his guests +while they remained in Puerto Frio. It would +be several days before another steamer sailed +north. They had missed by a day the vessel on +which Saxon had gone. Meanwhile, there were +sights in the town that might beguile the intervening +time. Saxon had interested the envoy, +and Saxon’s friends were welcome. Hospitality +is simplified in places where faces from God’s +country are things to greet with the fervor of +delight.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>224]</a></span> +At dinner that evening, sitting at the right +of the minister, Duska heard the full narrative +of Saxon’s brief stay and return home. Mr. +Pendleton was at his best. There was no diplomatic +formality, and the girl, under the reaction +and relief of her dispelled anxiety, though +still disappointed at the hapless coincidence of +missing Saxon, was as gay and childlike as +though she had not just emerged from an overshadowing +uncertainty.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry that he couldn’t accept my hospitality +here at the legation,” said the minister +at the end of his story, with much mock +solemnity, “but etiquette in diplomatic circles +is quite rigid, and he had an appointment to +sleep at the palace.”</p> + +<p>“So, they jugged him!” chuckled Steele, with +a grin that threatened his ears. “I always suspected +he’d wind up in the Bastile.”</p> + +<p>“He was,” corrected the girl, her chin high, +though her eyes sparkled, “a guest of the President, +and, as became his dignity, was supplied +with a military escort.”</p> + +<p>“He needn’t permit himself any vaunting +pride about that,” Steele assured her. “It’s +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>225]</a></span> +just difference of method. In our country, a +similar honor would have been accorded with +a patrol wagon and a couple of policemen.”</p> + +<p>After dinner, Duska insisted on dispatching a +cablegram which should intercept the <i>City of +Rio</i> at some point below the Isthmus. It was +not an original telegram, but, had Saxon received +it, it would have delighted him immoderately. +She said:</p> + +<p>“I told you so. Sail by <i>Orinoco</i>.”</p> + +<p>The following morning, there were tours of +discovery, personally conducted by the young +Mr. Partridge. Duska had wanted to leave +the carriage at the old cathedral, and stand flat +against the blank wall, but she refrained, and +satisfied herself with marching up very close +and regarding it with hostility. As the carriage +turned into the main plaza, a regiment +of infantry went by, the band marching ahead +playing, with the usual blare, the national anthem. +Then, as the coachman drew up his +horses at the legation door, there was sudden +confusion, followed by the noise of popping +guns. It was the hour just preceding the noon +<i>siesta</i>. The plaza was indolent with lounging +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>226]</a></span> +figures, and droning in the sleeping sing-song +chorus of lazy voices. At the sound, which for +the moment impressed the girl like the exploding +of a pack of giant crackers, a sudden stillness +fell on the place, closely followed by a +startled outcry of voices as the figures in the +plaza broke wildly for cover, futilely attempting +to shield their faces with their arms against +possible bullets. Then, there came a deeper detonation, +and somewhere the crumbling of an +adobe wall. The first sound came just as Mrs. +Horton was stepping to the sidewalk. Duska +had already leaped lightly out, and stood looking +on in surprise. But Mr. Partridge knew +his Puerto Frio. He led them hastily through +the huge street-doors, and they had no sooner +passed than the porter, with many mumbled +prayers to the Holy Mother, slammed the great +barriers against the outside world. The final +assault for <i>Vegas y Libertad</i> had at last begun.</p> + +<p>Mr. Pendleton had insisted that the ladies remain +at the rear of the house, but Duska, with +her adventurous passion for seeing all there +was to see, threatened insubordination. To her, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>227]</a></span> +the idea of leaving several perfectly good balconies +vacant, and staying at the back of a house, +when the only battle one would probably ever +see was occurring in the street just outside, +seemed far from sensible. But, after she had +looked out for a few moments, had seen a belated +fruit-vender crumple to the street, and +had smelled the acrid stench of the burnt powder, +she was willing to turn away.</p> + +<p>Inasmuch as the stay of Duska and her aunt +involved several days of waiting for the sailing +of the next ship, Duska was somewhat surprised +at hearing nothing from Saxon in the meanwhile. +He had had time to reach the point to +which the cablegram was addressed. She had +told him she would sail by the <i>Orinoco</i>, since +that was the first available steamer. At such +a time, Saxon would certainly answer that message. +She fancied he would even manage to +join her steamer, either by coming down to +meet it, or waiting to intercept it at the place +where he had received her message. Consequently, +when she reached that port and sailed +again without either seeing Saxon or receiving +a message from him, she was decidedly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>228]</a></span> +surprised, and, though she did not admit it even to +herself, she was likewise alarmed.</p> + +<p>It happened that one of her fellow passengers +on the steamer <i>Orinoco</i> was a tall, grave +gentleman, who wore his beard trimmed in the +French fashion, and who in his bearing had a +certain air of distinction.</p> + +<p>On a coast vessel, it was unusual for a passenger +to hold himself apart and reserved +against the chance companionships of a voyage. +Yet, this gentleman did so. He had been introduced +by the captain as M. Hervé, had +bowed and smiled, but since that he had not +sought to further the acquaintanceship, or to +recognize it except by a polite bow or smile +when he passed one of the party on his solitary +deck promenades.</p> + +<p>Possibly, this perfunctory greeting would +have been the limit and confine of their associations, +had he not chanced to be standing one +day near enough to Duska and Steele to overhear +their conversation. The voyage was almost +ended, and New York was not far off. +Long ago, the lush rankness of the tropics had +given way to the more temperate beauty of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>229]</a></span> +higher zones, and this beauty was the beauty +of early autumn.</p> + +<p>Steele was talking of Frederick Marston, and +the girl was listening with interest. As long as +Saxon insisted on remaining the first disciple, she +must of course be interested in his demi-god. +Just now, however, Saxon’s name was not mentioned. +Finally, the stranger turned, and came +over with a smile.</p> + +<p>“When I hear the name of Frederick Marston,” +he said, “I am challenged to interest. +Would I be asking too much if I sought to join +you in your talk of him?”</p> + +<p>The girl looked up and welcomed him with +her accustomed graciousness, while Steele drew +up a camp-stool, and the Frenchman seated himself.</p> + +<p>For a while, he listened sitting there, his fingers +clasped about his somewhat stout knee, +and his face gravely speculative, contributing to +the conversation nothing except his attention.</p> + +<p>“You see, I am interested in Marston,” he +at length began.</p> + +<p>The girl hesitated. She had just been expressing +the opinion, possibly absorbed from +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>230]</a></span> +Saxon, that the personality of the artist was extremely +disagreeable. As she glanced at M. +Hervé, the thought flashed through her mind +that this might possibly be Marston himself. +She knew that master’s fondness for the incognito. +But she dismissed the idea as highly fanciful, +and even ventured frankly to repeat her +criticism.</p> + +<p>At last, Hervé replied, with great gravity:</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle, I had the honor to know the +great Frederick Marston once. It was some +years ago. He keeps himself much as a hermit +might in these days, but I am sure that the +portion of the story I know is not that of the +vain man or of the poseur. Possibly,” he hesitated +modestly, “it might interest mademoiselle?”</p> + +<p>“I’m sure of it,” declared the girl.</p> + +<p>“Marston,” he began, “drifted into the +Paris <i>ateliers</i> from your country, callow, morbid, +painfully young and totally inexperienced. +He was a tall, gaunt boy with a beard that grew +hardly as fast as his career, though finally it +covered his face. Books and pictures he knew +with passionate love. With life, he was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>231]</a></span> +unacquainted; at men, he looked distantly over the +deep chasm of his bashfulness. Women he +feared, and of them he knew no more than he +knew of dragons.</p> + +<p>“He was eighteen then. He was in the +<i>Salon</i> at twenty-two, and at the height of fame +at twenty-six. He is now only thirty-three. +What he will be at forty, one can not surmise.”</p> + +<p>The Frenchman gazed for a moment at the +spiraling smoke from his cigarette, and halted +with the uncertainty of a bard who doubts his +ability to do justice to his lay.</p> + +<p>“I find the story difficult.” He smiled with +some diffidence, then continued: “Had I the art +to tell it, it would be pathos. Marston was a +generous fellow, beloved by those who knew +him, but quarantined by his morbid reserve +from wide acquaintanceship. Temperament—ah, +that is a wonderful thing! It is to a man +what clouds and mists are to a land! Without +them, there is only arid desert—with too many, +there are storm and endless rain and dreary +winds. He had the storms and rain and winds +in his life—but over all he had the genius! The +masters knew that before they had criticized +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>232]</a></span> +him six months. In a year, they stood abashed +before him.”</p> + +<p>“Go on, please!” prompted Duska, in a soft +voice of sympathetic interest.</p> + +<p>“He dreaded notoriety, he feared fame. He +never had a photograph taken, and, when it was +his turn to pose in the sketch classes, where the +students alternate as models for their fellows, +his nervousness was actual suffering. To be +looked at meant, for him, to drop his eyes and +find his hands in his way—the hands that could +paint the finest pictures in Europe!”</p> + +<p>“To understand his half-mad conduct, one +must understand his half-mad genius. To most +men who can command fame, the plaudits of +clapping hands are as the incense of triumph. +To him, there was but the art itself—the praise +meant only embarrassment. His ideal was that +of the English poet—a land where</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘—only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And no one shall work for money and no one shall work for fame.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p>That was what he wished, and could not have +in Paris.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>233]</a></span> +“It was in painting only that he forgot himself, +and became a disembodied magic behind a +brush. When a picture called down unusual +comment from critics and press, he would disappear—remain +out of sight for months. No +one knew where he went. Once, I remember, +in my time, he stayed away almost a year.</p> + +<p>“He knew one woman in Paris, besides the +models, who were to him impersonal things. +Of that one woman alone, he was not afraid. +She was a pathetic sort of a girl. Her large +eyes followed him with adoring hero-worship. +She was the daughter of an English painter +who could not paint, one Alfred St. John, who +lodged in the rear of the floor above. She +herself was a poet who could not write verse. +To her, he talked without bashfulness, and for +her he felt vast sorrow. Love! <i>Mon dieu</i>, no! +If he had loved her, he would have fled from +her in terror!</p> + +<p>“But she loved him. Then, he fell ill. Typhoid +it was, and for weeks he was in his bed, +with the papers crying out each day what a disaster +threatened France and the world, if he +should die. And she nursed him, denying +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>234]</a></span> +herself rest. Typhoid may be helped by a physician, +but the patient owes his life to the nurse. +When he recovered, his one obsessing thought +was that his life really belonged to her rather +than to himself. I have already said he was +morbid half to the point of madness. Genius +is sometimes so!</p> + +<p>“By no means a constant <i>absintheur</i>, in +his moods he liked to watch the opalescent +gleams that flash in a glass of <i>Pernod</i>. One +night, when he had taken more perhaps than +was his custom, he returned to his lodgings, resolved +to pay the debt, with an offer of marriage.</p> + +<p>“I do not know how much was the morbidness +of his own temperament, and how much +was the absinthe. I know that after that it was +all wormwood for them both.</p> + +<p>“She was proud. She soon divined that he +had asked her solely out of sympathy, and perhaps +it was at her urging that he left Paris +alone. Perhaps, it was because his fame was becoming +too great to allow his remaining there +longer a recluse. At all events, he went away +without warning—fled precipitantly. No one +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>235]</a></span> +was astonished. His friends only laughed. For +a year they laughed, then they became a trifle +uneasy. Finally, however, these fears abated. +St. John, his father-in-law, admitted that he was +in constant correspondence with the master, and +knew where he was in hiding. He refused to +divulge his secret of place. He said that Marston +exacted this promise—that he wanted to +hide. Then came new pictures, which St. John +handled as his son-in-law’s agent. Paris delighted +in them. Marston travels about now, +and paints. Whether he is mildly mad, or only +as mad as his exaggerated genius makes him, I +have often wondered.”</p> + +<p>“What became of the poor girl?” Duska’s +voice put the question, very tenderly.</p> + +<p>“She, also, left Paris. Whether she let her +love conquer her pride and joined him, or +whether she went elsewhere—also alone, no one +knows but St. John, and he does not encourage +questions.”</p> + +<p>“I hope,” said the girl slowly, “she went +back, and made him love her.”</p> + +<p>Hervé caught the melting sympathy in +Duska’s eyes, and his own were responsive.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>236]</a></span> +“If she did,” he said with conviction, “it +must have made the master happy. He gave +her what he could. He did not withhold his +heart from stint, but because it was so written.” +He paused, then in a lighter voice went on:</p> + +<p>“And, speaking of Marston, one finds it impossible +to refrain from reciting an extraordinary +adventure that has just befallen his +first disciple, Mr. Saxon, who is a countryman +of yours.”</p> + +<p>The girl’s eyes came suddenly away from the +sea to the face of the speaker, as he continued:</p> + +<p>“I happened to be on the streets, when wiser +folk were in their homes, just after the battle +in Puerto Frio. I found Mr. Robert Saxon—perhaps +the second landscape painter in the +world—lying wounded on a pavement among +dead revolutionists, and I helped to carry him +to an <i>insurrecto</i> haunt. He was smuggled unconscious +on a ship sailing for some point in +my own land—Havre, I think. <i>Allons!</i> Life +plays pranks with men that make the fairy tales +seem feeble!”</p> + +<p>Steele had been so astounded that he had +found no opportunity to stop the Frenchman. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>237]</a></span> +Now, as he made a sign, M. Hervé looked at +the girl. She was sitting quite rigid in her +steamer chair, and her lips were white. Her +eyes were on his own, and were entirely steady.</p> + +<p>“Will you tell us the whole story, M. +Hervé?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“<i>Mon dieu!</i> I have been indiscreet. I have +made a <i>faux pas</i>!”</p> + +<p>The Frenchman’s distress was genuinely +deep.</p> + +<p>“No,” answered the girl. “I must know all +the story. I thank you for telling me.”</p> + +<p>As Hervé told his story, he realized that the +woman whom Saxon had turned back to warn, +according to Rodman’s sketching, was the +woman sitting before him on the deck of the +<i>Orinoco</i>.