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Title: The Ray of Displacement and other stories
Author: Harriet Prescott Spofford
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0606581h.html
Language: English
Date first posted: August 2006
Date most recently updated: August 2006
This eBook was produced by: Richard Scott
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The Ray of Displacement and other stories
by
Harriet Prescott Spofford
Table of Contents
The Ray of Displacement
The Nemesis of Motherhood
In A Cellar
Circumstance
The Mad Lady
THE RAY OF DISPLACEMENT
"We should have to reach the Infinite
to arrive at the Impossible."
IT would interest none but students should I recite the
circumstances of the discovery. Prosecuting my usual researches, I
seemed rather to have stumbled on this tremendous thing than to have
evolved it from formulæ.
Of course, you already know that all molecules, all atoms, are
separated from each other by spaces perhaps as great, when compared
relatively, as those which separate the members of the stellar
universe. And when by my Y-ray I could so far increase these spaces
that I could pass one solid body through another, owing to the
differing situation of their atoms, I felt no disembodied spirit had
wider, freer range than I. Until my discovery was made public my
power over the material universe was practically unlimited.
Le Sage's theory concerning ultra-mundane corpuscles was rejected
because corpuscles could not pass through solids. But here were
corpuscles passing through solids. As I proceeded, I found that at
the displacement of one one-billionth of a centimeter the object
capable of passing through another was still visible, owing to the
refraction of the air, and had the power of communicating its
polarization; and that at two one-billionths the object became
invisible, but that at either displacement the subject, if a person,
could see into the present plane; and all movement and direction were
voluntary. I further found my Y-ray could so polarize a substance
that its touch in turn temporarily polarized anything with which it
came in contact, a negative current moving atoms to the left, and a
positive to the right of the present plane.
My first experience with this new principle would have made a less
determined man drop the affair. Brant had been by way of dropping
into my office and laboratory when in town. As I afterwards recalled,
he showed a signal interest in certain toxicological experiments.
"Man alive!" I had said to him once,﹃let those crystals alone! A
single one of them will send you where you never see the sun!﹄I was
uncertain if he brushed one off the slab. He did not return for some
months. His wife, as I heard afterwards, had a long and baffling
illness in the meantime, divorcing him on her recovery; and he had
remained out of sight, at last leaving his native place for the great
city. He had come in now, plausibly to ask my opinion of a stone--a
diamond of unusual size and water.
I put the stone on a glass shelf in the next room while looking
for the slide. You can imagine my sensation when that diamond, with
something like a flash of shadow, so intense and swift it was, burst
into a hundred rays of blackness and subsided--a pile of carbon! I
had forgotten that the shelf happened to be negatively polarized,
consequently everything it touched sharing its polarization, and that
in pursuing my experiment I had polarized myself also, but with the
opposite current; thus the atoms of my fingers passing through the
spaces of the atoms of the stone already polarized, separated them
negatively so far that they suffered disintegration and returned to
the normal. "Good heavens! What has happened!" I cried before I
thought. In a moment he was in the rear room and bending with me over
the carbon. "Well," he said straightening himself directly, "you gave
me a pretty fright. I thought for a moment that was my diamond."
"But it is!" I whispered.
"Pshaw!" he exclaimed roughly. "What do you take me for? Come,
come, I'm not here for tricks. That's enough damned legerdemain.
Where's my diamond?"
With less dismay and more presence of mind I should have edged
along to my batteries, depolarized myself, placed in vacuum the tiny
shelf of glass and applied my Y-ray; and with, I knew not what, of
convulsion and flame the atoms might have slipped into place. But,
instead, I stood gasping. He turned and surveyed me; the low order of
his intelligence could receive but one impression.
"Look here," he said, "you will give me back my stone! Now! Or I
will have an officer here!"
My mind was flying like the current through my coils. How could I
restore the carbon to its original, as I must, if at all, without
touching it, and how could I gain time without betraying my secret?
"You are avery short," I said. "What would you do with your
officer?"
"Give you up! Give you up, appear against you, and let you have a
sentence of twenty years behind bars."
"Hard words, Mr. Brant. You could say I had your property. I could
deny it. Would your word outweigh mine? But return to the office in
five minutes--if it is a possible thing you shall--"
"And leave you to make off with my jewel! Not by a long shot! I'm
a bad man to deal with, and I'll have my stone or--"
"Go for your officer," said I.
His eye, sharp as a dagger's point, fell an instant. How could he
trust me? I might escape with my booty. Throwing open the window to
call, I might pinion him from behind, powerful as he was. But before
he could gainsay, I had taken half a dozen steps backward, reaching
my batteries.
"Give your alarm," I said. I put out my hand, lifting my lever,
turned the current into my coils, and blazed up my Y-ray for half a
heart-beat, succeeding in that brief time in reversing and in
receiving the current that so far changed matters that the thing I
touched would remain normal, although I was left still so far
subjected to the ray of the less displacement that I ought, when the
thrill had subsided, to be able to step through the wall as easily as
if no wall were there. "Do you see what I have here?" I most unwisely
exclaimed. "In one second I could annihilate you--" I had no time for
more, or even to make sure I was correct, before, keeping one eye on
me, he had called the officer.
"Look here," he said again, turning on me. "I know enough to see
you have something new there, some of your damned inventions. Come,
give me my diamond, and if it is worth while I'll find the capital,
go halves, and drop this matter."
"Not to save your life!" I cried.
"You know me, officer," he said, as the blue coat came running in.
"I give this man into custody for theft."
"It is a mistake, officer," I said. "But you will do your
duty."
"Take him to the central station," said Mr. Brant, "and have him
searched. He has a jewel of mine on his person."
"Yer annar's sure it's not on the primmises?" asked the
officer.
"He has had no time--"
"Sure, if it's quick he do be he's as like to toss it in a
corner--"
I stretched out my hand to a knob that silenced the humming among
my wires, and at the same time sent up a thread of white fire whose
instant rush and subsidence hinted of terrible power behind. The last
divisible particle of radium--their eyeballs throbbed for a week.
"Search," I said. "But be careful about shocks. I don't want
murder here, too."
Apparently they also were of that mind. For, recovering their
sight, they threw my coat over my shoulders and marched me between
them to the station, where I was searched, and, as it was already
late, locked into a cell for the night.
I could not waste strength on the matter. I was waiting for the
dead middle of the night. Then I should put things to proof.
I confess it was a time of intense breathlessness while waiting
for silence and slumber to seal the world. Then I called upon my
soul, and I stepped boldly forward and walked through that stone wall
as if it had been air.
Of course, at my present displacement I was perfectly visible, and
I slipped behind this and that projection, and into that alley, till
sure of safety. There I made haste to my quarters, took the shelf
holding the carbon, and at once subjected it to the necessary
treatment. I was unprepared for the result. One instant the room
seemed full of a blinding white flame, an intolerable heat, which
shut my eyes and singed my hair and blistered my face.
"It is the atmosphere of a fire-dissolving planet," I thought. And
then there was darkness and a strange odor.
I fumbled and stumbled about till I could let in the fresh air;
and presently I saw the dim light of the street lamp. Then I turned
on my own lights--and there was the quartz slab with a curious fusing
of its edges, and in the center, flashing, palpitating, lay the
diamond, all fire and whiteness. I wonder if it were not considerably
larger; but it was hot as if just fallen from Syra Vega; it
contracted slightly after subjection to dephlogistic gases.
It was near morning when, having found Brant's address, I passed
into his house and his room, and took my bearings. I found his
waistcoat, left the diamond in one of its pockets, and returned. It
would not do to remain away, visible or invisible. I must be
vindicated, cleared of the charge, set right before the world by
Brant's appearing and confessing his mistake on finding the diamond
in his pocket.
Judge Brant did nothing of the kind. Having visited me in my cell
and in vain renewed his request to share in the invention which the
habit of his mind convinced him must be of importance, he appeared
against me. And the upshot of the business was that I went to prison
for the term of years he had threatened.
I asked for another interview with him; but was refused, unless on
the terms already declined. My lawyer, with the prison chaplain, went
to him, but to no purpose. At last I went myself, as I had gone
before, begging him not to ruin the work of my life. He regarded me
as a bad dream, and I could not undeceive him without betraying my
secret. I returned to my cell and again waited. For to escape was
only to prevent possible vindication. If Mary had lived--but I was
alone in the world.
The chaplain arranged with my landlord to take a sum of money I
had, and to keep my rooms and apparatus intact till the expiration of
my sentence. And then I put on the shameful and degrading prison garb
and submitted to my fate.
It was a black fate. On the edge of the greatest triumph over
matter that had ever been achieved, on the verge of announcing the
actuality of the Fourth Dimension of Space, and of defining and
declaring its laws, I was a convict laborer at a prison bench.
One day Judge Brant, visiting a client under sentence of death, in
relation to his fee, made pretext to look me up, and stopped at my
bench. "And how do you like it as far as you've gone?" he said.
"So that I go no farther," I replied. "And unless you become
accessory to my taking off, you will acknowledge you found the stone
in your pocket--"
"Not yet, not yet," he said, with an unctuous laugh. "It was a
keen jest you played. Regard this as a jest in return. But when you
are ready, I am ready."
The thing was hopeless. That night I bade good-bye to the life
that had plunged me from the pinnacle of light to the depths of
hell.
When again conscious I lay on a cot in the prison hospital. My
attempt had been unsuccessful. St. Angel sat beside me. It was here,
practically, he came into my life--alas! that I came into his.
In the long nights of darkness and failing faintness, when horror
had me by the throat, he was beside me, and his warm, human touch was
all that held me while I hung over the abyss. When I swooned off
again his hand, his voice, his bending face recalled me.﹃Why not let
me go, and then an end?﹄I sighed.
"To save you from a great sin," he replied. And I clung to his
hand with the animal instinct of living.
I was well, and in my cell, when he said. "You claim to be an
honest man--"
"And yet?"
"You were about taking that which did not belong to you."
"I hardly understand."
"Can you restore life once taken?"
"Oh, life! That worthless thing!"
"Lent for a purpose."
"For torture!"
"If by yourself you could breathe breath into any pinch of
feathers and toss it off your hand a creature--but, as it is, life is
a trust. And you, a man of parts, of power, hold it only to return
with usury."
"And stripped of the power of gathering usury! Robbed of the work
about to revolutionize the world!"