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>238]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap15" id="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV</h2> + + +<p>Captain Harris had been, like Rodman, +one of the men who make up the world’s flotsam +and jetsam. He, too, had meddled in the +affairs of that unstable belt which lies just above +and below the “line.” South and Central +American politics and methods were familiar +to him. He had not attained the command of +the tramp freighter <i>Albatross</i> without learning +one decisive lesson, that of eliminating curiosity +from his plan of living. He argued that +his passenger was an <i>insurrecto</i>, and, once seized +in Puerto Frio, could hardly hope to shield +himself behind American citizenship. There +had been many men in Puerto Frio when the +captain sailed who would have paid well for +passage to any port beyond the frontier, but to +have taken them might have brought complications. +He had been able at some risk to slip +two men at most to his vessel under the curtain +of night, and to clear without interference. He +had chosen the man who was his friend, Dr. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>239]</a></span> +Cornish, and the man who was his countryman +and helpless. Of course, all the premises upon +which both Rodman and this sea-going man +acted were false premises. Had he been left, +Saxon would have been in no danger. He had +none the less been shanghaied for a voyage of +great length, and he had been shanghaied out +of sincere kindness.</p> + +<p>It had not occurred to either the captain or +the physician that the situation could outlast +the voyage. The man had a fractured skull, +and he might die, or he might recover; but one +or the other he must do, and that presumably +before the completion of the trip across the +Atlantic. That he should remain in a comatose +state for days proved mildly surprising +and interesting to the physician, but that at +the end of this time he should suffer a long attack +of brain fever was an unexpected development. +Saxon knew nothing of his journeying, +and his only conversation was that of delirium. +He owed his life to the skill and vigilance of +the doctor, who had seen and treated human +ills under many crude conditions, and who devoted +himself with absorption to the case. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>240]</a></span> +Neither the physician nor the captain knew +that the man had once been called Robert +Saxon. There was nothing to identify him. +He had come aboard in the riding clothes borrowed +from the lockers of the <i>Phyllis</i>, and his +pockets held only a rusty key, some American +gold and a little South American silver. Without +name or consciousness or baggage, he was +slowly crossing the Atlantic.</p> + +<p>Other clothing was provided, and into the +newer pockets Captain Harris and Dr. Cornish +scrupulously transferred these articles. That +Carter, if he recovered, could reimburse the +skipper was never questioned. If he died, the +care given him would be charged to the account +of humanity, together with other services this +rough man had rendered in his diversified career.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, on the steamer <i>Orinoco</i>, the girl +was finding her clear, unflinching courage subjected +to the longest, fiercest siege of suspense, +and Steele tried in every possible manner to comfort +the afflicted girl in this time of her trial and +to alleviate matters with optimistic suggestions. +M. Hervé was in great distress over having +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>241]</a></span> +been the unwitting cause of fears which he +hoped the future would clear away. His aloofness +had ended, and, like Steele, he attached +himself to her personal following, and sought +with a hundred polite attentions to mitigate +what he regarded as suffering of his authorship. +Duska’s impulse had been to leave the vessel +at the first American port, but Steele had dissuaded +her. His plan was to wire to Kentucky +at the earliest possible moment, and learn +whether there had been any message from +Saxon. Failing in that, he advocated going on +to New York. If by any chance Saxon had +come back to the States; if, for example, he had +recovered <i>en voyage</i> and been transferred, as +was not impossible, to a west-bound vessel, his +agent in New York might have some tidings.</p> + +<p>Hervé cursed himself for his failure to learn, +in the confused half-hour at the Puerto Frio +tavern, the name of the vessel that had taken +Saxon on board, or at least the name of the fellow +refugee who had befriended him.</p> + +<p>When the ship came abreast of the fanglike +skyline of Manhattan Island, and was shouldered +against its pier at Brooklyn by swarming +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>242]</a></span> +tugs, the girl, although outwardly calm, was not +far from inward despair.</p> + +<p>Steele’s first step was the effort to learn what +steamer it might have been that left Puerto +Frio for Venezuela and thence for France. But, +in the promiscuous fleets of rusty-hulled tramps +that beat their way about the world, following +a system hardly more fixed than the course of +a night-hawk cab about a city’s streets, the effort +met only failure.</p> + +<p>The girl would not consent to an interval of +rest after her sea-voyage, but insisted on accompanying +Steele at once to the establishment of +the art dealer who had the handling of Saxon’s +pictures.</p> + +<p>The dealer had seen Mr. Saxon some time +before as the artist passed through New York, +but since that time had received no word. +He had held a successful exhibition, and had +written several letters to the Kentucky address +furnished him, but to none of them had there +been a reply. The dealer was enthusiastic over +the art of the painter, and showed the visitors +a number of clippings and reviews that were +rather adulation than criticism.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>243]</a></span> +The girl glanced at them impatiently. The +work was great, and she was proud of its praise, +but just now she was feeling that it really +meant nothing at all to her in comparison with +the painter himself. To her, he would have +been quite as important, she realized, had no +critic praised him; had his brush never forced +a compliment from the world. Her brow +gathered in perplexity over one paragraph that +met her eye.</p> + +<p>“The most notable piece of work that has +yet come from this remarkable palette,” said +the critic, “is a canvas entitled, ‘Portrait of a +lady.’ In this, Mr. Saxon has done something +more than approximate the genius of Frederick +Marston. He has seemed to carry it a point +forward, and one is led to believe that such an +effort may be the door through which the artist +shall issue from the distinction of being ‘Marston’s +first disciple’ into a larger distinction +more absolutely his own.” There was more, +but the feature which caught her eye was the +fact stated that, “A gentleman bought this picture +for his private collection, refusing to give +his name.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>244]</a></span> +“What does it mean?” demanded Duska, +handing the clipping to Steele. “That picture +and the landscape from the Knob were not for +sale.”</p> + +<p>The dealer was puzzled.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Saxon,” he explained, “directed that +from this assignment two pictures were to be +reserved. They were designated by marks on +the back of the cases and the canvases. Neither +the portrait nor the landscape was so marked.”</p> + +<p>“He must have made a mistake, in the hurry +of packing,” exclaimed the girl, in deep distress. +“He must have marked them wrong!”</p> + +<p>“Who bought them?” demanded Steele.</p> + +<p>The dealer shook his head.</p> + +<p>“It was a gentleman, evidently an Englishman, +though he said he lived in Paris. He declined +to give his name, and paid cash. He +took the pictures with him in a cab to his hotel. +He did not even state where he was stopping.” +The dealer paused, then added: “He explained +to me that he collected for the love of pictures, +and that he found the notoriety attaching to +the purchase of famous paintings extremely +distasteful.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>245]</a></span> +“Have you ever seen this gentleman before?” +urged Steele.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” the art agent answered reflectively, +“he has from time to time picked up several +of Mr. Saxon’s pictures, and his conversation +indicated that he was equally familiar with the +work of Marston himself. He said he knew +the Paris agent of Mr. Saxon quite well, and it +is possible that through that source you might +be able to locate him. I am very sorry the +mistake occurred, and, while I am positive that +you will find the letters ‘N. F. S.’ (not for +sale) on the two pictures I have held, I shall do +all in my power to trace the lost ones.”</p> + +<p>In one of the packing rooms, the suspicions of +Duska were corroborated. Two canvases were +found about the same shape and size as the two +that had been bought by the foreign art-lover. +Palpably, Saxon, in his hurry of boxing, had +wrongly labeled them.</p> + +<p>In the flood of her despair, the girl found +room for a new pang. It was not only because +these pictures were the fulfillment of Saxon’s +most mature genius that their loss became a little +tragedy; not even merely because in them +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>246]</a></span> +she felt that she had in a measure triumphed +over Marston’s hold on the man she loved, but +because by every association that was important +to her and to him they were canonized.</p> + +<p>That evening, Steele made his announcement. +He was going to Havre and Paris. If anything +could be learned at that end, he would +find it out, and while there he would trace the +pictures.</p> + +<p>“You see,” he assured her, with a cheery +confidence he by no means felt, “it’s really +much simpler than it looks. He was hurt, and +he did not recover at once. By the time he +reaches France, the sea-voyage will have restored +him, and he will cable. Those tramp +steamers are slow, and he hasn’t yet had time. +If he takes a little longer to get well, I’ll be +there to look after him, and bring him home.”</p> + +<p>The girl shook her head.</p> + +<p>“You haven’t thought about the main thing,” +she said quickly, leaning forward and resting +her fingers lightly on his arm, “or perhaps you +thought of it, George dear, and were too kind +to speak of it. After this, he may wake up—he +may wake up the other man. I must go to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>247]</a></span> +him myself. I must be with him.” Her voice +became eager and vibrant: “I want to be the +first living being he will greet.”</p> + +<p>Steele found a thousand objections rising up +for utterance, but, as he looked at the steady +blue of her eyes, he left them all unsaid. She +had gone to South America, of course she would +go to France.</p> + + +<p class="hrpad">It would be imaginative flattery to call the +lodgings of Alfred St. John and his daughter +commodious, even with the added comforts that +the late years had brought to the alleviation of +their barrenness. The windows still looked out +over the dismal roofs of the <i>Quartier Latin</i> +and the frowning gray chimney pots where the +sparrows quarreled.</p> + +<p>St. John might have moved to more commodious +quarters, for the days were no longer +as pinched as had been those of the past, yet +he remained in the house where he had lived +before his own ambition died.</p> + +<p>His stock-in-trade was his agency in handling +the paintings of Frederick Marston, the half-mad +painter who, since he had left Paris shortly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>248]</a></span> +after his marriage, had not returned to his ancient +haunts, or had any parcel in the life of +the art world that idolized him, except as he +was represented by this ambassador.</p> + +<p>St. John sold the pictures that the painter, +traveling about, presumably concealing himself +under assumed names, sent back to the waiting +market and the eager critics.</p> + +<p>And St. John knew that, inasmuch as he had +been poor, in the half-starved, hungry way of +being poor, now his commissions clothed him +and paid for his claret, and, above all, made it +possible for him to indulge the one soul he +loved with the simple comforts that softened +her suffering.</p> + +<p>The daughter of St. John required some +small luxuries which it delighted the Englishman +to give her. He had been proud when she +married Frederick Marston, he had been distressed +when the marriage proved a thing of +bitterness, and during the past years he had +watched her grow thin, and had feared at first, +and known later, that she had fallen prey to the +tubercular troubles which had caused her mother’s +death.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>249]</a></span> +St. John had been a petty sort, and had not +withstood the whisperings of dishonest motives. +Paradoxically his admiration for Frederick +Marston was, seemingly at least, wholly sincere.</p> + +<p>In this hero-worship for the painter, who +had failed as a husband to make his daughter +happy, there was no disloyalty for the +daughter. He knew that Marston had given all +but the love he had not been able to give and +that he had simulated this until her own insight +pierced the deception, refusing compassion +where she demanded love.</p> + +<p>The men who rendered unto Marston their +enthusiastic admiration were men of a cult, and +tinged with a sort of cult fanaticism. St. John, +as father-in-law, agent and correspondent, was +enabled to pose along the Boulevard St. Michel +as something of a high priest, and in this small +vanity he gloried. So, when the questioners of +the cafés bombarded him with inquiries as to +when Marston would tire of his pose of hermit +and return to Paris, the British father-in-law +would throw out his shallow chest, and allow +an enigmatical smile to play in his pale eyes, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>250]</a></span> +and a faint uplift to come to the corners of his +thin lips, but he never told.</p> + +<p>“I have a letter here,” he would say, tapping +the pocket of his coat. “The master is +well, and says that he feels his art to be broadening.”</p> + +<p>Between the man and his daughter, the subject +of the painter was never mentioned. After +her return from England, where she had spent +the first year after Marston dropped out of her +life, she had exacted from her father a promise +that his name should not be spoken between +them, and the one law St. John never transgressed +was that of devotion to her.</p> + +<p>Her life was spent in the lodgings, to which +St. John clung because they were in the building +where Marston had painted. She never suggested +a removal to more commodious quarters. +Possibly, into her pallid life had crept a +sentimental fondness for the place for the same +reason. Her weakness was growing into +feebleness. Less, each day, she felt like going +down the steep flights of stairs for a walk in +the Boulevard of St. Michael, and climbing +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>251]</a></span> +them again on her return. More heavily each +day, she leaned on his supporting arm. All +these things St. John noted, and day by day the +traces of sandy red in his mustache and beard +faded more and more into gray, and the furrow +between his pale blue eyes deepened more perceptibly.</p> + +<p>St. John had gone one afternoon to a neighboring +<i>atelier</i>, and the girl, wandering into his +room, saw a portrait standing on the easel +which St. John had formerly used for his own +canvases. Most of the pictures that came here +were Marston’s. This one, like the rest, was +unsigned. She sank into the deeply cushioned +chair that St. John kept for her in his own +apartment, and gazed fixedly at the portrait.</p> + +<p>It was a picture of a woman, and the woman +in the chair smiled at the woman on the canvas.</p> + +<p>“You are very beautiful—my successor!” +she murmured. For a time, she studied the +warm, vivid tones of the painted features, then, +with the same smile, devoid of bitterness, she +went on talking to the other face.</p> + +<p>“I know you are my successor,” she said, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>252]</a></span> +“because the enthusiasm painted into your face +is not the enthusiasm of art alone—nor,” she +added slowly, “is it pity!”