"The world moves on wide waves. Another man will presently have
reached your discovery."
As if that were a thing to be glad of! I learned afterwards that
St. Angel had given up the sweetness of life for the sake of his
enemy. He had gone to prison, and himself worn the stripes, rather
than the woman he loved should know her husband was the criminal.
Perhaps he did not reconcile this with his love of inviolate truth.
But St. Angel had never felt so much regard for his own soul as for
the service of others. Self-forgetfulness was the dominant of all his
nature.
"Tell me," he said, sitting with me, "about your work."
A whim of trustfulness seized me. I drew an outline, but paused at
the look of pity on his face. He felt there was but one conclusion to
draw--that I was a madman.
"Very well," I said, "you shall see." And I walked through the
wall before his amazed eyes, and walked back again.
For a moment speechless, "You have hypnotic power," then he said.
"You made me think I saw it."
"You did see it. I can go free any day I choose."
"And you do not?"
"I must be vindicated." And I told exactly what had taken place
with Brant and his diamond.﹃Perhaps that vindication will never
come,﹄I said at last. "The offended amour propre, and the hope of
gain, hindered in the beginning. Now he will find it impossible."
"That is too monstrous to believe!" said St. Angel. "But since you
can, why not spend an hour or two at night with your work?"
"In these clothes! How long before I should be brought back? The
first wayfarer--oh, you see!"
St. Angel thought a while. "You are my size," he said then. "We
will exchange clothes. I will remain here. In three hours return,
that you may get your sleep. It is fortunate the prison should be in
the same town."
Night after night then I was in my old rooms, the shutters up,
lost in my dreams and my researches, arriving at great ends.
Night after night I reappeared on the moment, and St. Angel went
his way.
I had now found that molecular displacement can be had in various
directions. Going further, I saw that gravity acts on bodies whose
molecules are on the same plane, and one of the possible results of
the application of the Y-ray was the suspension of the laws of
gravity. This possibly accounted for an almost inappreciable buoyancy
and the power of directing one's course. My last studies showed that
a substance thus treated has the degenerative power of attracting the
molecules of any norm into its new orbit--a disastrous possibility. A
chair might disappear into a table previously treated by a Y-ray. In
fact, the outlook was to infinity. The change so slight--the result
so astonishing! The subject might go into molecular interstices as
far removed, to all essential purpose, as if billions of miles away
in interstellar space. Nothing was changed, nothing disrupted; but
the thing had stepped aside to let the world go by. The secrets of
the world were mine. The criminal was at my mercy. The lover had no
reserves from me. And as for my enemy, the Lord had delivered him
into my hand. I could leave him only a puzzle for the dissectors. I
could make him, although yet alive, a conscious ghost to stand or
wander in his altered shape through years of nightmare alone and
lost. What wonders of energy would follow this ray of displacement.
What withdrawal of malignant growth and deteriorating tissue was to
come.﹃To what heights of succor for humanity the surgeon can rise
with it!﹄said St. Angel, as, full of my enthusiasm, I dilated on the
marvel.
"He can work miracles!" I exclaimed. "He can heal the sick, walk
on the deep, perhaps--who knows--raise the dead!"
I was at the height of my endeavor when St. Angel brought me my
pardon. He had so stated my case to the Governor, so spoken of my
interrupted career, and of my prison conduct, that the pardon had
been given. I refused to accept it. "I accept," I said, "nothing but
vindication, if I stay here till the day of judgment!"
"But there is no provision for you now," he urged. "Officially you
no longer exist."
"Here I am," I said, "and here I stay."
"At any rate," he continued, "come out with me now and see the
Governor, and see the world and the daylight outdoors, and be a man
among men a while!"
With the stipulation that I should return, I put on a man's
clothes again and went out the gates.
It was with a thrill of exultation that, exhibiting the affairs in
my room to St. Angel, finally I felt the vibrating impulse that told
me I had received the ray of the larger displacement. In a moment I
should be viewless as the air.
"Where are you?" said St. Angel, turning this way and that. "What
has become of you?"
"Seeing is believing," I said. "Sometimes not seeing is the naked
truth."
"Oh, but this is uncanny!" he exclaimed. "A voice out of empty
air."
"Not so empty! But place your hand under the second coil. Have no
fear. You hear me now," I said. "I am in perhaps the Fourth
Dimension. I am invisible to any one not there--to all the world,
except, presently, yourself. For now you, you also, pass into the
unseen. Tell me what you feel."
"Nothing," he said. "A vibration--a suspicion of one. No, a blow,
a sense of coming collapse, so instant it has passed."
"Now," I said, "there is no one on earth with eyes to see you but
myself!"
"That seems impossible."
"Did you see me? But now you do. We are on the same plane. Look in
that glass. There is the reflection of the room, of the window, the
chair. Do you see me? Yourself?"
"Powers of the earth and air, but this is ghastly!" said St.
Angel.
"It is the working of natural law. Now we will see the world,
ourselves unseen."
"An unfair advantage."
"Perhaps. But there are things to accomplish to-day." What things
I never dreamed; or I had stayed on the threshold.
I wanted St. Angel to know the manner of man this Brant was. We
went out, and arrested our steps only inside Brant's office.
"This door is always blowing open!" said the clerk, and he
returned to a woman standing in a suppliant attitude.﹃The Judge has
gone to the races,﹄he said,﹃and he's left word that Tuesday morning
your goods'll be put out of the house if you don't pay up!﹄The woman
went her way weeping.
Leaving, we mounted a car; we would go to the races ourselves. I
doubt if St. Angel had ever seen anything of the sort. I observed him
quietly slip a dime into the conductor's pocket--he felt that even
the invisible, like John Gilpin, carried a right.﹃This opens a way
for the right hand undreamed of the left,﹄he said to me later.
It was not long before we found Judge Brant, evidently in an
anxious frame, his expanse of countenance white with excitement. He
had been plunging heavily, as I learned, and had big money staked,
not upon the favorite but upon Hannan, the black mare.﹃That man
would hardly put up so much on less than a certainty,﹄I thought.
Winding our way unseen among the grooms and horses, I found what I
suspected--a plan to pocket the favorite.﹃But I know a game worth
two of that,﹄I said. I took a couple of small smooth pebbles,
previously prepared, from the chamois bag into which I had put them
with some others and an aluminum wafer treated for the larger
displacement, and slipped one securely under the favorite's
saddle-girth. When he warmed to his work he should be, for perhaps
half an hour, at the one-billionth point, before the virtue expired,
and capable of passing through every obstacle as he was directed.
"Hark you, Danny," then I whispered in the jockey's ear.
"Who are you? What--I--I--don't--" looking about with terror.
"It's no ghost," I whispered hurriedly. "Keep your nerve. I am
flesh and blood--alive as you. But I have the property which for half
an hour I give you--a new discovery. And knowing Bub and Whittler's
game, it's up to you to knock 'em out. Now, remember, when they try
the pocket ride straight through them!"
Other things kept my attention; and when the crucial moment came I
had some excited heart-beats. And so had Judge Brant. It was in the
instant when Danny, having held the favorite well in hand for the
first stretch, Hannan and Darter in the lead and the field following,
was about calling on her speed, that suddenly Bub and Whittler drew
their horses' heads a trifle more closely together, in such wise that
it was impossible to pass on either side, and a horse could no more
shoot ahead than if a stone wall stood there. "Remember, Danny!" I
shouted, making a trumpet of my hands. "Ride straight through!"
And Danny did. He pulled himself together, and set his teeth as if
it were a compact with powers of evil, and rode straight through
without turning a hair, or disturbing either horse or rider. Once
more the Y-ray was triumphant.
But about Judge Brant the air was blue. It would take a very round
sum of money to recoup the losses of those few moments. I disliked to
have St. Angel hear him; but it was all in the day's work.
The day had not been to Judge Brant's mind, as at last he bent his
steps to the club. As he went it occurred to me to try upon him the
larger ray of displacement, and I slipped down the back of his collar
the wafer I had ready. He would not at once feel its action, but in
the warmth either of walking or dining, its properties should be
lively for nearly an hour. I had curiosity to see if the current
worked not only through all substances, but through all sorts and
conditions.
"I should prefer a better pursuit," said St. Angel, as we reached
the street. "Is there not something ignoble in it?"
"In another case. Here it is necessary to hound the criminal, to
see the man entirely. A game not to be played too often, for there is
work to be done before establishing the counteracting currents that
may ensure reserves and privacies to people. To-night let us go to
the club with Judge Brant, and then I will back to my cell."
As you may suppose, Brant was a man neither of imagination nor
humor. As you have seen, he was hard and cruel, priding himself on
being a good hater, which in his contention meant indulgence of a
preternaturally vindictive temper when prudence allowed. With more
cunning than ability, he had achieved some success in his profession,
and he secured admission to a good club, recently crowning his
efforts, when most of the influential members were absent, by getting
himself made one of its governors.
It would be impossible to find a greater contrast to this wretch
than in St. Angel--a man of delicate imagination and pure fancy,
tender to the child on the street, the fly on the wall; all his
atmosphere that of kindness. Gently born, but too finely bred, his
physical resistance was so slight that his immunity lay in not being
attacked. His clean, fair skin, his brilliant eyes, spoke of health,
but the fragility of frame did not speak of strength. Yet St. Angel's
life was the active principle of good; his neighborhood was
purification.
I was revolving these things while we followed Judge Brant, when I
saw him pause in an agitated manner, like one startled out of sleep.
A quick shiver ran over his strong frame; he turned red and pale,
then with a shrug went on. The displacement had occurred. He was now
on the plane of invisibility, and we must have a care ourselves.
Wholly unconscious of any change, the man pursued his way. The
street was as usual. There was the boy who always waited for him with
the extra but to-night was oblivious; and failing to get his
attention the Judge walked on. A shower that had been threatening
began to fall, the sprinkle becoming a downpour, with umbrellas
spread and people hurrying. The Judge hailed a car; but the motorman
was as blind as the newsboy. The shower stopped as suddenly as it had
begun, but he went on some paces before perceiving that he was
perfectly dry, for as he shut and shook his umbrella not a drop fell,
and as he took off his hat and looked at it, not an atom of moisture
was to be found there. Evidently bewildered, and looking about
shamefacedly, I fancied I could hear him saying, with his usual
oaths, "I must be deucedly overwrought, or this is some blue
devilment."