</p> + +<p>Then, she noticed that one corner of the canvas +caught the light with the shimmer of wet +paint. It was the corner where ordinarily an +artist affixes his name. She rose and went to +the heavy studio-easel, and looked again with +her eyes close to the stretchers. The paint was +evidently freshly applied to that corner of the +canvas. To her peering gaze, it almost seemed +that through the new coating of the background +she could catch a faint underlying line of red, +as though it had been a stroke in the letter of a +name. Then, she noticed her father’s palette +lying on a chair near the easel, and the brushes +were damp. The lake and Van Dyke brown +and neutral-tint that had been squeezed from +their tubes were mixed into a rich tone on the +palette, which matched the background of the +portrait. Sinking back in the chair, fatigued +even by such a slight exertion, she heard her +father’s returning tread on the stairs.</p> + +<p>From the door, he saw her eyes on the picture, +but true to his promise he remained silent, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>253]</a></span> +though, as he caught her gaze on the palette, his +own eyes took on something of anxiety and +foreboding.</p> + +<p>“Does he sign his pictures now?” she asked +abruptly.</p> + +<p>“No. Why?”</p> + +<p>“It looked—almost,” she said wearily, “as +though the signature had been painted out there +at the corner.”</p> + +<p>For an instant, St. John eyed his daughter +with keen intentness.</p> + +<p>“The canvas was scraped in shipping,” he +said, at last. “I touched up the spot where the +paint was rubbed.”</p> + +<p>For a time, both were silent. The father saw +that two hectic spots glowed on the girl’s bloodless +cheeks, and that her eyes, fixed on the picture, +wore a deeply wistful longing.</p> + +<p>He, too, knew that this picture was a declaration +of love, that in her silence she was torturing +herself with the thought that these other +eyes had stirred the heart that had remained +closed to her. He did not want to admit to +her that this was not a genuine Marston; yet, he +faltered a moment, and resolved that he could +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>254]</a></span> +not, even for so necessary a deception, let her +suffer.</p> + +<p>“That portrait, my child,” he confessed +slowly, “was not painted by—by him. It’s +by another artist, a lesser man, named Saxon.”</p> + +<p>Into the deep-set eyes surged a look of incredulous, +but vast, relief. The frail shoulders +drew back from their shallow-chested sag, and +the thin lips smiled.</p> + +<p>“Doesn’t he sign his pictures, either?” she +demanded, finally.</p> + +<p>For an instant, St. John hesitated awkwardly +for an explanation.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said at last, a little lamely. “This +canvas was cut down for framing, and the signature +was thrown so close to the edge that the +frame conceals the name.” He paused, then +added, quietly: “I have kept my promise of +silence, but now—do you want to hear of <em>him</em>?”</p> + +<p>She looked up—then shook her head, resolutely.</p> + +<p>“No,” she said.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>255]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap16" id="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI</h2> + + +<p>Late one evening in the café beneath the +Elysée Palace Hôtel, a tall man of something +like thirty-five, though aged to the seeming of +a bit more, sat over his brandy and soda and the +perusal of a packet of letters. He wore traveling +dress, and, though the weather had hardly +the bitterness to warrant it, a fur-trimmed great-coat +fell across the empty chair at his side. It +was not yet late enough for the gayety that begins +with midnight, and the place was consequently +uncrowded. The stranger had left a +taxicab at the door a few minutes before, and, +without following his luggage into the office, he +had gone directly to the café, to glance over +his mail before being assigned to a room.</p> + +<p>The man was tall and almost lean. Had +Steele entered the café at that moment, he +would have rushed over to the seated figure, and +grasped a hand with a feeling that his quest +had ended, then, on second sight, he would have +drawn back, incredulous and mystified. This +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>256]</a></span> +guest lacked no feature that Robert Saxon +possessed. His eyes held the same trace of the +dreamer, though a close scrutiny showed also a +hard glitter—his dreams were different. The +hand that held the letter was marked front and +back, though a narrow inspection would have +shown the scar to be a bit more aggravated, +more marked with streaked wrinkles about the +palm. He and the American painter were as +identical as models struck from one die in the +lines and angles that make face and figure. Yet, +in this man, there was something foreign and +alien to Saxon, a difference of soul-texture. +Saxon was a being of flesh, this man a statue of +chilled steel.</p> + +<p>The envelope he had just cast upon the table +fell face upward, and the waiting <i>garçon</i> could +hardly help observing that it was addressed to +Señor George Carter, care of a steamship +agency in the <i>Rue Scribe</i>.</p> + +<p>As Carter read the letter it had contained, +his brows gathered first in great interest, then +in surprise, then in greater interest and greater +surprise.</p> + +<p>“There has been a most strange occurrence +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>257]</a></span> +here,” said the writer, who dated his communication +from Puerto Frio, and wrote in Spanish. +“Just before the revolution broke, a man arrived +who was called Robert A. Saxon. He +was obviously mistaken for you by the government +and was taken into custody, but released +on the interference of his minister. The likeness +was so remarkable that I was myself deceived +and consequently astounded you should +make so bold as to return. He, however, established +a clean bill of health and that very +fact has suggested to me an idea which I think +will likewise commend itself to you, <i>amigo mio</i>. +That I am speaking only from my sincere interest +in you, you need not question when you +consider that I have kept you advised through +these years of matters here and have divulged +to no soul your whereabouts. This man left at +once, but the talk spread rapidly in confidential +circles than an <i>Americano</i> had come who was +the double of yourself. Some men even contended +that it was really you, and that it was +you also who betrayed the plans of Vegas to +the government, but that scandal is not credited. +Most of those who are well informed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>258]</a></span> +know that the traitor was one whom we trusted, +a man who in your day was on the side of the +established government. That man is now in +high influence by reason of playing the Judas, +and it may be that he will make an effort to +secure your extradition. Embezzlement, you +know, is not a political offense, and he still +holds a score against you. You know to whom +I refer. That is why I warn you. You have +a double and your double has a clean record. +For a time if there is no danger of crossing +tracks with him, I should advise that you be +Señor Saxon instead of Señor Carter. This +should be safe enough since Señor Saxon sailed +on the day after his arrival for North America. +I have the felicity to inscribe myself,” etc., +etc. —— A dash served as a signature, but +Carter knew the writing, and was satisfied. For +a time, he sat in deep reverie, then, rising, took +up his coat, and went to the door. His stride +was precisely the stride of Robert Saxon.</p> + +<p>At the desk above, he discussed apartments. +Having found one that suited his taste, he signed +the guest-card with the name of Robert Saxon, +and inquired as to the hour of departure of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>259]</a></span> +trains for Calais on the following morning. He +volunteered the information that he was leaving +then for London. True to his word, on the +next day he left the hotel in a taximeter cab +which turned down the <i>Champs Elysées</i>.</p> + + +<p class="hrpad">When it was definitely settled that Duska and +her aunt were to go to Europe, Steele conceived +a modification of the plans, to which only after +much argument and persuasion and even a +touch of deception he won the girl’s consent. +The object of his amendment was secretly to +give him a chance to arrive first on the scene, +accomplish what he could of search, and be prepared +with fore-knowledge to stand as a buffer +between Duska and the first shock of any ill tidings. +Despite his persistent optimism of argument, +the man was far from confident. The +plan was that the two ladies should embark for +Genoa, and go from there to Paris by rail, while +he should economize days by hurrying over the +northern ocean track. Duska chafed at the delay +involved, but Steele found ingenious arguments. +The tramp steamer, he declared, with +its roundabout course, would be slow, and it +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>260]</a></span> +would be better for him to be armed against +their coming with such facts as he could gather, +in order that he might be a more effective guide.</p> + +<p>Possibly, he argued, the tramp ship had gone +by way of the Madeiras, and might soon be in +the harbor of Funchal. If she took the southerly +track, she could go at once by a steamer +that would give her a day there, and, armed +with letters he would send to the consulate, this +contingency could be probed, leaving him free +to work at the other end. If he learned anything +first, she would learn of it at once by wireless.</p> + +<p>So, at last, he stood on a North River pier, +and saw the girl waving her good-by across the +rail, until the gap of churning water had +widened and blurred the faces on the deck. +Then, he turned and hastened to make his own +final arrangements for sailing by the <i>Mauretania</i> +on the following day.</p> + +<p>In Havre, he found himself utterly baffled. +He haunted the water-front, and browbeat the +agents, all to no successful end.</p> + +<p>In Paris, matters seemed to bode no better +results. He first exhausted the more probable +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>261]</a></span> +points. Saxon’s agent, the <i>commissaire de +police</i>, the consulate, the hospitals—he even +made a melancholy visit to the grewsome building +where the morgue squats behind <i>Nôtre +Dame</i>. Then he began the almost endless round +of hotels. His “taxi” sped about through +the swift, seemingly fluid currents of traffic, as a +man in a hurry can go only in Paris, the frictionless. +The town was familiar to him in +most of its aspects, and he was able to work with +the readiness and certainty of one operating in +accustomed haunts, commanding the tongue +and the methods. At last, he learned of the +registry at the Elysée Palace Hôtel. He questioned +the clerk, and that functionary readily +enough gave him the description of the gentleman +who had so inscribed himself. It was a +description of the man he sought. Steele fell +into one grave error. He did not ask to see +the signature itself. “Where had Monsieur +Saxon gone? To London. <i>Certainment</i>, he +had taken all his luggage with him. No, he +had not spoken of returning to Paris. Yes, +monsieur seemed in excellent health.”</p> + +<p>So, Steele turned his search to London, and in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>262]</a></span> +London found himself even more hopelessly +mixed in baffling perplexity. He had learned +only one thing, and that one thing filled him +with vague alarm. Saxon had apparently been +here. He had been to all seeming sane and +well, and had given his own name. His conduct +was inexplicable. It was inconceivable that he +should have failed to communicate with Duska. +Steele cabled to America, thinking Saxon might +have done so since their departure. Nothing +had been heard at home.</p> + +<p>Late in the afternoon on the day of his arrival +in London, Steele went for a walk, hoping +that before he returned some clew would occur +to him, upon which he could concentrate his +efforts. His steps wandered aimlessly along +Pall Mall, and, after the usage of former habit, +carried him to a club, where past experience +told him he would meet old friends. But, at +the club door, he halted, realizing that he did +not want to meet men. He could think better +alone. So, with his foot on the stone stairs, he +wheeled abruptly, and went on to Trafalgar +Square, where once more he halted, under the +lions of the Nelson Column, and racked his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>263]</a></span> +brain for any thought or hint that might be followed +to a definite end.</p> + +<p>He stood with the perplexed air of a man +without definite objective. The square was +well-nigh empty except for a few loiterers about +the basins, and the view was clear to the elevation +on the side where, at the cab-stand, waited +a row of motor “taxis” and hansoms. The +afternoon was bleak, and the solemn monotone +of London was graver and more forbidding +than usual.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, his heart pounded with a violence +that made his chest feel like a drum. With a +sudden start, he called loudly, “Saxon! Hold +on, Saxon!” then went at a run toward the cab-stand.</p> + +<p>He had caught a fleeting and astounding vision. +A man, with the poise and face that he +sought, had just stepped into one of the waiting +vehicles, and given an order to the driver. Even +in his haste, Steele was too late to do anything +more than take a second cab, and shout to the +man on the box to follow the vehicle that +had just left the curb. As his “taxi” turned +into the Strand, and slurred through the mud +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>264]</a></span> +past the Cecil and the Savoy, he kept his eyes +strained on the cab ahead, threading its way +through the congested traffic, disappearing, +dodging, reappearing, and taxing his gaze to +the utmost. For a moment after they had both +crowded into Fleet Street, he lost it, and, as he +leaned forward, searching the jumble of traffic, +his own vehicle came to a halt just opposite +the Law Courts. He looked hastily out, to +see the familiar shoulders of the man he followed +disappearing beyond a street-door, under +the swinging “Sign of the Cock.”</p> + +<p>Tossing a half-crown to the cabman, he followed +up the stairs, and entered the room, +where the tables were almost deserted. A +group of men was sitting in one of the stalls, +deep in converse, and, though two were hidden +by the dividing partitions, Steele saw the one +figure he sought at the head of the table. The +figure bent forward in conversation, and, while +his voice was low and his words inaudible, the +Kentuckian saw that the eyes were glittering +with a hard, almost malevolent keenness. As he +came hastily forward, he caught the voice: it was +Saxon’s voice, yet infinitely harder. The two +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>265]</a></span> +companions were strangers of foreign aspect, +and they were listening attentively, though one +face wore a sullen scowl.</p> + +<p>Steele came over, and dropped his hand on +the shoulder of the man he had pursued.</p> + +<p>“Bob!” he exclaimed, then halted.</p> + +<p>The three faces looked up simultaneously, +and in all was displeasure for the abrupt interruption +of a conversation evidently intended for +no outside ears. Each expression was blank +and devoid of recognition, and, as the tall man +rose to his feet, his face was blanker than the +others.</p> + +<p>Then, with the greater leisure for scrutiny, +Steele realized his mistake. For a time, he +stood dumfounded at the marvelous resemblance. +He knew without asking that this man +was the double who had brought such a tangle +into his friend’s life. He bowed coldly.</p> + +<p>“I apologize,” he explained, shortly. “I mistook +this gentleman for someone else.”</p> + +<p>The three men inclined their heads stiffly, and +the Kentuckian, dejected by his sudden reverse +from apparent success to failure, turned on his +heel, and left the place. It had not, of course, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>266]</a></span> +occurred to him to connect the appearance of his +snarler of Saxon’s affairs with the name on the +Paris hotel-list, and he was left more baffled +than if he had known only the truth, in that he +had been thrown upon a false trail.</p> + +<p>The Kentuckian joined Mrs. Horton and her +niece in Genoa on their arrival. As he met the +hunger in the girl’s questioning eyes, his heart +sickened at the meagerness of his news. He +could only say that Paris had divulged nothing, +and that a trip to London had been equally +fruitless of result. He did not mention the fact +that Saxon had registered at the hotel. That +detail he wished to spare her.</p> + +<p>She listened to his report, and at its end said +only, “Thank you,” but he knew that something +must be done. A woman who could let herself +be storm-tossed by grief might ride safely out +of such an affair when the tempest had beaten +itself out, but she, who merely smiled more +sadly, would not have even the relief that comes +of surrender to tears.</p> + +<p>At Milan, there was a wait of several hours. +Steele insisted on the girl’s going with him for +a drive. At a picture-exhibition, they stopped.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>267]</a></span> +“Somehow,” said Steele, “I feel that where +there are paintings there may be clews. Shall +we go in?”</p> + +<p>The girl listlessly assented, and they entered +a gallery, which they found already well filled. +Steele was the artist, and, once in the presence +of great pictures, he must gnaw his way along +a gallery wall as a rat gnaws its way through +cheese, devouring as he went, seeing only that +which was directly before him. The girl’s eyes +ranged more restlessly.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, Steele felt her clutch his arm.</p> + +<p>“George!” she breathed in a tense whisper. +“George!”</p> + +<p>He followed her impulsively pointed finger, +and further along, as the crowd of spectators +opened, he saw, smiling from a frame on the +wall, the eyes and lips of the girl herself. Under +the well-arranged lights, the figure stood +out as though it would leave its fixed place on +the canvas and mingle with the human beings +below, hardly more lifelike than itself.</p> + +<p>“The portrait!” exclaimed Steele, breathlessly. +“Come, Duska; that may develop something.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>268]</a></span> +As they anxiously approached, they saw above +the portrait another familiar canvas; a landscape +presenting a stretch of valley and checkered +flat, with hills beyond, and a sky tuneful +with the spirit of a Kentucky June.</p> + +<p>Then, as they came near enough to read the +labels, Steele drew back, startled, and his brows +darkened with anger.</p> + +<p>“My God!” he breathed.</p> + +<p>The girl standing at his elbow read on a +brass tablet under each frame, “Frederick +Marston, pnxt.”</p> + +<p>“What does it mean?” she indignantly demanded, +looking at the man whose face had become +rigid and unreadable.</p> + +<p>“It means they have stolen his pictures!” he +replied, shortly. “It means infamous thievery +at least, and I’m afraid—” In his anger and +surprise, he had almost forgotten to whom he +was speaking. Now, with realization, he bit +off his utterance.</p> + +<p>She was standing very straight.</p> + +<p>“You needn’t be afraid to tell me,” she said +quietly; “I want to know.”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid,” said Steele, “it means foul +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>269]</a></span> +play. Of course,” he added in a moment, +“Marston himself is not a party to the fraud. +It’s conceivable that his agent, this man St. +John, has done this in Marston’s absence. I +must get to Paris and see.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>270]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap17" id="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII</h2> + + +<p>In the compartment of the railway carriage, +Steele was gazing fixedly at the lace +“tidy” on the cushioned back of the opposite +seat. His brows were closely knit in thought. +He was evolving a plan.</p> + +<p>Duska sat with her elbow on the sill of the +compartment window, her chin on her gloved +hand, her eyes gazing out, vague and unseeing. +Yet, she loved beauty, and just outside the panes +there was beauty drawn to a scale of grandeur.</p> + +<p>They were climbing, behind the double-header +of engines, up where it seemed that one +could reach out and touch the close-hanging +clouds, into tunnels and out of tunnels, through +St. Gothard’s Pass and on where the Swiss +Alps reached up into the fog that veiled +the summits. The mountain torrents came +roaring down, to beat their green water into +swirling foam, and dash over the lower rocks +like frenzied mill-races. Her eyes did not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>271]</a></span> +wake to a sparkle at sight of the quaint châlets +which seemed to stagger under huge roof slabs +of rugged slate. She did not even notice how +they perched high on seemingly unattainable +crags like stranded arks on Helvetian Ararats.</p> + +<p>Each tunnel was the darkness between +changed tableaux, and the mouth of each offered +a new and more wonderful picture. The car-windows +framed glimpses of Lake Como, Lake +Lugano, and valleys far beneath where villages +were only a jumble of toy blocks; yet, all these +things did not change the utter weariness of +Duska’s eyes where enthusiasm usually dwelt, +or tempt Steele’s fixity of gaze from the lace +“tidy.”</p> + +<p>At Lucerne, his thinking found expression in +a lengthy telegram to Paris. The Milan exhibit +had opened up a new channel for speculation. +If Saxon’s pictures were being pirated +and sold as Marston’s, there was no one upon +whom suspicion would fall more naturally than +the unscrupulous St. John, Marston’s factor in +Paris. Steele vaguely remembered the Englishman +with his petty pride for his stewardship, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>272]</a></span> +though his own art life had lain in circles that +rarely intercepted that of the Marston cult even +at its outer rim. If this fraud were being practiced, +its author was probably swindling both +artists, and the appearance of either of them in +Paris might drive St. John to desperate means +of self-protection.</p> + +<p>The conversion of the rooms formerly occupied +by Marston into a school had been St. +John’s doing. This <i>atelier</i> was in the house +where St. John himself lived, and the Kentuckian +knew that, unless he had moved his lodgings, +he could still be found there, as could the +very minor “academy” of Marston-idolizers, +with their none-too-exalted instructor, Jean +Hautecoeur.</p> + +<p>At all events, it was to this address that Steele +directed his message. Its purport was to inform +St. John that Americans, who had only a +short stay in Paris, were anxious to procure a +Marston of late date, and to summon him to +the Hôtel Palais d’Orsay for the day of their +arrival there.</p> + +<p>When they reached the hotel, he told the girl +of his plan, suggesting that it might be best for +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>273]</a></span> +him to have this interview with the agent alone, +but admitting that, if she insisted on being present, +it was her right. She elected to hear the +conversation, and, when St. John arrived, he +was conducted to the sitting-room of Mrs. Horton’s +suite.</p> + +<p>Pleased with the prospect of remunerative +sales, Marston’s agent made his entrance jauntily. +The shabbiness of the old days had been +put by. He was now sprucely clothed, and in +his lapel he wore a bunch of violets.</p> + +<p>His thin, dissipated face was adorned with +a rakishly trimmed mustache and Vandyke of +gray which still held a fading trace of its erstwhile +sandy red. His eyes were pale and restless +as he stood bowing at the door. The +afternoon was waning, and the lights had not +yet been turned on.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Steele?” he inquired.</p> + +<p>Steele nodded.</p> + +<p>St. John looked expectantly toward the girl +in the shadow, as though awaiting an introduction, +which was not forthcoming. As he looked, +he seemed to grow suddenly nervous and ill-at-ease.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>274]</a></span> +“You are Mr. Marston’s agent, I believe?” +Steele spoke crisply.</p> + +<p>“I have had that honor since Mr. Marston +left Paris some years ago. You know, doubtless, +that the master spends his time in foreign +travel.” The agent spoke with a touch of self-importance.</p> + +<p>“I want you to deliver to me here the portrait +and the landscape now on exhibition at +Milan,” ordered the American.</p> + +<p>“It will be difficult—perhaps expensive—but +I think it may be possible.” St. John spoke +dubiously.</p> + +<p>Steele’s eyes narrowed.</p> + +<p>“I am not requesting,” he announced, “I am +ordering.”</p> + +<p>“But those canvases, my dear sir, represent +the highest note of a master’s work!” began +St. John, almost indignantly. “They are the +perfection of the art of the greatest living +painter, and you direct me to procure them as +though they were a grocer’s staple on a shelf! +Already, they are as good as sold. One does +not have to peddle Marston’s canvases!”</p> + +<p>Steele walked over to the door, and, planting +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>275]</a></span> +his back against its panels, folded his arms. +His voice was deliberate and dangerous:</p> + +<p>“It’s not worth while to bandy lies with you. +We both know that those pictures are from the +brush of Robert Saxon. We both know that +you have bought them at the price of a pupil’s +work, and mean to sell them at the price of the +master’s. I shall be in a position to prove the +swindle, and to hand you over to the courts.”</p> + +<p>St. John had at the first words stiffened with +a sudden flaring of British wrath under his gray +brows. As he listened, the red flush of anger +faded to the coward’s pallor.</p> + +<p>“That is not all,” went on Steele. “We +both know that Mr. Saxon came to Paris a +short while ago. For him to learn the truth +meant your unmasking. He disappeared. We +both know whose interests were served by that +disappearance. You will produce those canvases, +and you will produce Mr. Saxon within +twenty-four hours, or you will face not only exposure +for art-piracy, but prosecution for what +is more serious.”</p> + +<p>As he listened, St. John’s face betrayed not +only fear, but also a slowly dawning wonder +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>276]</a></span> +that dilated his vague pupils. Steele, keenly +reading the face, as he talked, knew that the +surprise was genuine.</p> + +<p>“As God is my witness,” avowed the Englishman, +earnestly, “if Mr. Saxon is in Paris, +or in Europe, I know nothing of it.”</p> + +<p>“That,” observed Steele dryly, “will be a +matter for you to prove.”</p> + +<p>“No, no!” The Englishman’s voice was +charged with genuine terror, and the hand that +he raised in pleading protest trembled. His +carefully counterfeited sprightliness of guise +dropped away, and left him an old man, much +broken.</p> + +<p>“I will tell you the whole story,” he went +on. “It’s a miserable enough tale without imputing +such evil motives as you suggest. It’s +a shameful confession, and I shall hold back +nothing. The pictures you saw are Saxon’s +pictures. Of course, I knew that. Of course, +I bought them at what his canvases would bring +with the intention of selling them at the +greater price commanded by the greater painter. +I knew that the copyist had surpassed the master, +but the world did not know. I knew that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>277]</a></span> +Europe would never admit that possible. I +knew that, if once I palmed off this imitation +as genuine, all the art-world would laugh to +scorn the man who announced the fraud. Mr. +Saxon himself could not hope to persuade the +critics that he had done those pictures, once +they were accepted as Marston’s. The art-world +is led like sheep. It believes there is +one Marston, and that no other can counterfeit +him. And I knew that Marston himself +could not expose me, because I know that +Marston is dead.” The man was ripping out +his story in labored, detached sentences.</p> + +<p>Steele looked up with astonished eyes. The +girl sat listening, with her lips parted.</p> + +<p>“You see—” the Englishman’s voice was impassioned +in its bitterness—“I am not shielding +myself. I am giving you the unrelieved +truth. When I determined the fact of his +death, I devised a scheme. I did not at that +time know that this American would be able +to paint pictures that could be mistaken for +Marston’s. Had I known it, I should have endeavored +to ascertain if he would share the +scheme with me. Collaborating in the fraud, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>278]</a></span> +we could have levied fortunes from the art +world, whereas in his own name he must have +painted a decade more to win the verdict of +his true greatness. I was Marston’s agent. I +am Marston’s father-in-law. When I speak, it +is as his ambassador. Men believe me. My +daughter—” the man’s voice broke—“my +daughter lies on her death-bed. For her, there +are a few months, perhaps only a few weeks, +left of life. I have provided for her by trading +on the name and greatness of her husband. +If you turn me over to the police, you will kill +her. For myself, it would be just, but I am +not guilty of harming Mr. Saxon, and she is +guilty of nothing.” The narrator halted in his +story, and covered his face with his talon-like +fingers. St. John was not a strong man. The +metal of his soul was soft and without temper. +He dropped into a chair, and for a while, as +his auditors waited in silence, gave way to his +emotion.</p> + +<p>“I tell you,” he groaned, “I have at least +been true to one thing in life. I have loved +my child. I don’t want her punished for my +offenses.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>279]</a></span> +Suddenly, he rose and faced the girl.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know you,” he said passionately, +“but I am an old man. I am an outcast—a +derelict! I was not held fit for an introduction, +but I appeal to you. Life can drive a +man to anything. Life has driven me to most +things, but not to all. I knew that any day +might bring my exposure. If it had come after +my daughter’s death, I would have been satisfied. +I have for months been watching her die—wanting +her to live, yet knowing that her +death and my disgrace were racing together.” +He paused, then added in a quaking voice: +“There were days when I might have been +introduced to a woman like you, many years +ago.”</p> + +<p>Duska was not fitted by nature to officiate +at “third degree” proceedings. As she looked +back into the beseeching face, she saw only that +it was the face of an old man, broken and terrified, +and that even through its gray terror it +showed the love of which he talked.</p> + +<p>Her hand fell gently on his shoulder.</p> + +<p>“I am sorry—about your daughter,” she +said, softly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>280]</a></span> +St. John straightened, and spoke more steadily.