As the Judge took his accustomed seat in the warm and brilliantly
lighted room, and picking up the evening paper, looked over the
columns, the familiar every-day affair quieting his nerves so that he
could have persuaded himself he had been half asleep as he walked, he
was startled by the voice, not four feet away, of one of the old
officers who made the Kings County their resort. Something had
ruffled the doughty hero. "By the Lord Harry, sir," he was saying in
unmodulated tones, "I should like to know what this club is coming to
when you can spring on it the election of such a man as this Brant!
Judge? What's he Judge of? Beat his wife, too, didn't he? The
governors used to be gentlemen!"
"But you know, General," said his vis-à-vis, "I think no
more of him than you do; but when a man lives at the Club--"
"Lives here!" burst in the other angrily.﹃He hasn't anywhere else
to live! Is there a decent house in town open to him? Well, thank
goodness, I've somewhere else to go before he comes in! The sight of
him gives me a fit of the gout!﹄And the General stumped out
stormily.
"Old boy seems upset!" said some one not far away. "But he's
right. It was sheer impudence in the fellow to put up his name."
I could see Brant grow white and gray with anger, as surprised and
outraged, wondering what it meant--if the General intended insult--if
Scarsdale--but no, apparently they had not seen him. The contemptuous
words rankled; the sweat stood on his forehead.
Had not the moment been serious, there were a thousand tricks to
play. But the potency of the polarization was subsiding and in a
short time the normal molecular plane would be re-established. It was
there that I made my mistake. I should not have allowed him to
depolarize so soon. I should have kept him bewildered and foodless
till famished and weak. Instead, as ion by ion the effect of the ray
decreased, his shape grew vague and misty, and then one and another
man there rubbed his eyes, for Judge Brant was sitting in his chair
and a waiter was hastening towards him.
It had all happened in a few minutes. Plainly the Judge understood
nothing of the circumstances. He was dazed, but he must put the best
face on it; and he ordered his dinner and a pony of brandy, eating
like a hungry animal.
He rose, after a time, refreshed, invigorated, and all himself.
Choosing a cigar, he went into another room, seeking a choice
lounging place, where for a while he could enjoy his ease and wonder
if anything worse than a bad dream had befallen. As for the General's
explosion, it did not signify; he was conscious of such opinion; he
was overliving it; he would be expelling the old cock yet for conduct
unbecoming a gentleman.
Meanwhile, St. Angel, tiring of the affair, and weary, had gone
into this room, and in an arm-chair by the hearth was awaiting
me--the intrusive quality of my observations not at all to his mind.
He had eaten nothing all day, and was somewhat faint. He had closed
his eyes, and perhaps fallen into a light doze when he must have been
waked by the impact of Brant's powerful frame, as the latter took
what seemed to him the empty seat. I expected to see Brant at once
flung across the rug by St. Angel's natural effort in rising.
Instead, Brant sank into the chair as into down pillows.
I rushed, as quickly as I could, to seize and throw him off,
"Through him! Pass through him! Come out! Come to me!" I cried. And
people to-day remember that voice out of the air, in the Kings County
Club.
It seemed to me that I heard a sound, a sob, a whisper, as if one
cried with a struggling sigh, "Impossible!" And with that a strange
trembling convulsed Judge Brant's great frame, he lifted his hands,
he thrust out his feet, his head fell forward, he groaned gurglingly,
shudder after shudder shook him as if every muscle quivered with
agony or effort, the big veins started out as if every pulse were a
red-hot iron. He was wrestling with something, he knew not what,
something as antipathetic to him as white is to black; every nerve
was concentrated in rebellion, every fiber struggled to break the
spell.
The whole affair was that of a dozen heart-beats--the attempt of
the opposing molecules each to draw the other into its own orbit. The
stronger physical force, the greater aggregation of atoms was
prevailing. Thrust upward for an instant, Brant fell back into his
chair exhausted, the purple color fading till his face shone fair as
a girl's, sweet and smiling as a child's, white as the face of a
risen spirit--Brant's!
Astounded, I seized his shoulder and whirled him about. There was
no one else in the chair. I looked in every direction. There was no
St. Angel to be seen. There was but one conclusion to draw--the
molecules of Brant's stronger material frame had drawn into their own
plane the molecules of St. Angel's.
I rushed from the place, careless if seen or unseen, howling in
rage and misery. I sought my laboratory, and in a fiend's fury
depolarized myself, and I demolished every instrument, every formula,
every vestige of my work. I was singed and scorched and burned, but I
welcomed any pain. And I went back to prison, admitted by the
officials who hardly knew what else to do. I would stay there, I
thought, all my days. God grant they should be few! It would be seen
that a life of imprisonment and torture were too little punishment
for the ruin I had wrought.
It was after a sleepless night, of which every moment seemed
madness, that, the door of my cell opening, I saw St. Angel. St.
Angel? God have mercy on me, no, it was Judge Brant I saw!
He came forward, with both hands extended, a grave, imploring look
on his face. "I have come," he said, a singular sweet overtone in his
voice that I had never heard before, yet which echoed like music in
my memory, "to make you all the reparation in my power. I will go
with you at once before the Governor, and acknowledge that I have
found the diamond. I can never hope to atone for what you have
suffered. But as long as I live, all that I have, all that I am, is
yours!"
There was a look of absolute sweetness on his face that for a
dizzy moment made me half distraught. "We will go together," he said.
"I have to stop on the way and tell a woman whose mortgage comes due
to-day that I have made a different disposition; and, do you know,"
he added brightly, after an instant's hesitation,﹃I think I shall
help her pay it!﹄and he laughed gayly at the jest involved.
"Will you say that you have known my innocence all these years?" I
said sternly.
"Is not that," he replied, with a touching and persuasive quality
of tone, "a trifle too much? Do you think this determination has been
reached without a struggle? If you are set right before the world, is
not something due to--Brant?"
"If I did not know who and what you are," I said, "I should think
the soul of St. Angel had possession of you!"
The man looked at me dreamily. "Strange!" he murmured.﹃I seem to
have heard something like that before. However,﹄as if he shook off a
perplexing train of thought, "all that is of no consequence. It is
not who you are, but what you do. Come, my friend, don't deny me,
don't let the good minute slip. Surely the undoing of the evil of a
lifetime, the turning of that force to righteousness, is work
outweighing all a prison chaplain's--"
My God, what had the intrusion of my incapable hands upon
forbidden mysteries done!
"Come," he said. "We will go together. We will carry light into
dark places--there are many waiting--"
"St. Angel!" I cried, with a loud voice, "are you here?"
And again the smile of infinite sweetness illuminated the face
even as the sun shines up from the depths of a stagnant pool.
THE NEMESIS OF MOTHERHOOD
"There are two moments in a diver's life:
One, when a beggar he prepares to plunge,
One, when a prince he rises with his pearl.
Festus, I plunge."--Browning.
Chapter I
THE hospital of the prison was little more than a whitewashed
corridor with bald daylight coming through the high gratings. The
nurse was neither soft-footed nor soft-hearted.
But the woman occupying one of the cots there was as oblivious of
outer circumstances as if she were in the middle of a cloud. It was,
in fact, thick cloud that swathed her, body and soul, in black
shadow, as she lay there with her baby three days old. If she herself
had ever been fair to see, there was small reason to suspect the
possibility now; and the little dark atom of humanity she held would
perhaps have given any but its mother a feeling of repulsion.
She had been sentenced to a term of years at hard labor for her
crime. Although a young woman, she was an old offender. It was held
among the officials that there was nothing so bad or so vile that she
might not be a part of its wickedness. She had lived on the plane of
an animal, an exceedingly cunning and rather vicious animal. Her
memories, could she have awakened them, would have revolted any
listener however abandoned, and have hardened the heart of an
angel.
Yet as she lay there and felt the little new being at her breast,
two great tears welled from under her closed eyelids and paused upon
her cheeks; a sunbeam through the grating touched them and painted in
them the reflection of all heaven. The nurse saw the sunbeam, and
drew the shade down; no one looked for any reflection of heaven in
that woman's tears.
She was suffering little from her physical troubles, although
prostrate from weakness. She knew that everything was wrong with her;
but that did not trouble her; she had been in hell too long, she
would have said, to fear now; and, to her, death, not birth, seemed a
sleep and a forgetting. But through all her varied experience, this
was her first child; and the condition where she found herself was a
new hell, and one undreamed of before. This little creature, drawing
her life into itself, was something for which she felt a fierce
protecting instinct--an unspeakable and angry need of interposing
herself between it and the cruelty of the world. Her child--it was
foreordained by fate that it must suffer. Her daughter--there was not
power enough in the universe to hinder her from sharing her mother's
lot. The child must grow up in the alleys, in the gutters. Her first
words would be oaths; little criminals would be her companions; sin
must be her daily sight, evil must be her atmosphere; she the
bantling of a ribald moment, and by right of descent possessor of her
mother's indecency. Wrong would come to her earlier than it had come
to herself--she remembered sharply the first stirring of the vicious
impulses in herself, the first temptation; the first yielding; the
bad, bitter joy; the end in wretchedness, in despair, in ruin. He had
gone free--and where there was one of her there were ten of him--and
she felt the multitude of him lying in wait for this girl drawing now
from her veins the impulse, the yielding, the riot, the rage; and
once more the fierce instinct of protection made her clasp the child
so closely that it cried out with a feeble cry.
The nurse came and looked at her curiously and saw the tear and
went away. The child dropped off to sleep. But far from sleep was the
mother, with a fire ravaging her brain. She saw the way marked out
for this child; she saw not only that, but the bleeding feet with
which she must tread it.
But yet--it was not impossible--she could be saved from all that.
There were people who could take her out and away, who could surround
her with the things of a different life--she who was innocent
now.
Innocent? Was she innocent, this child born with an injured body,
with a diseased soul? No intelligence, no cunning, no benevolence,
could evade the inevitable. For what she was, that her child was. You
do not gather figs from thistles. What she had made herself, she had
made her child; what she had become, that her child became also. In
being born, the child became all that. This soft and shapeless lip
was ready for the lie; those tiny clutching fingers for the theft;
those helpless hands for the secret murder; that body would grow
lithe and supple for all sin, and would one day wither in the fire of
pain. Born vile, to wallow in slime, the child would take only what
was given to it--from the unknown, nameless father corruption; from
the mother the blackness of shameless things of midnight. All that
the mother had done she would do; all that the mother had suffered
she would suffer. Had there been any happiness in her part? Not one
jot. The child would live to curse the day she saw the light.
She rose on one arm and looked at it. She laid her thin hand on
its thin cheek. Her heart suddenly stood still with a wild, unused
sensation--could it be love for the child? She fell back on her
pillow a chill sweat of horror covering her. All this evil she had
given her child in giving it life.
There was something else she could give it.
In the morning the nurse and the doctor could not say that the
mother had not overlain the child in sleep. It did not seem best to
make any search into the affair, since for this mother's child death
was so much better than life.
Chapter II
Every sound in the large and lovely room was muffled by the rich
rugs, the silk-hung walls, the heavy curtains. A fire burnt low on
the hearth and sent a ruby shadow here and there, flickering over the
alabaster vase, the ivory carving, the water-color on the panel, the
blue silk coverlet and the billowy lace about the bed. The room was
full of the fragrance of a hundred roses. An attendant, velvet-shod,
carried away a small gold tray with a bowl of china as translucent as
a flower; another nurse sat by the fire and dreamed over the pillow
that lay across her knee. All seemed well with the young mother; all
seemed well with the child.
She rested deep among her pillows, in a sleepy content; but quite
determined on no more experience of this sort. Why could not the race
have been continued in some other way? It really seemed as if there
were some malevolence toward women. How much she had missed since
they forbade her to dance or to ride. The idea of her foregoing all
her pleasures for this--and life so short at the best! She would be
on a horse again the moment she was able, before the frosty weather
was all gone. She had lost the Hunt Ball, as it was. Well, here was
the heir, anyway; and he would have to do.
A gush of music came through an opening door or window, a thrill
of violins and flutes; there was a small and early german in the next
house--how vexatious to be here! And all the rehearsals for the
theatricals were over without her; and every one had declared there
could never be such a Cleopatra as she; and she had ropes and ropes
of pearls to wear, and miles of rose-colored gauzes half to hide and
half to reveal the rose-colored tights. Very likely there would have
been a fuss; but what was the use of being beautiful all to yourself?
At all events, the gauzes would do for the skirt-dances they were
going to give for the Blenheim Spaniel Hospital.
There would be some cotillions, anyway, before Lent. She hoped she
wasn't going to come out of all this with her color gone. And her
figure--it would be a pity if the gowns that had just come from Paris
shouldn't fit her now. She would have the boxes opened to-morrow and
the gowns spread out for inspection--one of them ought to be simply
exquisite--cherry-colored satin, the front embroidered with
seed-pearls, cut very low, but with a high ruff, and clouds of old
Venice point. Lester van Dycke always said when she wore that shade
that Watteau should have painted her. Poor Lester--she couldn't
understand why there should have been any feeling about that little
flirtation; he was only teaching her how to smoke a cigarette like
Carmen. And then it was diverting to see just how far you could go
and stop. And really she had been awfully hard up when he lost that
money to her at poker. Thank goodness, it was all paid back before he
was sent off on that whaling voyage to break up his drinking. How
people do slip in and out of your life.--What was that woman doing
now? Oh, indeed--they needn't bring that baby to her; she didn't want
him.
The nurse, a wise woman as nurses were in the days of Pharaoh,
turned down the silken sheet and laid on the mother's arm the bundle
of soft wool and filmy lace, baring the little pink face.﹃I never
supposed babies looked like that. Isn't he comical? And you needn't
think I'm going to nurse him,﹄she meant to say aloud, but really
said only to herself. "He can be brought up by hand; or you may get
all the foster-mothers you please. I won't be tied down by a chain
two or three hours long, and grow a fright into the bargain!"
"We can't let the little man starve," the nurse was saying.﹃At
any rate, just for the present,﹄she urged. "Till the doctor comes
again and we can get just what is wanted."
Were all nurses like this? Wasn't she compelling? A sort of
civilized She. Well, if she must. But not to keep it up. How absurd!
How perfectly ridiculous! But they were not to think she was going on
with it and forego the races and the yachting and everything else.
"Don't you know," she said in her thoughts to the baby, "that you're
dreadfully in my way?"
The baby smiled--the vacuous little grimace of a baby--and opened
his eyes. "Dear me," she said.﹃How interesting! Do you imagine he
sees me? Fancy! And look at the fingers--aren't they quite perfect?
And his eyes--why, they're really--just look at the little fine
corners! Do you suppose he knows I'm his mother? Oh, I am his
mother!﹄And the little head had snuggled into place. She gazed at
him in a bewildered wonder: something seemed to be taking hold of her
very heart-strings. Oh, this scrap of a creature was part of her life
itself! She had made him! She had struck this spark of a soul into a
being! The idea! But why? The dear person had a soul, of course. And
she fell to wondering what kind of soul it was. What kind of a
soul--why, didn't people say the son was the avatar of the mother? A
soul like hers, to be sure. My gracious, what kind of a soul was
hers?
It seemed suddenly to be growing black everywhere about her,
whether owing to the new sensations and to exhaustion, or to the too
illuminating thought. All along the dusky wall she saw written in
letters of flame, Mene, mene, tekel upharsin. She half laughed to
think it should be in plain, every-day characters instead of Persian
script. Thou art weighed in the balance--and found wanting.
What did it mean? What was weighed? What was found wanting? And
what was this blackness? Was she fainting? Or, oh, was she dying!
Heavens! Was this dying? Was she sinking, failing, letting go of
life? Don't let her die! Oh, don't let her die! She didn't want to
leave all these pleasant things. She was afraid. For, oh, she was not
fit to die! She must have made some exclamation, for the nurse was
sprinkling her face. "It is all right," the woman was saying.﹃She is
coming to. It's not unusual.﹄Yes; it was no longer black about her:
she was in the middle of a great light; she seemed to be withering in
it, like a leaf in the fire. In the middle of the great light she saw
herself for what she was. In that unknown and vast beyond, her little
worthless soul would be lost. That was the kind of soul she had--a
little, worthless, paltering one.
That was the kind of soul, then, she had given to her boy. He was
to grow up in this great moving world as trifling, as light-minded,
as slight as she, she who cared only for the pleasures that waste the
body and starve the soul! His little velvet cheek lay on her
breast--oh, how dear he was; how sweet he was, the little new person!
And she had made him as useless, as light as a bubble. She recalled a
deceit she had practised just before his birth--a scandal she had
stimulated; the case that had been laid before her of bringing out a
poor man's family for just the money that would buy the emerald cross
she wanted, and she had taken refuge behind the immigration laws, and
there were the emeralds in her jewel-case; her face burnt to remember
the champagne she drank the night she first wore those
emeralds--heaven knows what silly things she said! Yes, yes; there
was no help for it, this son of hers would want ease, glitter, wine,
bibelots! Pleasures that had been follies in her would be follies in
him, too, and worse than follies. Her frivolity would be in him
effeminacy, her idleness would have made him a voluptuary. He would
know nothing and care less for the sin and sorrow on his right hand
and his left; he would not waste an hour of his laughing life on any
of the grief and pain that made discord in the music. A silken
sybarite, he would yield to every temptation; every gaiety would
allure him. The thrones of the world might rock, he would not know it
if his clubs were sound. His ambitions would be in his clothes, in
his horses. He would have no strength to fight the forces of evil--he
would be a part of them. Insufficient, of no purpose in the great
scheme of the growth of the race--oh, was she thinking of her boy,
her little son, the dear new, tender life? And then again that
sinking, that slipping into outer darkness.
No, no, she must overcome it; she must not die; there was
something for her to do; she could not afford to die! She could not
have him, when his time came, go out into the dark the trumpery thing
she was herself, as he needs must if she did not live to hinder it.
He would be without strength to resist the press of evil, for she had
given him no strength; he would be without impulse to do good, for
she had given him no impulse; he would be without value in the scales
of the universe, for she had given him no value. She must live to
lead him past the temptation, for she would recognize it; to bid him
to see the pitfall; to find, herself, and show to him, the shining
mark beyond; to help him in all those straits and perils where being
her son, he must otherwise be helpless. That other woman whom the
doctor was to bring, that foster-mother, she must go away again. They
should give her something for her own baby; but she could not have
this one. She might be a better woman; he might draw force and will
from her; but from his own mother he would draw love, and the love
should keep him safe.
The fire fell, and all was still in the room. The nurse drowsed in
her chair. The very roses seemed to hush themselves in dropping now
and then a petal lest they wake the mother and the child from their
deep, sweet, regenerating sleep.
Chapter III
There was but one room in the log-cabin of the forest clearing.
The summer moonlight poured in a flood of pale-green silver through
the open door and the windows, glorifying all the place.
The young mother, lying there with her first-born beside her, had
done what she could to make the spot homelike till something better
should replace it; and it wore a certain reminiscence of castle halls
in the tapestry of skins, in the huge antlers, in the crossed
arms.
The woman, who had come from a dozen miles away to be with her
now--one to whose help she had gone herself when the forest-fever
smote the household there, was in the lean-to with the doctor. The
husband was out hunting, unaware of the imminence of the event; and
the two lads were with him. There was no one in the room but the
mother and her child.
No one? What was this shape in the moonlight--this shining
mist--the winged shape of a great angel, gleaming obscurely in the
bloom of the broad glow? What the darker shape of another that seemed
the shadow of the first? Or were they shapes at all, or more than the
phantasmagoria of a failing brain?
She was too weak to note anything closely; but she felt in long
thrills through all her frame the soft, slow breathing of the baby at
her side, and her soul was full of a rapture of gladness. She felt,
moreover, vaguely conscious of a certain dim sense of triumph, for
although her father's holdings had gone in a distant branch to the
heir male, she knew that she, inheriting of her father, that her son,
inheriting of her, truly represented the race--not that son of many
alien mothers who now had name and place.