</p> + +<p>“The story is not ended. In those days, it +was almost starvation. No one would buy +my pictures. No one would buy her verse. +The one source of revenue we might have +had was what Marston sought to give us, but +that she would not accept. She said she had +not married him for alimony. He tried often +and in many ways, but she refused. Then, +he left. He had done that before. No one +wondered. After his absence had run to two +years, I was in Spain, and stumbled on a +house, a sort of <i>pension</i>, near Granada, where +he had been painting under an assumed name, +as was his custom. Then, he had gone again—no +one knew where. But he had left behind +him a great stack of finished canvases. <i>Mon +dieu</i>, how feverishly the man must have +worked during those months—for he had then +been away from the place almost a year. The +woman who owned the house did not know the +value of the pictures. She only knew that he +had ordered his rooms reserved, and had not +returned, and that rental and storage were due +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>281]</a></span> +her. I paid the charges, and took the pictures. +Then, I investigated. My investigations proved +that my surmise as to his death was correct. +I was cautious in disposing of the pictures. +They were like the diamonds of Kimberley, too +precious to throw upon the market in sufficient +numbers to glut the art-appetite of the world. +I hoarded them. I let them go one or two at +a time, or in small consignments. He had always +sold his pictures cheaply. I was afraid +to raise the price too suddenly. From time to +time, I pretended to receive letters from the +painter. I had then no definite plan. When +they had reached the highest point of fame and +value, I would announce his death. But, meanwhile, +I discovered the work young Saxon was +doing in America. I followed his development, +and I hesitated to announce the death of Marston. +An idea began to dawn on me in a nebulous +sort of way, that somehow this man’s work +might be profitably utilized by substitution. At +first, it was very foggy—my idea—but I felt +that in it was a possibility, at all events enough +to be thought over—and so I did not announce +the death of Marston. Then, I realized that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>282]</a></span> +I could supplement the Marston supply with +these canvases. I was timid. Such sales must +be cautiously made, and solely to private individuals +who would remove the pictures from +public view. At last, I found these two +which you saw at Milan. I felt that Mr. +Saxon could never improve them. I would +take the chance, even though I had to exhibit +them publicly. The last of the Marstons, save +a few, had been sold. I could realize enough +from these to take my daughter to Cairo, where +she might have a chance to live. I bought the +canvases in New York in person. They have +never been publicly shown save in Milan; they +were there but for a day only, and were not to +be photographed. When you sent for me, I +thought it was an American Croesus, and that +I had succeeded.” St. John had talked rapidly +and with agitation. Now, as he paused, he +wiped the moisture from his forehead with his +pocket-handkerchief.</p> + +<p>“I have planned the thing with the utmost +care. I have had no confederates. I even collected +a few of Mr. Saxon’s earlier and less +effective pictures, and exhibited them beside +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>283]</a></span> +Marston’s best, so the public might compare +and be convinced in its idea that the +boundary between the master and the follower +was the boundary between the sublime and the +merely meritorious. That is all. For a +year I have hesitated. When I entered this +room, I realized my danger. Even in the growing +twilight, I recognized the lady as the original +of the portrait.”</p> + +<p>“But didn’t you know,” questioned the girl, +“that sooner or later the facts must become +known—that at any time Mr. Saxon might +come to Europe, and see one of his own pictures +as I saw the portrait of myself in Milan?”</p> + +<p>St. John bowed his head.</p> + +<p>“I was desperate enough to take that +chance,” he answered, “though I safeguarded +myself in many ways. My sales would invariably +be to purchasers who would take their pictures +to private galleries. I should only have +to dispose of a few at a time. Mr. Saxon +has sold many pictures in Paris under his own +name, and does not know who bought them. +Selling them as Marston’s, though somewhat +more complicated, might go on for some time—and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>284]</a></span> +my daughter’s life can not last long. +After that, nothing matters.”</p> + +<p>“Have you actually sold any Saxons as +Marstons heretofore?” demanded Steele.</p> + +<p>St. John hesitated for a moment, and then +nodded his head.</p> + +<p>“Possibly, a half-dozen,” he acknowledged, +“to private collectors, where I felt it was safe.”</p> + +<p>“I have no wish to be severe,” Steele spoke +quietly, “but those two pictures we must have. +I will pay you a fair profit. For the time, at +least, the matter shall go no further.”</p> + +<p>St. John bowed with deep gratitude.</p> + +<p>“They shall be delivered,” he said.</p> + +<p>Steele stood watching St. John bow himself +out, all the bravado turned to obsequiousness. +Then, the Kentuckian shook his head.</p> + +<p>“We have unearthed that conspiracy,” he +said, “but we have learned nothing. To-morrow, +I shall visit the studio where the Marston +enthusiasts work, and see if there is anything to +be learned there.”</p> + +<p>“And I shall go with you,” the girl promptly +declared.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>285]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap18" id="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> + + +<p>On an unimportant cross street which cuts +at right angles the <i>Boulevard St. Michel</i>, that +axis of art-student Paris, stands an old and +somewhat dilapidated house, built, after the +same fashion as all its neighbors, about a court, +and entered by a door over which the <i>concierge</i> +presides. This house has had other years in +which it stood pretentious, with the pride of a +mansion, among its peers. Now, its splendor +is tarnished, its respectability is faded, and the +face it presents to the street wears the gloom +that comes of past glory, heightened, perhaps, +by the dark-spiritedness of many tenants who +have failed to enroll their names among the +great.</p> + +<p>Yet, for all its forbidding frown, its front +bespeaks a certain consciousness of lingering +dignity. A plate, set in the door-case, announces +that the great Marston painted here a +few scant years ago, and here still that more-or-less-distinguished +instructor, Jean Hautecoeur, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>286]</a></span> +tells his pupils in the second-floor <i>atelier</i> +how it was done.</p> + +<p>He was telling them now. The model, who +had been posed as, “Aphrodite Rising from +the Foam,” was resting. She sat on the dilapidated +throne amid a circle of easels. A +blanket was thrown about her, from the folds +of which protruded a bare and shapely arm, +the hand holding lightly between two fingers +the cigarette with which she beguiled her recess.</p> + +<p>The master, looking about on the many industrious, +if not intellectual, faces, was discoursing +on Marston’s feeling for values.</p> + +<p>“He did not learn it,” declared M. Hautecoeur: +“he was born with it. He did not acquire +it: he evolved it. A faulty value +caused him pain as a false note causes pain to +the true musician.” Then, realizing that this +was dangerous doctrine from the lips of one +who was endeavoring to instill the quality into +others, born with less gifted natures, he hastened +to amend. “Yet, other masters, less +facile, have gained by study what they lacked +by heritage.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>287]</a></span> +The room was bare except for its accessories +of art. A few well-chosen casts hung about +the walls. Many unmounted canvases were +stacked in the corners, the floors were chalk-marked +where easel-positions had been recorded; +charcoal fragments crunched underfoot +when one walked across the boards. From +the sky-light—for the right of the building had +only two floors—fell a flood of afternoon light, +filtering through accumulated dust and soot. +The door upon the outer hall was latched. The +students, bizarre and unkempt in the bohemianism +of their cult, mixed colors on their palettes +as they listened. In their little world of narrow +horizons, the discourse was like a prophet’s +eulogy of a god.</p> + +<p>As the master, his huge figure somewhat grotesque +in its long, paint-smeared blouse and cap, +stood delivering his lecture with much eloquence +of gesture, he was interrupted by a rap +on the door. Jacques du Bois, whose easel +stood nearest the threshold, reluctantly took his +pipe from his teeth, and turned the knob with +a scowl for the interruption. For a moment, +he stood talking through the slit with a gentleman +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>288]</a></span> +in the hall-way, his eyes meanwhile studying +with side-glances the lady who stood behind +the gentleman. Then, he bowed and closed the +door.</p> + +<p>“Someone wishes a word with M. Hautecoeur,” +he announced.</p> + +<p>The master stepped importantly into the hall, +and Steele introduced himself. M. Hautecoeur +declared that he quite well remembered monsieur +and his excellent painting. He bowed to +mademoiselle with unwieldly gallantry.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Robert Saxon,” began the American, +“is, I believe, one of the most distinguished of +the followers of Frederick Marston. Miss +Filson and I are both friends of Mr. Saxon, +and, while in Paris, we wished to visit the +shrine of the Marston school. We have taken +the liberty of coming here. Is it possible to +admit us?”</p> + +<p>The instructor looked cautiously into the +<i>atelier</i>, satisfied himself that the model had not +resumed her throne and nudity, then flung back +the door with a ceremonious sweep. Steele, +familiar with such surroundings, cast only a +casual glance about the interior. It was like +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>289]</a></span> +many of the smaller schools in which he had +himself painted. To the girl, who had never +seen a life-class at work, it was stepping into a +new world. Her eyes wandered about the +walls, and came back to the faces.</p> + +<p>“I have never had the honor of meeting +your friend, Monsieur Saxon,” declared the instructor +in English. “But his reputation has +crossed the sea! I have had the pleasure of +seeing several of his canvases. There is none +of us following in the footsteps of Marston +who would not feel his life crowned with high +success, had he come as close as Saxon to grasping +the secret that made Marston Marston. +Your great country should be proud of him.”</p> + +<p>Steele smiled.</p> + +<p>“Our country could also claim Marston. +You forget that, monsieur.”</p> + +<p>The instructor spread his hands in a deprecating +gesture.</p> + +<p>“Ah, <i>mon ami</i>, that is debatable. True, your +country gave him birth, but it was France that +gave him his art.”</p> + +<p>“Did you know,” suggested Steele, “that +some of the unsigned Saxon pictures have +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>290]</a></span> +passed competent critics as the work of Marston?”</p> + +<p>Hautecoeur lifted his heavy brows.</p> + +<p>“Impossible, monsieur,” he protested; “quite +impossible! It is the master’s boast that +any man who can pass a painting as a Marston +has his invitation to do so. He never +signs a canvas—it is unnecessary—his stroke—his +treatment—these are sufficient signature. +I do not belittle the art of your friend,” he hastened +to explain, “but there is a certain—what +shall I say?—a certain individualism about the +work of this greatest of moderns which is inimitable. +One must indeed be much the novice +to be misled. Yet, I grant you there was one +quality the master himself did not formerly +possess which the American grasped from the +beginning.”</p> + +<p>“His virility of touch?” inquired Steele.</p> + +<p>“Just so! Your man’s art is broader, perhaps +stronger. That difference is not merely +one of feeling: it is more. The American’s +style was the outgrowth of the bigness of your +vast spaces—of the broad spirit of your great +country—of the pride that comes to a man in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>291]</a></span> +the consciousness of physical power and currents +of red blood! Marston was the creature +of a confined life, bounded by walls. He was +self-absorbed, morbid, anemic. To be the perfect +artist, he needed only to be the perfect animal! +He did not understand that. He disliked +physical effort. He felt that something +eluded him, and he fought for it with brush and +mahlstick. He should have used the Alpinstock +or the snow-shoe.” Hautecoeur was talking +with an enthused fervor that swept him into +metaphor.</p> + +<p>“Yet—” Steele was secretly sounding his way +toward the end he sought—“yet, the latter pictures +of Marston have that same quality.”</p> + +<p>“Precisely. I would in a moment more have +spoken of that. I have my theory. Since +leaving Paris, I believe Marston has gone perhaps +into the Alps, perhaps into other countries, +and built into himself the thing we urged +upon him—the robust vision.”</p> + +<p>The girl spoke for the first time, putting, +after the fashion of the uninitiated, the question +which, the more learned hesitate to propound:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>292]</a></span> +“What is this thing you call the secret? +What is it that makes the difference?”</p> + +<p>“Ah, mademoiselle, if I knew that!” The +instructor sighed as he smiled. “How says the +English Fitzgerald? ‘A hair perhaps divides +the false and true.’ Had Marston had the +making of the famous epigram, he would not +have said he mixed his paints with brains. +Rather would he have confessed, he mixed +them with ideals.”</p> + +<p>“But I fear we delay the posing,” suggested +Steele, moving, with sudden apprehension, +toward the door.</p> + +<p>“I assure you, no!” prevaricated the teacher, +with instant readiness. “It is a wearying +pose. The model will require a longer rest +than the usual. Will not mademoiselle permit +me to show her those Marston canvases we +are fortunate enough to have here? Perhaps, +she will then understand why I find it impossible +to answer her question.”</p> + + +<p class="hrpad">When Captain Paul Harris had set his course +to France with a slow, long voyage ahead, his +shanghaied passenger had gone from stunned +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>293]</a></span> +unconsciousness into the longer and more complicated +helplessness of brain-fever. There +was a brushing of shoulders with death. There +were fever and unconsciousness and delirium, +and through each phase Dr. Cornish, late of +the Foreign Legion, brought his patient with +studious care—through all, that is, save the +brain fog. Then, as the vessel drew to the end +of the voyage, the physical illness appeared to +be conquered, yet the awakening had been only +that of nerves and bodily organs. The center +of life, the mind, was as remote and incommunicable +as though the thought nerves had been +paralyzed. Saxon was like a country whose +outer life is normal, but whose capital is cut off +and whose government is supine. The physician, +studying with absorbed interest, struggled +to complete the awakening. Unless it should be +complete, it were much better that the man had +died, for, when the vessel dropped her anchor +at Havre, the captain led ashore a man who in +the parlance of the peasants was a poor “innocent,” +a human blank-book in a binding once +handsome, now worn, with nothing inscribed +on its pages.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>294]</a></span> +For a time, the physician and skipper were +puzzled as to the next step. The physician +was confident that the eyes, which gazed blankly +out from a face now bearded and emaciated, +would eventually regain their former light of +intelligence. He did not believe that this helpless +creature—who had been, when he first saw +him in Puerto Frio, despite blood-discolored +face and limp unconsciousness, so perfect a figure +of a man—had passed into permanent darkness. +The light would again dawn, possibly +at first in fitful waverings and flashes through +the fog. If only there could be some familiar +scene or thing to suggest the past! But, unfortunately, +all that lay across the world. So, they +decided to take him to Paris, and ensconce him +in Captain Harris’ modest lodgings in the <i>Rue +St. Jacques</i>, and, inasmuch as the captain’s lodgings +were shared by no one, and his landlady +was a kindly soul, Dr. Cornish also resolved to +go there. For a few weeks, the sailor was to +be home from the sea, and meant to spend his +holiday in the capital. As for the physician, he +was just now unattached. He had hoped to be +in charge of a government’s work of health +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>295]</a></span> +and sanitation. Instead, he was idle, and could +afford to remain and study an unusual condition. +He certainly could not abandon this +anonymous creature whom fate had thrust +upon his keeping. Now, six weeks after his +accident, Saxon sat alone in the modest apartment +of the lodgings in the <i>Rue St. Jacques</i>. +Since his arrival in Paris, the walls of that room +and the court in the center of the house had been +the boundaries of his world. He had not seen +beyond them. He had been physically weak +and languid, mentally void. They had attempted +to persuade him to move about, but his +apathy had been insuperable. Sometimes, he +wandered about the court like a small child. +He had no speech. Often, he fingered a rusty +key as a baby fingers a rattle. On the day that +Steele and Duska had gone to the academy of +M. Hautecoeur, Dr. Cornish and Paul Harris +had left the lodgings for a time, and Saxon sat +as usual at a window, looking absently out on +the court.