Left dowerless, through mishap, she had married a man of
adventurous spirit, and had come out here, a pioneer, to begin fresh
life; her son was to be one of the makers of the new world. But of
none of this she thought now or was aware, save as a dull
undercurrent. She faintly remembered thinking before he was born that
this child was to be the flower of his race; that his mother must
make him so; that his mother's father had already made him so--that
father in whom there had been no taint of dishonor, of self-seeking,
of uncleanness, of distemper of mind or body. Perhaps the nobility
had lain dormant in herself; she had feared that; she had tried to
rouse it--but on the whole had given herself small time to dwell upon
it. There had been far too much to do to think if she possessed
virtues and graces. She had had plans, in the early days, of great
work among the prisons she would visit, and the help she would give
the convict people; of the way in which she would bring pleasure to
certain of the insane; and, when war broke out, of the help she might
be as an army nurse--she familiar with sick-rooms. But she had had no
chance to bring herself to proof; for her father had needed her every
hour. And when he had died, she had married a poor man, a prince
among poor men as she felt, and she had come out with him to build a
new home under new conditions. As, upon the voyage, she had looked
over at those in the steerage, her heart had swelled with pity, and
with a sense of being in reality one of them, with no right to more
ease; she had gone in among them, and an old woman there had died in
her arms, and to the child of a poor young wife she had rendered the
first offices. And as her foot touched shore her heart had swelled
again, but with a sort of ecstasy, thinking of the great promise this
land gave to the oppressed of all the earth. On the train across the
country she had found two little lads whose people had died and who
were bewildered at their homeless condition; and she and her husband
had taken them to their home in the wilderness.
Over here life had not been easy; but she had given no sign. It
had been beyond her strength; but she had never faltered. She was
making home and happiness and she had found a vivid joy in it. She
had been lonesome in the long days of necessary solitude; but no one
knew it. She had been home-sick for old sights, old faces, old
luxuries; but there was always a smile on her lip when any one
looked. Sometimes her husband took her with him on his errands to the
distant town, and as she saw the busy people going to and fro a great
love swept from her to one and all of them. And when her child was
coming, she was so glad of him that that love for others seemed only
to have opened the way for an inexhaustible fountain of love flowing
to him and through him. She had a sort of smiling memory that it took
generations to make a gentleman--it had meant generations of mothers,
of course; and after all was a gentleman in the first place other
than a man of the people who loved his people? Fate must have begun
in season with her child. She searched herself, if by mischance any
hidden sin in her could come to light in him; she had prayed almost
hourly that he might have truth, courage, a pure heart, a generous
hand, a selfless spirit, and that, when the ordeal came, if one must
go, the child should stay and have his share of the joy of the world
that she had found so sweet, unwitting that her very prayer gave him
all the loftiness she craved for him.
And now the son had been born to her and slept beside her, a
strong and lusty boy, the builder, possibly, of a new race; surely,
as she had dreamed, the last richness of an old one. She lay with
indistinct, half-wandering fancies, looking into the pouring
moonlight. For a moment she was quite sure she saw them--the two
great angels; and then the eyelids dropped dreamily, and she saw no
more.
"It is a child," said the shadowy angel, hovering over the bed,
"whose mother had given him the strength that becomes a man, who has
a place to take in the world, a work to do, and a will to do it. The
race needs him. He is yours."
"It is a mother," said the shining angel, "who has already given
her child the welcome that makes a joyous soul. He shall not miss her
smile. He is what she is. He will need love since he will give so
much. And she is all compact of love. She is one of the forces of
Life. Death, I cannot surrender her."
And the dark angel fled away into the moonlight, and the shining
one fanned sleeping mother and child with his wings.
CIRCUMSTANCE
Circumstance had remained, during all that day, with a sick
neighbor,--those eastern wilds of Maine in that epoch frequently
making neighbors and miles synonymous,--and so busy had she been with
care and sympathy that she did not at first observe the approaching
night. But finally the level rays, reddening the snow, threw their
gleam upon the wall, and, hastily donning cloak and hood, she bade
her friends farewell and sallied forth on her return. Home lay some
three miles distant, across a copse, a meadow, and a piece of
woods,--the woods being a fringe on the skirts of the great forests
that stretch far away into the North. That home was one of a dozen
log-houses lying a few furlongs apart from each other, with their
half-cleared demesnes separating them at the rear from a wilderness
untrodden save by stealthy native or deadly panther tribes.
She was in a nowise exalted frame of spirit,--on the contrary,
rather depressed by the pain she had witnessed and the fatigue she
had endured; but in certain temperaments such a condition throws open
the mental pores, so to speak, and renders one receptive of every
influence. Through the little copse she walked slowly, with her cloak
folded about her, lingering to imbibe the sense of shelter, the
sunset filtered in purple through the mist of woven spray and twig,
the companionship of growth not sufficiently dense to band against
her, the sweet home-feeling of a young and tender wintry wood. It was
therefore just on the edge of the evening that she emerged from the
place and began to cross the meadow-land. At one hand lay the forest
to which her path wound; at the other the evening star hung over a
tide of failing orange that slowly slipped down the earth's broad
side to sadden other hemispheres with sweet regret. Walking rapidly
now, and with her eyes wide-open, she distinctly saw in the air
before her what was not there a moment ago, a winding-sheet,--cold,
white, and ghastly, waved by the likeness of four wan hands,--that
rose with a long inflation, and fell in rigid folds, while a voice,
shaping itself from the hollowness above, spectral and melancholy,
sighed,--"The Lord have mercy on the people! The Lord have mercy on
the people!" Three times the sheet with its corpse-covering outline
waved beneath the pale hands, and the voice, awful in its solemn and
mysterious depth, sighed, "The Lord have mercy on the people!" Then
all was gone, the place was clear again, the gray sky was obstructed
by no deathly blot; she looked about her, shook her shoulders
decidedly, and, pulling on her hood, went forward once more.
She might have been a little frightened by such an apparition, if
she had led a life of less reality than frontier settlers are apt to
lead; but dealing with hard fact does not engender a flimsy habit of
mind, and this woman was too sincere and earnest in her character,
and too happy in her situation, to be thrown by antagonism, merely,
upon superstitious fancies and chimeras of the second-sight. She did
not even believe herself subject to an hallucination, but smiled
simply, a little vexed that her thought could have framed such a
glamour from the day's occurrences, and not sorry to lift the bough
of the warder of the woods and enter and disappear in their sombre
path. If she had been imaginative, she would have hesitated at her
first step into a region whose dangers were not visionary; but I
suppose that the thought of a little child at home would conquer that
propensity in the most habituated. So, biting a bit of spicy birch,
she went along. Now and then she came to a gap where the trees had
been partially felled, and here she found that the lingering twilight
was explained by that peculiar and perhaps electric film which
sometimes sheathes the sky in diffused light for many hours before a
brilliant aurora. Suddenly, a swift shadow, like the fabulous
flying-dragon, writhed through the air before her, and she felt
herself instantly seized and borne aloft. It was that wild beast--the
most savage and serpentine and subtle and fearless of our
latitudes--known by hunters as the Indian Devil, and he held her in
his clutches on the broad floor of a swinging fir-bough. His long
sharp claws were caught in her clothing, he worried them sagaciously
a little, then, finding that ineffectual to free them, he commenced
licking her bare arm with his rasping tongue and pouring over her the
wide streams of his hot, foetid breath. So quick had this flashing
action been that the woman had had no time for alarm; moreover, she
was not of the screaming kind: but now, as she felt him endeavoring
to disentangle his claws, and the horrid sense of her fate smote her,
and she saw instinctively the fierce plunge of those weapons, the
long strips of living flesh torn from her bones, the agony, the
quivering disgust, itself a worse agony,--while by her side, and
holding her in his great lithe embrace, the monster crouched, his
white tusks whetting and gnashing, his eyes glaring through all the
darkness like balls of red fire,--a shriek, that rang in every forest
hollow, that startled every winter-housed thing, that stirred and
woke the least needle of the tasselled pines, tore through her lips.
A moment afterward, the beast left the arm, once white, now crimson,
and looked up alertly.
She did not think at this instant to call upon God. She called
upon her husband. It seemed to her that she had but one friend in the
world; that was he; and again the cry, loud, clear, prolonged, echoed
through the woods. It was not the shriek that disturbed the creature
at his relish; he was not born in the woods to be scared of an owl,
you know; what then? It must have been the echo, most musical, most
resonant, repeated and yet repeated, dying with long sighs of sweet
sound, vibrated from rock to river and back again from depth to depth
of cave and cliff. Her thought flew after it; she knew, that, even if
her husband heard it, he yet could not reach her in time; she saw
that while the beast listened he would not gnaw,--and this she felt
directly, when the rough, sharp, and multiplied stings of his tongue
retouched her arm. Again her lips opened by instinct, but the sound
that issued thence came by reason. She had heard that music charmed
wild beasts,--just this point between life and death intensified
every faculty,--and when she opened her lips the third time, it was
not for shrieking, but for singing.
A little thread of melody stole out, a rill of tremulous motion;
it was the cradle-song with which she rocked her baby;--how could she
sing that? And then she remembered the baby sleeping rosily on the
long settee before the fire,--the father cleaning his gun, with one
foot on the green wooden rundle,--the merry light from the chimney
dancing out and through the room, on the rafters of the ceiling with
their tassels of onions and herbs, on the log walls painted with
lichens and festooned with apples, on the king's-arm slung across the
shelf with the old pirate's-cutlass, on the snow-pile of the bed, and
on the great brass clock,--dancing, too, and lingering on the baby,
with his fringed-gentian eyes, his chubby fists clenched on the
pillow, and his fine breezy hair fanning with the motion of his
father's foot. All this struck her in one, and made a sob of her
breath, and she ceased.
Immediately the long red tongue thrust forth again. Before it
touched, a song sprang to her lips, a wild sea-song, such as some
sailor might be singing far out on trackless blue water that night,
the shrouds whistling with frost and the sheets glued in ice,--a song
with the wind in its burden and the spray in its chorus. The monster
raised his head and flared the fiery eyeballs upon her, then fretted
the imprisoned claws a moment and was quiet; only the breath like the
vapor from some hell-pit still swathed her. Her voice, at first faint
and fearful, gradually lost its quaver, grew under her control and
subject to her modulation; it rose on long swells, it fell in subtile
cadences, now and then its tones pealed out like bells from distant
belfries on fresh sonorous mornings. She sung the song through, and,
wondering lest his name of Indian Devil were not his true name, and
if he would not detect her, she repeated it. Once or twice now,
indeed, the beast stirred uneasily, turned, and made the bough sway
at his movement. As she ended, he snapped his jaws together, and tore
away the fettered member, curling it under him with a snarl,--when
she burst into the gayest reel that ever answered a fiddle-bow. How
many a time she had heard her husband play it on the homely fiddle
made by himself from birch and cherry-wood! how many a time she had
seen it danced on the floor of their one room, to the patter of
wooden clogs and the rustle of homespun petticoat! how many a time
she had danced it herself!--and did she not remember once, as they
joined clasps for eight-hands-round, how it had lent its gay, bright
measure to her life? And here she was singing it alone, in the
forest, at midnight, to a wild beast! As she sent her voice trilling
up and down its quick oscillations between joy and pain, the creature
who grasped her uncurled his paw and scratched the bark from the
bough; she must vary the spell; and her voice spun leaping along the
projecting points of tune of a hornpipe. Still singing, she felt
herself twisted about with a low growl and a lifting of the red lip
from the glittering teeth; she broke the hornpipe's thread, and
commenced unravelling a lighter, livelier thing, an Irish jig. Up and
down and round about her voice flew, the beast threw back his head so
that the diabolical face fronted hers, and the torrent of his breath
prepared her for his feast as the anaconda slimes his prey. Franticly
she darted from tune to tune; his restless movements followed her.
She tired herself with dancing and vivid national airs, growing
feverish and singing spasmodically as she felt her horrid tomb
yawning wider. Touching in this manner all the slogan and keen clan
cries, the beast moved again, but only to lay the disengaged paw
across her with heavy satisfaction. She did not dare to pause;
through the clear cold air, the frosty starlight, she sang. If there
were yet any tremor in the tone, it was not fear,--she had learned
the secret of sound at last; nor could it be chill,--far too high a
fever throbbed her pulses; it was nothing but the thought of the
log-house and of what might be passing within it. She fancied the
baby stirring in his sleep and moving his pretty lips,--her husband
rising and opening the door, looking out after her, and wondering at
her absence. She fancied the light pouring through the chink and then
shut in again with all the safety and comfort and joy, her husband
taking down the fiddle and playing lightly with his head inclined,
playing while she sang, while she sang for her life to an Indian
Devil. Then she knew he was fumbling for and finding some shining
fragment and scoring it down the yellowing hair, and unconsciously
her voice forsook the wild war-tunes and drifted into the half-gay,
half-melancholy Rosin the Bow.
Suddenly she woke pierced with a pang, and the daggered tooth
penetrating her flesh;--dreaming of safety, she had ceased singing
and lost it. The beast had regained the use of all his limbs, and
now, standing and raising his back, bristling and foaming, with
sounds that would have been like hisses but for their deep and
fearful sonority, he withdrew step by step toward the trunk of the
tree, still with his flaming balls upon her. She was all at once
free, on one end of the bough, twenty feet from the ground. She did
not measure the distance, but rose to drop herself down, careless of
any death, so that it were not this. Instantly, as if he scanned her
thoughts, the creature bounded forward with a yell and caught her
again in his dreadful hold. It might be that he was not greatly
famished; for, as she suddenly flung up her voice again, he settled
himself composedly on the bough, still clasping her with invincible
pressure to his rough, ravenous breast, and listening in a
fascination to the sad, strange U-la-lu that now moaned forth in
loud, hollow tones above him. He half closed his eyes, and sleepily
reopened and shut them again.
What rending pains were close at hand! Death! and what a death!
worse than any other that is to be named! Water, be it cold or warm,
that which buoys up blue ice-fields, or which bathes tropical coasts
with currents of balmy bliss, is yet a gentle conqueror, kisses as it
kills, and draws you down gently through darkening fathoms to its
heart. Death at the sword is the festival of trumpet and bugle and
banner, with glory ringing out around you and distant hearts
thrilling through yours. No gnawing disease can bring such hideous
end as this; for that is a fiend bred of your own flesh, and this--is
it a fiend, this living lump of appetites? What dread comes with the
thought of perishing in flames! but fire, let it leap and hiss never
so hotly, is something too remote, too alien, to inspire us with such
loathly horror as a wild beast; if it have a life, that life is too
utterly beyond our comprehension. Fire is not half ourselves; as it
devours, arouses neither hatred nor disgust; is not to be known by
the strength of our lower natures let loose; does not drip our blood
into our faces from foaming chaps, nor mouth nor slaver above us with
vitality. Let us be ended by fire, and we are ashes, for the winds to
bear, the leaves to cover; let us be ended by wild beasts, and the
base, cursed thing howls with us forever through the forest. All this
she felt as she charmed him, and what force it lent to her song God
knows. If her voice should fail! If the damp and cold should give her
any fatal hoarseness! If all the silent powers of the forest did not
conspire to help her! The dark, hollow night rose indifferently over
her; the wide, cold air breathed rudely past her, lifted her wet hair
and blew it down again; the great boughs swung with a ponderous
strength, now and then clashed their iron lengths together and shook
off a sparkle of icy spears or some long-lain weight of snow from
their heavy shadows. The green depths were utterly cold and silent
and stern. These beautiful haunts that all the summer were hers and
rejoiced to share with her their bounty, these heavens that had
yielded their largess, these stems that had thrust their blossoms
into her hands, all these friends of three moons ago forgot her now
and knew her no longer.
Feeling her desolation, wild, melancholy, forsaken songs rose
thereon from that frightful aerie,--weeping, wailing tunes, that sob
among the people from age to age, and overflow with otherwise
unexpressed sadness,--all rude, mournful ballads,--old tearful
strains, that Shakespeare heard the vagrants sing, and that rise and
fall like the wind and tide,--sailor-songs, to be heard only in lone
mid-watches beneath the moon and stars,--ghastly rhyming romances,
such as that famous one of the Lady Margaret, when
"She slipped on her gown of green
A piece below the knee,--
And 't was all a long, cold winter's night
A dead corse followed she."
Still the beast lay with closed eyes, yet never relaxing his
grasp. Once a half-whine of enjoyment escaped him,--he fawned his
fearful head upon her; once he scored her cheek with his tongue:
savage caresses that hurt like wounds. How weary she was! and yet how
terribly awake! How fuller and fuller of dismay grew the knowledge
that she was only prolonging her anguish and playing with death! How
appalling the thought that with her voice ceased her existence! Yet
she could not sing forever; her throat was dry and hard; her very
breath was a pain; her mouth was hotter than any desert-worn
pilgrim's;--if she could but drop upon her burning tongue one atom of
the ice that glittered about her!--but both of her arms were pinioned
in the giant's vice. She remembered the winding-sheet, and for the
first time in her life shivered with spiritual fear. Was it hers? She
asked herself, as she sang, what sins she had committed, what life
she had led, to find her punishment so soon and in these pangs,--and
then she sought eagerly for some reason why her husband was not up
and abroad to find her. He failed her,--her one sole hope in life;
and without being aware of it, her voice forsook the songs of
suffering and sorrow for old Covenanting hymns,--hymns with which her
mother had lulled her, which the class-leader pitched in the
chimney-corners,--grand and sweet Methodist hymns, brimming with
melody and with all fantastic involutions of tune to suit that
ecstatic worship,--hymns full of the beauty of holiness, steadfast,
relying, sanctified by the salvation they had lent to those in worse
extremity than hers,--for they had found themselves in the grasp of
hell, while she was but in the jaws of death. Out of this strange
music, peculiar to one character of faith, and than which there is
none more beautiful in its degree nor owning a more potent sway of
sound, her voice soared into the glorified chants of churches. What
to her was death by cold or famine or wild beasts?﹃Though He slay
me, yet will I trust in him,﹄she sang. High and clear through the
frore fair night, the level moonbeams splintering in the wood, the
scarce glints of stars in the shadowy roof of branches, these sacred
anthems rose,--rose as a hope from despair, as some snowy spray of
flower-bells from blackest mould. Was she not in God's hands? Did not
the world swing at his will? If this were in his great plan of
providence, was it not best, and should she not accept it?
"He is the Lord our God; his judgments are in all the earth."
Oh, sublime faith of our fathers, where utter self-sacrifice alone
was true love, the fragrance of whose unrequired subjection was
pleasanter than that of golden censers swung in purple-vapored
chancels!
Never ceasing in the rhythm of her thoughts, articulated in music
as they thronged, the memory of her first communion flashed over her.
Again she was in that distant place on that sweet spring morning.
Again the congregation rustled out, and the few remained, and she
trembled to find herself among them. How well she remembered the
devout, quiet faces, too accustomed to the sacred feast to glow with
their inner joy! how well the snowy linen at the altar, the silver
vessels slowly and silently shifting! and as the cup approached and
passed, how the sense of delicious perfume stole in and heightened
the transport of her prayer, and she had seemed, looking up through
the windows where the sky soared blue in constant freshness, to feel
all heaven's balms dripping from the portals, and to scent the lilies
of eternal peace! Perhaps another would not have felt so much ecstasy
as satisfaction on that occasion; but it is a true, if a later
disciple, who has said, "The Lord bestoweth his blessings there,
where he findeth the vessels empty."
"And does it need the walls of a church to renew my communion?"
she asked. "Does not every moment stand a temple four-square to God?
And in that morning, with its buoyant sunlight, was I any dearer to
the Heart of the World than now?--'My beloved is mine, and I am his,"
she sang over and over again, with all varied inflection and profuse
tune. How gently all the winter-wrapt things bent toward her then!
into what relation with her had they grown! how this common
dependence was the spell of their intimacy! how at one with Nature
had she become! how all the night and the silence and the forest
seemed to hold its breath, and to send its soul up to God in her
singing! It was no longer despondency, that singing. It was neither
prayer nor petition. She had left imploring, "How long wilt thou
forget me, O Lord? Lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of
death! For in death there is no remembrance of thee,"--with countless
other such fragments of supplication. She cried rather, "Yea, though
I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no
evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort
me,"--and lingered, and repeated, and sang again, "I shall be
satisfied, when I awake, with thy likeness."
Then she thought of the Great Deliverance, when he drew her up out
of many waters, and the flashing old psalm pealed forth
triumphantly:--
"The lord descended from above.
and bow'd the heavens hie:
And underneath his feet he cast
the darknesse of the skie.
On cherubs and on cherubins
full royally he road:
And on the wings of all the winds
came flying all abroad."