</p> + +<p>In its center stood a stone <i>jardinière</i>, now +empty. About it was the flagged area, also +empty. In front was the street-door—closed. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>296]</a></span> +Saxon looked out with the opaque stare of +pupils that admit no images to the brain. They +were as empty as the stone jar. Possibly, the +sun, borrowing some of the warmth of the +spent summer, made a vague appeal to animal +instinct; possibly, the first ray of mental dawn +was breaking. At all events, Saxon rose +heavily, and made his way into the area.</p> + +<p>At last, he wandered to the street-door. It happened +to be closed, but the <i>concierge</i> stood near.</p> + +<p>“<i>Cordon?</i>” inquired the porter, with a smile. +It is the universal word with which lodgers in +such abodes summon the guardian of the gate +to let them in or out.</p> + +<p>Saxon looked up, and across the hitherto unbroken +vacancy of his pupils flickered a disturbed, +puzzled tremor of mental groping.</p> + +<p>He opened his thin lips, closed them again, +then smiled, and said with perfect distinctness:</p> + +<p>“<i>Cordon, s’il vous plait.</i>”</p> + +<p>The <i>concierge</i> knew only that monsieur was +an invalid. In his next question was nothing +more than simple Gallic courtesy.</p> + +<p>“<i>Est-ce que monsieur va mieux aujour +d’hui?</i>”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>297]</a></span> +Once more, Saxon’s lips hesitated, then mechanically +moved.</p> + +<p>“<i>Oui, merci</i>,” he responded.</p> + +<p>The man who found himself standing aimlessly +on the sidewalk of the <i>Rue St. Jacques</i>, +was a man clothed in an old and ill-fitting suit +of Captain Harris’ clothes. He was long-haired, +hollow-cheeked and bearded like a pirate. +At last, he hesitatingly turned and wandered +away at random. About him lay Paris +and the world, but Paris and the world were +to him things without names or meaning.</p> + +<p>His unguided steps carried him to the banks +of the Seine, and finally he stood on the island, +gazing without comprehension at the square +towers of <i>Nôtre Dame</i>, his brows strangely +puckered as his eyes picked out the carvings of +the “Last Judgment” and the <i>Galerie des +Rois</i>.</p> + +<p>He shook his head dully, and, turning once +more, went on without purpose until at the end +of much wandering he again halted. This time, +he had before him the <i>Panthéon’s</i> entrance, and +confronting him on its pedestal sat a human +figure in bronze. It was Rodin’s unspeakably +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>298]</a></span> +melancholy conception, “<i>le Penseur</i>,” and it +might have stood for Saxon’s self as it half-crouched +with limbs tense and brows drawn in, +in the agony of brooding thought-travail.</p> + +<p>Then, Saxon’s head came up, and into his eyes +stole a confused groping, as though reason’s +tentacles were struggling out blindly for something +upon which to lay hold. With such a +motion perhaps, the prehistoric man-creature +may have thrown up his chin at the bursting +into being of thought’s first coherent germ. But +from “<i>le Penseur</i>” Saxon turned away with a +futile shake of his head to resume his wanderings.</p> + +<p>Finally, in a narrow cross street, he halted +once more, and looked about him with a consciousness +of vast weariness. He had traversed +the length of many blocks in his aimlessness, +crossing and recrossing his own course, and he +was still feeble from long days of illness and +inertia.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, he raised his head, and his lips, +which had been half-parted in the manner of +lips not obeying a positive brain, closed in a +firm line that seemed to make his chin and jaw +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>299]</a></span> +take on a stronger contour. He drew his +brows together as he stood studying the door +before him, and his pupils were deeply vague +and perplexed. But it was a different perplexity. +The vacuity was gone.</p> + +<p>Automatically, one thin hand went into the +trousers-pocket, and came out clutching a rusty +key. For another moment, he stood regarding +the thing, turning it over in his fingers. Then, +he laughed, and drew back his sagging shoulders. +With the gesture, he threw away all imbecility, +and followed the inexorable call of +some impulse which he could not yet fully +understand, but which was neither vague nor +haphazard.</p> + +<p>At that moment, Dr. Cornish, chancing to +glance up from his course a block away, stopped +dumfounded at the sight of his patient. When +he had gathered his senses, and looked again, +the patient had disappeared.</p> + +<p>Saxon walked a few steps further, turned into +an open street-door, passed the <i>concierge</i> without +a word, and toilsomely, but with a purposeful +tread, mounted the narrow, ill-lighted +stairs. At the turning where strangers usually +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>300]</a></span> +stumbled, he lifted his foot clear for the longer +stride, yet he had not glanced down.</p> + +<p>For just a moment, he paused for breath in +the hall, upon which opened several doors identical +in appearance. Without hesitation, he fitted +the ancient key into an equally ancient lock, +opened the door, and entered.</p> + +<p>At the click of the thrown tumbler of the +lock, some of the occupants of the place glanced +up. They saw the door swing wide, and frame +between its jambs a tall, thin man, who stood +unsteadily supporting himself against the case. +The black-bearded face was flushed with a +burning fever, but the eyes that looked out +from under the heavy brows were wide awake +and intelligent.</p> + +<p>“But Marston will one day return to us,” +Monsieur Hautecoeur was declaring to Steele +and the girl, who, with backs to the door, were +studying a picture on the wall. “He will return, +and then——”</p> + +<div class="figcenter ipadboth" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/kty04.jpg" width="600" height="439" +alt="Saxon's entrance into the atelier startles the occupants" /> +</div> + +<p>The instructor had caught the sound of the +opening door, and he half-turned his head to +cast a side glance in its direction. His words +died suddenly on his lips. His pose became +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>301]</a></span> +petrified; his features transfixed with astonishment. +His rigid fixity of face and figure froze +the watching students into answering tenseness. +Even the blanket-wrapped model held a freshly +lighted cigarette poised half-way to her lips. +Then, the man in the door took an unsteady +step forward, and from his trembling fingers +the key fell to the floor, where in the dead stillness +it seemed to strike with a crash. The +girl and Steele wheeled. At that moment, the +lips of the bearded face moved, and from them +came the announcement:</p> + +<p>“<i>Me voici, je viens d’arriver.</i>”</p> + +<p>The voice broke the hypnotic suspense of the +silence as a pin-point snaps a toy balloon.</p> + +<p>Hautecoeur sprang excitedly forward.</p> + +<p>“Marston! Marston has returned!” he +shouted, in a great voice that echoed against the +sky-light.</p> + +<p>As the man stepped forward, he staggered +slightly, and would have fallen had he not been +already folded in the giant embrace of the +lesser master.</p> + +<p>Duska stood as white as the fresh sheets of +drawing-paper at her feet. Her fingers +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>302]</a></span> +spasmodically clenched and opened at her sides, and +from her teeth, biting into the lower lip, her +breathing came in gasps. The walls seemed to +race in circles, and it was with half-realization +that she heard Steele calling the man, wildly +demanding recognition.</p> + +<p>The newcomer was leaning heavily on Hautecoeur’s +arm. He did not appear to notice +Steele, but his gaze met and held the girl’s pallid +face and the intensely anguished eyes that +looked into his. For an instant, they stood facing +each other, neither speaking; then, in a +voice of polite concern, the tall man said:</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle is ill!” There was no note +of recognition—only, the solicitous tone of any +man who sees a woman who is obviously suffering.</p> + +<p>Duska raised her chin. Her throat gave a +convulsive jerk, but she only caught her lip more +tightly between her teeth, so that a moment +later, when she spoke, there were purplish indentations +on its almost bloodless line.</p> + +<p>She half-turned to Steele. Her voice was an +utterly hopeless whisper, but as steady as Marston’s +had been.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>303]</a></span> +“For God’s sake,” she said, “take me +home!”</p> + +<p>At the door, they encountered the excited +physician, who stumbled against them with a +mumbled apology as he burst into the <i>atelier</i>.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>304]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap19" id="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX</h2> + + +<p>Late that afternoon, in Mrs. Horton’s +drawing-room at the <i>Hôtel Palais d’Orsay</i>, +Steele stood at the window, his gaze almost sullen +in the moodiness of his own ineffectual sympathy. +The day had grown as cheerless as +himself. Outside, across the <i>Quai d’Orsay</i>, a +cold rain pelted desolately into the gray water +of the Seine, and drew a wet veil across the opposite +bank. Through the reeking mist, the +remote gray branches in the Gardens of the +<i>Tuileries</i> stood out starkly naked. Even the +vague masses of the <i>Louvre</i> seemed as forbidding +as the shadowy bulk of some buttressed +prison. The “taxis” slurred by through wet +streets, and those persons who were abroad +went with streaming umbrellas and hurried +steps. The raw chill of Continental hotels permeated +the place. He knew that in the center +of the room Duska sat, her elbows resting on +the table top; her eyes, distressfully wide, fixed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>305]</a></span> +on the wet panes of the other window. He +knew that, if he spoke to her, her lips would +shape themselves into a pathetic smile, and her +answer would be steady. He knew that she +had given herself no luxury of outburst, but +that she had remained there, in much the same +attitude, all afternoon; sometimes, crushing her +small handkerchief into a tight wad of lace and +linen; sometimes, opening it out and smoothing +it with infinite care into a tiny square upon +the table. He knew that her feet, with their +small shoes and high-arched, silk-stockinged insteps, +twitched nervously from time to time; that +the gallant shoulders drooped forward. These +details were pictured in his mind, and he kept +his eyes stolidly pointed toward the outer gloom +so that he might not be forced to see it all +again in actuality.</p> + +<p>At last, he wheeled with a sudden gesture of +desperation, and, going across to the table, +dropped his hand over hers.</p> + +<p>She looked up with the unchanged expression +of wide-eyed suffering that has no outlet.</p> + +<p>“Duska, dear,” he asked, “can I do anything?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>306]</a></span> +She shook her head, and, as she answered, it +was in a dead voice. “There is nothing to +do.”</p> + +<p>“If I leave you, will you promise to cry? +You must cry,” he commanded.</p> + +<p>“I can’t cry,” she answered, in the same expressionless +flatness of tone.</p> + +<p>“Duska, can you forgive me?” He had +moved around, and stood leaning forward with +his hands resting upon the table.</p> + +<p>“Forgive you for what?”</p> + +<p>“For being the author of all this hideous +calamity,” he burst out with self-accusation, +“for bringing him there—for introducing +you.”</p> + +<p>She reached out suddenly, and seized his +hand.</p> + +<p>“Don’t!” she pleaded. “Do you suppose +that I would give up a memory that I have? +Why, all my world is memory now! Do you +suppose I blame you—or him?”</p> + +<p>“You might very well blame us both. We +both knew of the possibilities, and let things +go on.”</p> + +<p>She rose, and let her eyes rest on him with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>307]</a></span> +directness. Her voice was not angry, but very +earnest.</p> + +<p>“That is not true,” she said. “It couldn’t +be helped. It was written. He told me everything. +He asked me to forget, and I held him—because +we loved each other. He could no +more help it than he could help being himself, +fulfilling his genius when he thought he was +following another man. There are just some +things—” she halted a moment, and shook her +head—“some things,” she went on quietly, +“that are bigger than we are.”</p> + +<p>“But, now——” He stopped.</p> + +<p>“But, now—” the quiet of her words hurt +the man more than tears could have done—“now, +his real life has claimed him—the life +that only loaned him to me.”</p> + +<p>The telephone jangled suddenly, and Steele, +whose nerves were all on edge, started violently +at the sound. Mechanically, he took up the instrument +from its table-rack, and listened.</p> + +<p>“Yes, this is Mr. Steele. What? Mr. St. +John? Tell him I’ll see him down there—to +wait for me.” Steele was about to replace the +receiver, when Duska’s hand caught his wrist.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>308]</a></span> +“No,” she said quickly, “have him come +here.”</p> + +<p>“Wait. Hold the wire.” The man turned +to the girl.</p> + +<p>“Duska, you are only putting yourself on +the rack,” he pleaded. “Let me see him +alone.” She shook her head with the old determination. +“Have him come here,” she repeated.</p> + +<p>“Send Mr. St. John up,” ordered the Kentuckian.</p> + +<p>One might have seen from his eyes that, when +Mr. St. John arrived, his reception would be +ungracious. The man felt all the stored-up +savagery born of his helpless remonstrance. It +must have some vent. Every one and everything +that had contributed to her misery were +alike hateful to him. Had he been able to talk +to Saxon just then, his unreasoning wrath would +have poured itself forth as readily and bitterly +as on St. John. The sight of the agent +standing in the door a few moments later, inoffensive, +even humble, failed to mollify him.</p> + +<p>“I shall have the two pictures delivered +within the next day,” ventured the Englishman.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>309]</a></span> +Steele turned brutally on the visitor.</p> + +<p>“Do you mean to risk remaining in Paris +now?” he demanded.</p> + +<p>At the tone, St. John stiffened. He was humble +because these people had been kind. Now, +meeting hostility, he threw off his lowly demeanor.</p> + +<p>“Why, may I ask, should I leave Paris?” +There was a touch of delicately shaded defiance +in the questioning voice.</p> + +<p>“Because, now, you must reckon with Mr. +Saxon for pirating his work! Because he may +choose to make you walk the plank.”</p> + +<p>Steele whipped out his answer in rapid, angry +sentences.</p> + +<p>St. John met the eyes of the Kentuckian insolently.</p> + +<p>“Pardon the suggestion that you misstate the +case,” he said, softly. “I have never sold a +picture as a Marston that was not a Marston—it +would appear that unconsciously I was, after +all, honest. As for Mr. Saxon, there is, it +seems, no Mr. Saxon. That gentleman was +entirely mythical. It was an alias, if you +please.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>310]</a></span> +It was Steele who winced now, but his retort +was contemptuously cool:</p> + +<p>“Do you fancy Mr. Marston will accept that +explanation?”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Steele—” the derelict drew back his +thin shoulders, and faced the other with a glint +in the pale pupils that was an echo of the days +when he had been able to look men in the face. +“Before I became a scoundrel, sir, I was a +gentleman. My daughter is extremely ill. I +must remain with her, and take the chance as +to what Mr. Marston may choose to do. I +shall hope that he will make some allowance +for a father’s desperate—if unscrupulous—effort +to care for his daughter. I hope so particularly +inasmuch as that daughter is also his +wife.”