She forgot how recently, and with what a strange pity for her own
shapeless form that was to be, she had quaintly sung,--
"Oh, lovely appearance of death!
What sight upon earth is so fair?
Not all the gay pageants that breathe
Can with a dead body compare!"
She remembered instead,--"In thy presence is fulness of joy; at
thy right hand there are pleasures forevermore. God will redeem my
soul from the power of the grave: for he shall receive me. He will
swallow up death in victory." Not once now did she say, "Lord, how
long wilt thou look on? rescue my soul from their destructions, my
darling from the lions,"--for she knew that the young lions roar
after their prey and seek their meat from God.﹃O Lord, thou
preservest man and beast!﹄she said.
She had no comfort or consolation in this season, such as
sustained the Christian martyrs in the amphitheatre. She was not
dying for her faith; there were no palms in heaven for her to wave;
but how many a time had she declared,--"I had rather be a doorkeeper
in the house of my God, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness!"
And as the broad rays here and there broke through the dense covert
of shade and lay in rivers of lustre on crystal sheathing and frozen
fretting of trunk and limb and on the great spaces of refraction,
they builded up visibly that house, the shining city on the hill, and
singing, "Beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth, is
Mount Zion, on the sides of the North, the city of the Great King,"
her vision climbed to that higher picture where the angel shows the
dazzling thing, the holy Jerusalem descending out of heaven from God,
with its splendid battlements and gates of pearls, and its
foundations, the eleventh a jacinth, the twelfth an amethyst,--with
its great white throne, and the rainbow round about it, in sight like
unto an emerald:﹃And there shall be no night there,--for the Lord
God giveth them light,﹄she sang.
What whisper of dawn now rustled through the wilderness? How the
night was passing! And still the beast crouched upon the bough,
changing only the posture of his head, that again he might command
her with those charmed eyes;--half their fire was gone; she could
almost have released herself from his custody; yet, had she stirred,
no one knows what malevolent instinct might have dominated anew. But
of that she did not dream; long ago stripped of any expectation, she
was experiencing in her divine rapture how mystically true it is that
"he that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide
under the shadow of the Almighty."
Slow clarion cries now wound from the distance as the cocks caught
the intelligence of day and re-echoed it faintly from farm to
farm,--sleepy sentinels of night, sounding the foe's invasion, and
translating that dim intuition to ringing notes of warning. Still she
chanted on. A remote crash of brushwood told of some other beast on
his depredations, or some night-belated traveller groping his way
through the narrow path. Still she chanted on. The far, faint echoes
of the chanticleers died into distance,--the crashing of the branches
grew nearer. No wild beast that, but a man's step,--a man's form in
the moonlight, stalwart and strong,--on one arm slept a little child,
in the other hand he held his gun. Still she chanted on.
Perhaps, when her husband last looked forth, he was half ashamed
to find what a fear he felt for her. He knew she would never leave
the child so long but for some direst need,--and yet he may have
laughed at himself, as he lifted and wrapped it with awkward care,
and, loading his gun and strapping on his horn, opened the door again
and closed it behind him, going out and plunging into the darkness
and dangers of the forest. He was more singularly alarmed than he
would have been willing to acknowledge; as he had sat with his bow
hovering over the strings, he had half believed to hear her voice
mingling gayly with the instrument, till he paused and listened if
she were not about to lift the latch and enter. As he drew nearer the
heart of the forest, that intimation of melody seemed to grow more
actual, to take body and breath, to come and go on long swells and
ebbs of the night-breeze, to increase with tune and words, till a
strange shrill singing grew ever clearer, and, as he stepped into an
open space of moonbeams, far up in the branches, rocked by the wind,
and singing,﹃How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him
that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace,﹄he saw his
wife,--his wife,--but, great God in heaven! how? Some mad
exclaimation escaped him, but without diverting her. The child knew
the singing voice, though never heard before in that unearthly key,
and turned toward it through the veiling dreams. With a celerity
almost instantaneous, it lay, in the twinkling of an eye, on the
ground at the father's feet, while his gun was raised to his shoulder
and levelled at the monster covering his wife with shaggy form and
flaming gaze,--his wife so ghastly white, so rigid, so stained with
blood, her eyes so fixedly bent above, and her lips, that had
indurated into the chiselled pallor of marble, parted only with that
flood of solemn song.
I do not know if it were the mother-instinct that for a moment
lowered her eyes,--those eyes, so lately riveted on heaven, now
suddenly seeing all life-long bliss possible. A thrill of joy pierced
and shivered through her like a weapon, her voice trembled in its
course, her glance lost its steady strength, fever-flushes chased
each other over her face, yet she never once ceased chanting. She was
quite aware, that, if her husband shot now, the ball must pierce her
body before reaching any vital part of the beast,--and yet better
that death, by his hand, than the other. But this her husband also
knew, and he remained motionless, just covering the creature with the
sight. He dared not fire, lest some wound not mortal should break the
spell exercised by her voice, and the beast, enraged with pain,
should rend her in atoms; moreover, the light was too uncertain for
his aim. So he waited. Now and then he examined his gun to see if the
damp were injuring its charge, now and then he wiped the great drops
from his forehead. Again the cocks crowed with the passing hour,--the
last time they were heard on that night. Cheerful home sound then,
how full of safety and all comfort and rest it seemed! what sweet
morning incidents of sparkling fire and sunshine, of gay household
bustle, shining dresser, and cooing baby, of steaming cattle in the
yard, and brimming milk-pails at the door! what pleasant voices! what
laughter! what security! and here--
Now 'as she sang on in the slow, endless, infinite moments, the
fervent vision of God's peace was gone. Just as the grave had lost
its sting, she was snatched back again into the arms of earthly hope.
In vain she tried to sing, "There remaineth a rest for the people of
God,"--her eyes trembled on her husband's, and she could only think
of him, and of the child, and of happiness that yet might be, but
with what a dreadful gulf of doubt between! She shuddered now in the
suspense; all calm forsook her; she was tortured with dissolving
heats or frozen with icy blasts; her face contracted, growing small
and pinched; her voice was hoarse and sharp,--every tone cut like a
knife,--the notes became heavy to lift,--withheld by some hostile
pressure,--impossible. One gasp, a convulsive effort, and there was
silence,--she had lost her voice.
The beast made a sluggish movement,--stretched and fawned like one
awakening,--then, as if he would have yet more of the enchantment,
stirred her slightly with his muzzle. As he did so, a sidelong hint
of the man standing below with the raised gun smote him; he sprung
round furiously, and, seizing his prey, was about to leap into some
unknown airy den of the topmost branches now waving to the slow dawn.
The late moon had rounded through the sky so that her gleam at last
fell full upon the bough with fairy frosting; the wintry morning
light did not yet penetrate the gloom. The woman, suspended in
mid-air an instant, cast only one agonized glance beneath,--but
across and through it, ere the lids could fall, shot a withering
sheet of flame,--a rifle-crack, half-heard, was lost in the terrible
yell of desperation that bounded after it and filled her ears with
savage echoes, and in the wide arc of some eternal descent she was
falling;--but the beast fell under her.
I think that the moment following must have been too sacred for
us, and perhaps the three have no special interest again till they
issue from the shadows of the wilderness upon the white hills that
skirt their home. The father carries the child hushed again into
slumber, the mother follows with no such feeble step as might be
anticipated. It is not time for reaction,--the tension not yet
relaxed, the nerves still vibrant, she seems to herself like some one
newly made; the night was a dream; the present stamped upon her in
deep satisfaction, neither weighed nor compared with the past; if she
has the careful tricks of former habit, it is as an automaton; and as
they slowly climb the steep under the clear gray vault and the paling
morning star, and as she stops to gather a spray of the red-rose
berries or a feathery tuft of dead grasses for the chimney-piece of
the log-house, or a handful of brown cones for the child's play,--of
these quiet, happy folk you would scarcely dream how lately they had
stolen from under the banner and encampment of the great King Death.
The husband proceeds a step or two in advance; the wife lingers over
a singular foot-print in the snow, stoops and examines it, then looks
up with a hurried word. Her husband stands alone on the hill, his
arms folded across the babe, his gun fallen,--stands defined as a
silhouette against the pallid sky. What is there in their home, lying
below and yellowing in the light, to fix him with such a stare? She
springs to his side. There is no home there. The log-house, the
barns, the neighboring farms, the fences, are all blotted out and
mingled in one smoking ruin. Desolation and death were indeed there,
and beneficence and life in the forest. Tomahawk and scalping-knife,
descending during that night, had left behind them only this work of
their accomplished hatred and one subtle foot-print in the snow.
For the rest,--the world was all before them, where to choose.
IN A CELLAR
Chapter I
IT WAS THE DAY of Madame de St. Cyr's dinner, an event I never
missed; for, the mistress of a mansion in the Faubourg St. Germain,
there still lingered about her the exquisite grace and good-breeding
peculiar to the old regime, that insensibly communicates itself to
the guests till they move in an atmosphere of ease that constitutes
the charm of home. One was always sure of meeting desirable and
well-assorted people here, and a contre-temps was impossible.
Moreover, the house was not at the command of all; and Madame de St.
Cyr, with the daring strength which, when found in a woman at all,
should, to be endurable, be combined with a sweet but firm restraint,
rode rough-shod over the parvenus of the Empire, and was resolute
enough to insulate herself even among the old noblesse, who, as all
the world knows, insulate themselves from the rest of France. There
were rare qualities in this woman, and were I to have selected one
who with an even hand should carry a snuffy candle through a magazine
of powder, my choice would have devolved upon her; and she would have
done it.
I often looked, and not unsuccessfully, to discern what heritage
her daughter had in these little affairs. Indeed, to one like myself,
Delphine presented the worthier study. She wanted the airy charm of
manner, the suavity and tenderness of her mother,--a deficiency
easily to be pardoned in one of such delicate and extraordinary
beauty. And perhaps her face was the truest index of her mind; not
that it ever transparently displayed a genuine emotion,--Delphine was
too well bred for that,--but the outline of her features had a keen
regular precision, as if cut in a gem. Her exquisite color seldom
varied, her eyes were like blue steel, she was statuelike and stony.