</p> + +<p>Steele started forward, his eyes going involuntarily +to the girl, but she sat unflinching, except +that a sudden, spasm of pain crossed the +hopelessness of her eyes. Somewhere among +Duska Filson’s ancestors, there had been a stoic. +Instantly, Steele realized that it was he himself +who had brought about the needless cruelty of +that reminder. St. John had disarmed him, and +put him in the wrong.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>311]</a></span> +“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said.</p> + +<p>“I came here,” said St. John slowly, “not +only to notify you about your canvases. There +was something else. You were both very considerate +when I was here before. It is strange +that a man who will do dishonest things still +clings to the wish that his occasional honest motives +shall not be misconstrued. I don’t want +you to think that I intentionally lied to you then. +I told you Frederick Marston was dead. I believed +it. Before I began this—this piracy, I +investigated, and satisfied myself on the point. +Time corroborated me. It is as though he had +arisen from the grave. That is all.”</p> + +<p>The man paused; then, looking at the girl, he +continued:</p> + +<p>“And Mr. Saxon—” he hesitated a moment +upon the name, but went resolutely on—“Mr. +Saxon will recover. When he wakes next, the +doctors believe, he will awake to everything. +After his violent exertion and the shock of his +partial realization, he became delirious. For +several days perhaps, he must have absolute +quiet, but he will take up a life in which there +are no empty spaces.”</p> + +<p>The girl rose, and, as she spoke, there was a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>312]</a></span> +momentary break in her voice that led Steele +to hope for the relief of tears, but her tone +steadied itself, and her eyes remained dry.</p> + +<p>“Mr. St. John,” she said slowly, “may I go +and see—your daughter?”</p> + +<p>For a moment, the Englishman looked at her +quietly, then tears flooded his eyes. He thought +of the message of the portrait, and, with no information +except that of his own observing eyes, +he read a part at least of the situation.</p> + +<p>“Miss Filson,” he said with as simple a dignity +as though his name had never been tarnished, +as though the gentleman had never decayed +into the derelict, “my daughter would +be happy to receive you, but she is in no condition +to hear startling news. By her own wish, +we have not in seven years spoken of Mr. +Marston. She does not know that I believed +him dead, she does not know that he has reappeared. +To tell her would endanger her +life.”</p> + +<p>“I shall not go as a bearer of news,” the girl +assured him; “I shall go only as a friend of her +father’s, and—because I want to.”</p> + +<p>St. John hesitatingly put out his hand. When +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>313]</a></span> +the girl gave him hers, he bent over it with a +catch in his voice, but a remnant of the grand +manner, and kissed her fingers in the fashion of +the old days.</p> + +<p>Driving with Steele the next morning to St. +John’s lodgings, the girl looked straight ahead +steadfastly. The rain of the night had been +forgotten, and the life of Paris glittered with +sun and brilliant abandon. Pleasure-worship +and vivacious delight seemed to lie like a spirit +of the departed summer on the boulevards. +Along the <i>Champs Elysées</i>, from the <i>Place de +la Concorde</i> to the <i>Arc de Triomphe</i>, flowed a +swift, continuous parade of motors, bearing in +state gaily dressed women, until the nostrils +were filled with a strangely blended odor of +gasoline and flowers. The pavement cafés and +sidewalks flashed color, and echoed laughter. +Nowhere, from the spot where the guillotine +had stood to the circle where Napoleon decreed +his arch, did there seem a niche for sorrow.</p> + +<p>“Will you wait here to see to what he awakens?” +questioned Steele.</p> + +<p>Duska shook her head.</p> + +<p>“I have no right to wait. And yet—yet, I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>314]</a></span> +can’t go home!” She leaned toward him, impulsively. +“I couldn’t bear going back to Kentucky +now,” she added, plaintively; “I couldn’t +bear it.”</p> + +<p>“You will go to Nice for a while,” said +Steele, firmly. He had fallen into the position, +of arranging their affairs. Mrs. Horton, distressed +in Duska’s distress, found herself helpless +to act except upon his direction.</p> + +<p>The girl nodded, apathetically.</p> + +<p>“It doesn’t matter,” she said.</p> + +<p>Then, she looked up again.</p> + +<p>“But I want you to stay. I want you to do +everything you can for both of them.” She +paused, and her next words were spoken with +an effort: “And I don’t want—I don’t want +you to speak of me. I don’t want you to try to +remind him.”</p> + +<p>“He will question me,” demurred Steele.</p> + +<p>Duska’s head was raised with a little gesture +of pride.</p> + +<p>“I am not afraid,” she said, “that he will +ask you anything he should not—anything that +he has not the right to ask.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>315]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap20" id="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX</h2> + + +<p>When he turned back, a day later, from +the turmoil of the station, from the strenuous +labor of weighing trunks, locating the compartment +in the train, subsidizing the guards, and, +hardest of all, saying good-bye to Duska with +a seeming or normal cheerfulness, Steele found +himself irritably out of measure with the quick-step +of Paris. Mrs. Horton and the girl were +on their way to the Riviera. He was left behind +to watch results; almost, it seemed to him, +to sit by and observe the post-mortem on every +hope in the lives of three people. Nice should +still be quiet. The tidal wave of “trippers” +would not for a little while sweep over its rose-covered +slopes and white beaches and dazzling +esplanades, and the place would afford the girl +at least every soothing influence that nature +could offer. That would not be much, but it +would be something.</p> + +<p>As for himself, he felt the isolation of Paris. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>316]</a></span> +On a desert, a man may become lonely; in deep +forests and on high mountains, he may come to +know and hate his own soul in solitude, but the +last note of aloofness, of utter exile, is that +which comes to him who looks vainly for one +face in a sea of other faces, whose small cosmos +lies in unwept and unnoticed ruin in the midst +of a giant city that moves along its indifferent +way to the time of dance-music. In the hotel, +there was the chatter of tourists. His own +tongue was prattled by men and women whose +lives seemed to revolve around the shops of the +<i>Rue de la Paix</i>, or whose literature was the information +of the guide-books. He felt that +everyone was invading his somberness of mood +with trivialities, until, in revulsion against the +whole stage-setting of things, he had himself +and his luggage transported to the <i>Hôtel Voltaire</i>, +where the life about him was the simpler +life of the less pretentious <i>quais</i> of the Seine.</p> + +<p>After his <i>déjeuner</i>, he sat for a time attempting +to readjust his ideas. He had told Saxon +that he would never again speak of love to +Duska. Now, he realized how barren of hope +it would ever be for him to renew his plea. She +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>317]</a></span> +had bankrupted his heart. He had buried his +own hopes, and no one except himself had +known at what cost to himself. He had taken +his place in the niche dedicated to closest friend, +just outside the inner shrine reserved for the +one who could penetrate that far. Now, he was +in a greater distress. Now, he wanted only her +happiness, and as he had never wanted it before. +Now, he realized that the only source through +which this could come was the source that +seemed hopelessly clogged. There was no +doubt of his sincerity. Even his own intimate +questioning acquitted him of self-consideration. +Could he at that moment have had one wish +fulfilled by some magic agency of miracle, that +wish would have been that he might lead Robert +Saxon, as Robert Saxon had been, to Duska, +with all his memory and love intact, and free +from any incumbrance that might divide them. +That would have been the gift of all gifts, and +the only gift that would drive the look of heart-hunger +and despair from her eyes.</p> + +<p>Steele was restless, and, taking up his hat, he +strolled out along the quay, and turned at last +into the <i>Boulevard St. Michel</i>, stretching off in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>318]</a></span> +a broad vista of café-lined sidewalks. The life +of the “<i>Boule Mich</i>” held no attraction for +him. In his earlier days, he had known it from +the river to the <i>Boulevard Montparnasse</i>. He +knew its tributary streets, its lodgings, its schools +and the life which the spirit of the modern +is so rapidly revolutionizing from Bohemia’s +shabby capital to a conventionalized district. +None of these things held for him the piquant +challenge of novelty.</p> + +<p>As he passed a certain café, which he had +once known as the informal club of the Marston +cult, he realized that here the hilarity was +more pronounced than elsewhere. The boulevard +itself was for squares a thread, stringing +cafés like beads in a necklace. Each had its +crowd of revelers; its boisterous throng of +frowsy, velvet-jacketed, long-haired students; +its laughing models; its inevitable brooding and +despondent <i>absintheurs</i> sitting apart in isolated +melancholy. Yet, here at the “<i>Chat Noir</i>,” the +chorus was noisier. Although the evening was +chill, the sidewalk tables were by no means deserted. +The Parisian proves his patriotism +by his adherence to the out-door table, even if +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>319]</a></span> +he must turn up his collar, and shiver as he sips +his wine.</p> + +<p>Listlessly, Steele turned into the place. It +was so crowded this evening that for a time it +looked as though he would have difficulty in +finding a seat. At last, a waiter led him to a +corner where, dropping to the seat along the +wall, he ordered his wine, and sat gloomily +looking on.</p> + +<p>The place was unchanged. There were still +the habitués quarreling over their warring tenets +of the brush; men drawn to the center of +painting as moths are drawn to a candle; men +of all nationalities and sorts, alike only in the +general quality of their unkempt <i>grotesquerie</i>.</p> + +<p>There was music of a sort; a plaintive chord +long-drawn from the violin occasionally made +its sweet wail heard above the babel and through +the reeking smoke of the room. Evidently, it +was some occasion beyond the ordinary, and +Steele, leaning over to the student nearest him, +inquired in French:</p> + +<p>“Is there some celebration?”</p> + +<p>The stranger was a short man, with hair that +fell low on his neck and greased his collar. He +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>320]</a></span> +had a double-pointed beard and deep-set black +eyes, which he kept fixed on his absinthe as it +dripped drop by drop from the nickeled device +attached to his <i>frappé</i> glass. At the question, +he looked up, astonished.</p> + +<p>“But is it possible monsieur does not know? +We are all brothers here—brothers in the worship +of the beautiful! Does not monsieur +know?”</p> + +<p>Steele did not know, and he told the stranger +so without persiflage.</p> + +<p>“It is that the great Marston has returned!” +proclaimed the student, in a loud voice. “It is +that the master has come back to us—to +Paris!”</p> + +<p>The sound of his voice had brought others +about the table. “Does monsieur know that +the Seine flows?” demanded a pearly pretty +model, raising her glass and flashing from her +dark eyes a challenging glance of ridicule.</p> + +<p>Steele did not object to the good-humored +baiting, but he looked about him, and was +thankful that the girl on her way to Nice could +not look in on this enthusiasm over the painter’s +home-coming; could not see to what Marston +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>321]</a></span> +was returning; what character of devotees were +pledging the promotion of the first disciple to +the place of the worshiped master.</p> + +<p>Some half-drunken student, his hand upon +the shoulder of a model, lifted a tilting glass, +and shouted thickly, “<i>Vive l’art! Vive Marston!</i>” +The crowd took up the shout, and there +was much clinking of glass.</p> + +<p>Steele, with a feeling of deep disgust, rose to +go. The other <i>quais</i> of the Seine were better +after all. But, as he reached for his hat, he felt +a hand on his shoulder, and, turning, recognized, +with a glow of welcome, the face of M. +Hervé. Like himself, M. Hervé seemed out +of his element, or would have seemed so had +he also not had, like Steele, that adaptability +which makes some men fit into the picture wherever +they may find themselves. The two shook +hands, and dropped back on the cushions of the +wall seat.</p> + +<p>“I have heard the story,” the Frenchman assured +Steele. “Monsieur may spare himself +the pain of repeating it. It is a miracle!”</p> + +<p>Steele was looking into his glass.</p> + +<p>“It is a most unhappy miracle,” he replied.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>322]</a></span> +“But, <i>mon dieu</i>!” M. Hervé looked across +the table, tapping the Kentuckian’s sleeve with +his outstretched fingers. “It makes one think, +<i>mon ami</i>—it makes one think!”</p> + +<p>His vis-à-vis only nodded, and Hervé went +on:</p> + +<p>“It brings home to one the indestructibility +of the true genius—the unquenchable fire of it! +Destiny plays a strange game. She has here +taken a man, and juggled with his life; battered +his identity to unrecognizable fragments; set a +seal on his past. Yet, his genius she could not +efface. That burned through to the light—sounded +on insistently through the confusion of +wreck, even as that violin sounds through this +hell of noises and disorder—the great unsilenced +chord! The man thinks he copies another. +Not so—he is merely groping to find himself. +Never have I thought so deeply as since I have +heard this story.”</p> + +<p>For a time, Steele did not reply. To him, +the personal element drowned the purely academic +interest of the psychological phase in this +tragedy.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, a new element of surprise struck +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>323]</a></span> +him, and he leaned across the table, his voice +full of questioning.</p> + +<p>“But you,” he demanded, “you had studied +under Marston. You knew him, and yet, when +you saw Saxon, you had no recognition.”</p> + +<p>M. Hervé nodded his head with grave +assent.</p> + +<p>“That was my first incredulous thought when +I heard of this miracle,” he admitted; “yet, +only for a moment. After all, that was inevitable. +They were different. Now, bearded, +ill, depleted, I fancy he may once more look +the man I knew—that man whose hair was a +mane, and whose morbid timidity gave to his +eyes a haunted and uncertain fire. When I saw +Saxon, it is true I saw a man wounded and unconscious; +his face covered with blood and the +dirt of the street, yet he was, even so, the man +of splendid physique—the new man remade +by the immensity of your Western prairies—having +acquired all that the man I had known +lacked. He was transformed. In that, his Destiny +was kind—she gave it not only to his body, +but to his brush. He was before a demi-god of +the palette. Now, he is the god.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>324]</a></span> +“Do you chance to know,” asked Steele suddenly, +“how his hand was pierced?”</p> + +<p>“Have you not heard that story?” the +Frenchman asked. “I am regrettably responsible +for that. We sought to make him build +the physical man. I persuaded him to fence, +though he did it badly and without enthusiasm. +One evening, we were toying with sharpened +foils. Partly by his carelessness and partly by +my own, the blade went through his palm. For +a long period, he could not paint.”</p> + +<p>Frederick Marston was not at once removed +from the lodgings in the <i>Rue St. Jacques</i>. Absolute +rest was what he most required. When +he awoke again, unless he awoke refreshed by +sufficient rest, Dr. Cornish held out no hope. +The strain upon enfeebled body and brain had +been great, and for days he remained delirious +or unconscious. Dr. Cornish was like adamant +in his determination that he should be left undisturbed +for a week or more.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, the episode had unexpected results. +The physician who had come to Paris +fleeing from a government he had failed to +overturn, who had taken an emergency case +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>325]</a></span> +because there was no one else at hand, found himself +suddenly heralded by the Paris press as +“that distinguished specialist, Dr. Cornish, +who is effecting a miraculous recovery for the +greatest of painters.”</p> + +<p>During these days, Steele was constantly at +the lodgings, and with him, sharing his anxiety, +was M. Hervé. There were many callers +to inquire—painters and students of the neighborhood, +and the greater celebrities from the +more distinguished schools.</p> + +<p>But no one was more constantly in attendance +than Alfred St. John. He divided his time between +the bedside of his daughter and the lodgings +where Marston lay. The talk that filled +the Latin Quarter, and furiously excited the +studio on the floor below, was studiously kept +from the girl confined to her couch upstairs.</p> + +<p>One day while St. John was in the <i>Rue St. Jacques</i>, +pacing the small <i>cour</i> with Steele and +Hervé, Jean Hautecoeur came in hurriedly. +His manner was that of anxious embarrassment, +and for a moment he paused, seeking words.</p> + +<p>St. John’s face turned white with a divination +of his tidings.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>326]</a></span> +“Does she need me?” he asked, almost +breathlessly.</p> + +<p>Hautecoeur nodded, and St. John turned +toward the door. Steele went with him, and, +as they climbed the steep stairs, the old man +leaned heavily on his support.</p> + +<p>The Kentuckian waited in St. John’s room +most of that night. In the next apartment were +the girl, her father and the physician. A little +before dawn, the old man came out. His step +was almost tottering, and he seemed to have +aged a decade since he entered the door of the +sick-room.</p> + +<p>“My daughter is dead,” he said very simply, +as his guest paused at the threshold. “I am +leaving Paris. My people except for me have +borne a good name. I wanted to ask you to +save that name from exposure. I wanted to +bury with my daughter everything that might +shadow her memory. For myself, nothing +matters.”</p> + +<p>Steele took the hand the Englishman held +tremblingly outstretched.</p> + +<p>“Is there anything else I can do?” he asked.</p> + +<p>St. John shook his head.</p> + +<p>“That will be quite all,” he answered.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>327]</a></span> +Such things as had to be done, however, Steele +did, and two days later, when Alfred St. John +took the train for Calais and the Channel, it +was with assurances that, while they could +not at this time cheer him, at least fortified +him against all fear of need.</p> + +<p>It was a week later that Cornish sent for the +Kentuckian, who was waiting in the court.</p> + +<p>“I think you can see him now,” said the physician +briefly, “and I think you will see a man +who has no gaps in his memory.”</p> + +<p>Steele went with some misgiving to the sick-room. +He found Marston looking at him with +eyes as clear and lucid as his own. As he came +up, the other extended a hand with a trembling +gesture of extreme weakness. Steele +clasped it in silence.</p> + +<p>For a time, neither spoke.</p> + +<p>While Steele waited, the other’s face became +drawn. He was evidently struggling with himself +in desperate distress. There was something +to be said which Marston found it bitterly +difficult to say. At last, he spoke slowly, +forcing his words and holding his features in +masklike rigidity of control.</p> + +<p>“I remember it all now, George.” He +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>328]</a></span> +hesitated as his friend nodded; then, with a drawing +of his brows and a tremendous effort, he added, +huskily:</p> + +<p>“And I must go to my wife.”</p> + +<p>Steele hesitated before answering.</p> + +<p>“You can’t do that, Bob,” he said, gently. +“I was near her as long as could be. I think +she is entirely happy now.”</p> + +<p>The man in the bed looked up. His eyes +read the eyes of the other. If there was in his +pulse a leaping sense of release, he gave it no +expression.</p> + +<p>“Dead?” he whispered.</p> + +<p>Steele nodded.</p> + +<p>For a time, Marston gazed up at the ceiling +with a fixed stare. Then, his face clouded with +black self-reproach.</p> + +<p>“If I could blot out that injury from memory! +God knows I meant it as kindness.”</p> + +<p>“There is time enough to forget,” said +Steele.</p> + +<p>It was some days later that Marston went +with Steele to the <i>Hôtel Voltaire</i>. There was +much to be explained and done. He learned +for the first time the details of the expedition +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>329]</a></span> +that Steele had made to South America, and +then to Europe; of the matter of the pictures +and St. John’s connection with them, and of the +mystifying circumstances of the name registered +at the Elysée Palace Hôtel. That incident they +never fathomed.</p> + +<p>St. John had buried his daughter in the <i>Cimetière +Montmartre</i>. After the first mention of +the matter on his recovery to consciousness, +Marston had not again alluded to his former +wife, until he was able to go to the spot, and +place a small tribute on her grave. Standing +there, somewhat awestruck, his face became +deeply grave, and, looking up at his friend, he +spoke with deep agitation:</p> + +<p>“There is one part of my life that was a tremendous +mistake. I sought to act with regard +for a misconceived duty and kindness, and I +only inflicted infinite pain. I want you to know, +and I tell you here at a spot that is to me very +solemn, that I never abandoned her. When I +left for America, it was at her command. It +was with the avowal that I should remain subject +to her recall as long as we both lived. I +should have kept my word. It’s not a thing +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>330]</a></span> +that I can talk of again. You know all that +has happened since, but for once I must tell +you.”</p> + +<p>Steele felt that nothing he could say would +make the recital easier, and he merely inclined +his head.</p> + +<p>“I shall have her removed to England, if +St. John wishes it,” Marston said. “God +knows I’d like to have the account show some +offsetting of the debit.”</p> + +<p>As they left the gates for the omnibus, Marston +added:</p> + +<p>“If St. John will continue to act as my agent, +he can manage it from the other side of the +Channel. I shall not be often in Paris.”</p> + +<p>Later, he turned suddenly to the Kentuckian, +with a half-smile.</p> + +<p>“We swindled St. John,” he exclaimed. +“We bought back the pictures at Saxon prices.” +His voice became unusually soft. “And Frederick +Marston can never paint another so good +as the portrait. We must set that right. Do +you know—” the man laughed sheepishly—“it’s +rather disconcerting to find that one has +spent seven years in self-worship?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>331]</a></span> +Steele smiled with relief at the change of +subject.</p> + +<p>“Is that the sensation of being deified?” he +demanded. “Does one simply feel that Olympus +is drawn down to sea level?”</p> + +<p>Shortly after, Marston sent a brief note to +Duska.</p> + +<p>“I shall say little,” he wrote. “I can’t be +sure you will give me a hearing, but also I can +not go on until I have begged it. I can not +bear that any report shall reach you until I +have myself reported. My only comfort is that +I concealed nothing that I had the knowledge +to tell you. There is now no blank in my life, +and yet it is all blank, and must remain blank +unless I can come to you. I am free to speak, +and, if you give it to me, no one else can deny +me the right to speak. All that I said on that +night when a certain garden was bathed in the +moon is more true now than then, and now I +speak with full knowledge. Can you forgive +everything?”</p> + +<p>And the girl reading the letter let it drop in +her lap, and looked out through her window +across the dazzling whiteness of the <i>Promenade +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>332]</a></span> +des Anglais</i> to the purple Mediterranean. +Once more, her eyes lighted from deep cobalt to +violet.</p> + +<p>“But there was nothing to forgive,” she +softly told the sea.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>333]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap21" id="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI</h2> + + +<p>When, a month later, Frederick Marston +went to the hotel on the <i>Promenade des Anglais</i> +at Nice, it was a much improved and rejuvenated +man as compared with the wasted +creature who had opened the closed door of the +“academy” in the <i>Quartier Latin</i>, and had +dropped the key on the floor. Although still a +trifle gaunt, he was much the same person who, +almost a year before, had clung to the pickets at +Churchill Downs, and halted in his view of a +two-year-old finish. Just as the raw air of the +north had given place to the wooing softness of +the Riviera, and the wet blankets of haze over +the gardens of the Tuileries to the golden sunlight +of the flower-decked south, so he had come +again out of winter into spring, and the final result +of his life’s equation was the man that had +been Saxon, untouched by the old Marston.</p> + +<p>Duska’s stay at Nice had been begun in apathy. +About her were all the influences of beauty +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>334]</a></span> +and roses and soft breezes, but it was not until +she had read this first letter from Marston that +these things meant anything to her. Then, suddenly, +she had awakened to a sense of its delight. +She knew that he would not come at +once, and she felt that this was best. She +wanted him to come back to her when he could +come as the man who had been in her life, and, +since she knew he was coming, she could wait. +Her eyes had become as brightly blue as the +Mediterranean mirroring the sky, and her +cheeks had again taken on their kinship to the +roses of the Riviera. Once more, she was one +with the nature of this favored spot, a country +that some magical realist seems to have torn +bodily from the enchanted Isles of Imagination, +and transplanted in the world of Fact.</p> + +<p>Now, she became eager to see everything, and +it so happened that, when Marston, who had not +notified her of the day of his arrival, reached +her hotel, it was to find that she and her aunt +had motored over to Monte Carlo, by the upper +Corniche Road, that show-drive of the world +which climbs along the heights with the sea below +and the sky, it would seem, not far above.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>335]</a></span> +The man turned out again to the <i>Promenade +des Anglais</i>. The sun was shining on its whiteness, +and it seemed that the city was a huge +structure of solid marble, set between the sea +and the color-spotted slopes of the villa-clad +hills.</p> + +<p>Marston was highly buoyant as he made his +way to the garage where he could secure a car +to give chase. He even paused with boyish and +delighted interest to gaze into the glittering +shop windows of the <i>Promenade</i> and the <i>Avenue +Felix Faure</i>, where were temptingly displayed +profound booklets guaranteeing the purchaser +a sure system for conquering the chances +of roulette “on a capital of £9, playing red or +black, manque or passe, pair or impair, and +compiled by one with four years of experience.”</p> + +<p>He had soon negotiated for a car, and had +gained the friendship of a chauffeur, who +grinned happily and with contentment when he +learned that monsieur’s object was speed. +Ahead of him stretched nine miles of perfect +macadam, with enough beauty to fill the eye +and heart with joy for every mile, and at the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>336]</a></span> +end of the journey—unless he could happily +overtake her sooner—was Duska.</p> + +<p>The car sped up between the villas, up to the +white ribbon of road where the ships, lying at +anchor in the purpled water beneath, were white +toys no longer than pencils, where towns were +only patches of roof tiles, and mountainsides +mere rumpled blankets of green and color; +where the road-houses were delights of picturesque +rusticity and flower-covered walls.</p> + +<p>Thanks to a punctured tire, Marston found +a large dust-coated car standing at the roadside +when he had covered only half of the journey. +It was drawn up near a road-house that sat back +of a rough stone wall, and was abandoned save +for the chauffeur, who labored over his task of +repair. But Marston stopped and ran up the +stone stairs to the small terrace, where, between +rose bushes that crowded the time-stained +façade of the modest caravansery, were set two +or three small tables under a trellis; and, at one +of the tables, he recognized Mrs. Horton.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Horton rose with a little gasp of delight +to welcome him, and recognized how his +eyes were ranging in search for an even more +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>337]</a></span> +important personage while he greeted her. Off +beyond the road, with its low guarding wall of +stone, the mountainside fell away precipitously +to the sea, stretching out below in a limitless +expanse of the bluest blue that our eyes can endure. +The slopes were thickly wooded.</p> + +<p>“We blew out a tire,” explained Mrs. Horton, +“and Duska is exploring somewhere over +the wall there. I was content to sit here and +wait—but you are younger,” she added with a +smile. “I won’t keep you here.”</p> + +<p>From inside the tavern came the tinkle of +guitars, from everywhere in the clear crystalline +air hung the perfume of roses. Marston, with +quick apologies, hastened across the road, +vaulted the wall, and began his search. It was +a brief one, for, turning into a clearing, he saw +her below him on a ledge. She stood as +straight and slim and gracefully erect as the +lancelike young trees.</p> + +<p>He made his way swiftly down the slope, and +she had not turned nor heard his approach. +He went straight to her, and took her in his +arms.</p> + +<p>The girl wheeled with a little cry of recognition +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>338]</a></span> +and delight; then, after a moment, she held +him off at arms’ length, and looked at him. +Her eyes were deep, and needed no words. +About them was all the world and all the beauty +of it.</p> + +<p>Finally, she laughed with the old, happy +laugh.</p> + +<p>“Once,” she said very slowly, “you quoted +poetry to me—a verse about the young queen’s +crowning. Do you remember?”</p> + +<p>He nodded.</p> + +<p>“But that doesn’t apply now,” he assured +her. “You are going to crown me with an undeserved +and unspeakable crown.”</p> + +<p>“Quote it to me now,” she commanded, with +reinstated autocracy.</p> + +<p>For a moment, the man looked into her face +as the sun struck down on its delicate color, +under the softness of hat and filmy automobile +veil; then, clasping her very close, he whispered +the lines:</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Beautiful, bold and browned,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Bright-eyed out of the battle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The young queen rode to be crowned.”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p>“Do you remember some other lines in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>339]</a></span> +same verse?” she questioned, in a voice that +made his throbbing pulses bound faster; but, +before he could answer, she went on:</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“‘Then the young queen answered swift,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">“We hold it crown of our crowning, to take our crown for a gift.”’”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p>They turned together, and started up the +slope.</p> + + + +<div class="bbox"> +<p><b>Transcriber's Note:</b></p> + +<p>Minor punctuation and typographic errors have been corrected.</p> + +<p>Hyphenation and accent usage have been made consistent.</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_180">180</a> had the word 'excusive'. This may be a typographic +error for either exclusive or excursive. 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