But had one paused there, pronouncing her hard and impassive, he had
committed an error. She had no great capability for passion, but she
was not to be deceived; one metallic flash of her eye would cut like
a sword through the whole mesh of entanglements with which you had
surrounded her; and frequently, when alone with her, you perceived
cool recesses in her nature, sparkling and pleasant, which jealously
guarded themselves from a nearer approach. She was infinitely
spirituelle; compared to her, Madame herself was heavy.
At the first, I had seen that Delphine must be the wife of a
diplomate. What diplomate? For a time asking myself the question
seriously, I decided in the negative, which did not, however, prevent
Delphine from fulfilling her destiny, since there were others. She
was, after all, like a draught of rich old wine, all fire and
sweetness. These things were not generally seen in her; I was more
favored than many; and I looked at her with pitiless perspicacious
eyes. Nevertheless, I had not the least advantage; it was, in fact,
between us, diamond cut diamond,--which, oddly enough, brings me back
to my story.
Some years previously, I had been sent on a special mission to the
government at Paris, and having finally executed it, I resigned the
post, and resolved to make my residence there, since it is the only
place on earth where one can live. Every morning I half expect to see
the country, beyond the city, white with an encampment of the
nations, who, having peacefully flocked there over night, wait till
the Rue St. Honoré shall run out and greet them. It surprises
me, sometimes, that those pretending to civilization are content to
remain at a distance. What experience have they of life,--not to
mention gayety and pleasure, but of the great purpose of
life,--society? Man evidently is gregarious; Fourier's fables are
founded on fact; we are nothing without our opposites, our fellows,
our lights and shadows, colors, relations, combinations, our point
d'appui, and our angle of sight. An isolated man is immensurable; he
is also unpicturesque, unnatural, untrue. He is no longer the lord of
Nature, animal and vegetable,--but Nature is the lord of him; the
trees, skies, flowers, predominate, and he is in as bad taste as
green and blue, or as an oyster in a vase of roses. The race swings
naturally to clusters. It being admitted, then, that society is our
normal state, where is it to be obtained in such perfection as at
Paris? Show me the urbanity, the generosity in trifles, better than
sacrifice, the incuriousness and freedom, the grace, and wit, and
honor, that will equal such as I find here. Morality,--we were not
speaking of it,--the intrusion is unnecessary; must that word with
Anglo-Saxon pertinacity dog us round the world? A hollow mask, which
Vice now and then lifts for a breath of air, I grant you this state
may be called; but since I find the vice elsewhere, countenance my
preference for the accompanying mask. But even this is vanishing;
such drawing-rooms as Mme. de St. Cyr's are less and less frequent.
Yet, though the delightful spell of the last century daily dissipates
itself, and we are not now what we were twenty years ago, still Paris
is, and will be to the end of time, for a cosmopolitan, the pivot on
which the world revolves.
It was, then, as I have said, the day of Mme. de St. Cyr's dinner.
Punctually at the hour, I presented myself,--for I have always
esteemed it the least courtesy which a guest can render, that he
should not cool his hostess's dinner.
The usual choice company waited. There was the Marquis of G., the
ambassador from home; Col. Leigh, an attaché of that embassy;
the Spanish and Belgian ministers;--all of whom, with myself,
completed a diplomatic circle. There were also wits and artists, but
no ladies whose beauty exceeded that of the St. Cyrs. With nearly all
of this assemblage I held certain relations, so that I was
immediately at ease. G. was the only one whom, perhaps, I would
rather not have met, although we were the best of friends. They
awaited but one, the Baron Stahl. Meanwhile Delphine stood coolly
taking the measurement of the Marquis of G., while her mother
entertained one and another guest with a low-toned flattery, gentle
interest, or lively narration, as the case might demand.
In a country where a coup d'état was as easily given as a
box on the ear, we all attentively watched for the arrival of one who
had been sent from a neighboring empire to negotiate a loan for the
tottering throne of this. Nor was expectation kept long on guard. In
a moment, "His Excellency, the Baron Stahl!" was announced.
The exaggeration of his low bow to Mme. de St. Cyr, the gleam
askance of his black eye, the absurd simplicity of his dress, did not
particularly please me. A low forehead, straight black brows, a
beardless cheek with a fine color which give him a fictitiously
youthful appearance, were the most striking traits of his face; his
person was not to be found fault with; but he boldly evinced his
admiration for Delphine, and with a wicked eye.
As we were introduced, he assured me, in pure English, that he had
pleasure in making the acquaintance of a gentleman whose services
were so distinguished.
I, in turn, assured him of my pleasure in meeting a gentleman who
appreciated them.
I had arrived at the house of Mme. de St. Cyr with a load on my
mind, which for four weeks had weighed there; but before I thus
spoke, it was lifted and gone. I had seen the Baron Stahl before,
although not previously aware of it; and now, as he bowed, talked my
native tongue so smoothly, drew a glove over the handsome hand upon
whose first finger shone the only incongruity of his attire, a broad
gold ring, holding a gaudy red stone,--as he stood smiling and
expectant before me, a sudden chain of events flashed through my
mind, an instantaneous heat, like lightning, welded them into logic.
A great problem was resolved. For a second, the breath seemed
snatched from my lips; the next, a lighter, freer man never trod in
diplomatic shoes.
I really beg your pardon,--but perhaps from long usage, it has
become impossible for me to tell a straight story. It is absolutely
necessary to inform you of events already transpired.
In the first place, then, I, at this time, possessed a valet, the
pink of valets, an Englishman,--and not the less valuable to me in a
foreign capital, that, notwithstanding his long residence, he was
utterly unable to speak one word of French intelligibly. Reading and
writing it readily, his thick tongue could master scarcely a
syllable. The adroitness and perfection with which he performed the
duties of his place were unsurpassable. To a certain extent I was
obliged to admit him into my confidence; I was not at all in his. In
dexterity and despatch he equalled the advertisements. He never
condescended to don my cast-off apparel, but, disposing of it, always
arrayed himself in plain but gentlemanly garments. These do not
complete the list of Hay's capabilities. He speculated. Respectable
tenements in London called him landlord; in the funds certain sums
lay subject to his order; to a profitable farm in Hants he
contemplated future retirement; and passing upon the Bourse, I have
received a grave bow, and have left him in conversation with an
eminent capitalist respecting consols, drafts, exchange, and other
erudite mysteries, where I yet find myself in the A B C. Thus not
only was my valet a free-born Briton, but a landed proprietor. If the
Rothschilds blacked your boots or shaved your chin, your emotions
might be akin to mine. When this man, who had an interest in the
India traders, brought the hot water into my dressing-room, of a
morning, the Antipodes were tributary to me. To what extent might any
little irascibility of mine drive a depression in the market! and I
knew, as he brushed my hat, whether stocks rose or fell. In one
respect, I was essentially like our Saxon ancestors,--my servant was
a villain. If I had been merely a civilian, in any purely private
capacity, having leisure to attend to personal concerns in the midst
of the delicate specialties intrusted to me from the cabinet at home,
the possession of so inestimable a valet might have bullied me beyond
endurance. As it was, I found it rather agreeable than otherwise. He
was tacitly my secretary of finance.
Several years ago, a diamond of wonderful size and beauty, having
wandered from the East, fell into certain imperial coffers among our
Continental neighbors; and at the same time some extraordinary
intelligence, essential to the existence, so to speak, of that
government, reached a person there who fixed as its price this
diamond. After a while he obtained it, but, judging that prudence lay
in departure, took it to England, where it was purchased for an
enormous sum by the Duke of--as he will remain an unknown quantity,
let us say X. There are probably not a dozen such diamonds in the
world,--certainly not three in England. It rejoiced in such flowery
appellatives as the Sea of Splendor, the Moon of Milk; and, of
course, those who had but parted with it under protest, as it were,
determined to obtain it again at all hazards;--they were never famous
for scrupulosity The Duke of X. was aware of this, and, for a time,
the gem had lain idle, its glory muffled in a casket; but finally, on
some grand occasion a few months prior to the period of which I have
spoken above, it was determined to set it in the Duchess's coronet.
Accordingly, one day, it was given by her son, the Marquis of G.,
into the hands of their solicitor, who should deliver it to her
Grace's jeweller. It lay in a small shagreen case, and before the
Marquis left, the solicitor placed the case in a flat leathern box,
where lay a chain of most singular workmanship, the clasp of which
was deranged. This chain was very broad, of a style known as the
brickwork, but every brick was a tiny gem, set in a delicate filagree
linked with the next, and the whole rainbowed lustrousness moving at
your will, like the scales of some gorgeous Egyptian serpent;--the
solicitor was to take this also to the jeweller. Having laid the box
in his private desk, Ulster, his confidential clerk, locked it, while
he bowed the Marquis down. Returning immediately, the solicitor took
the flat box and drove to the jeweller's. He found the latter so
crowded with customers, it being the fashionable hour, as to be
unable to attend to him; he, however, took the solicitor into his
inner room, a dark fire-proof place, and there quickly deposited the
box within a safe, which stood inside another, like a Japanese
puzzle, and the solicitor, seeing the doors double-locked and
secured, departed; the other promising to attend to the matter on the
morrow.
Early the next morning, the jeweller entered his dark room, and
proceeded to unlock the safe. This being concluded, and the inner one
also thrown open, he found the box in a last and entirely, as he had
always believed, secret compartment. Anxious to see this wonder, this
Eye of Morning, and Heart of Day, he eagerly loosened the band and
unclosed the box. It was empty. There was no chain there; the diamond
was missing. The sweat streamed from his forehead, his clothes were
saturated, he believed himself the victim of a delusion. Calling an
assistant, every article and nook in the dark room was examined. At
last, in an extremity of despair, he sent for the solicitor, who
arrived in a breath. The jeweller's alarm hardly equalled that of the
other. In his sudden dismay, he at first forgot the circumstances and
dates relating to the affair; afterward was doubtful. The Marquis of
G. was summoned, the police called in, the jeweller given into
custody. Every breath the solicitor continued to draw only built up
his ruin. He swallowed laudanum, but, by making it an overdose,
frustrated his own design. He was assured, on his recovery, that no
suspicion attached to him. The jeweller now asseverated that the
diamond had never been given to him; but though the jeweller had
committed perjury, this was, nevertheless, strictly true. Of course,
whoever had the stone would not attempt to dispose of it at present,
and, though communications were opened with the general European
police, there was very little to work upon. But by means of this last
step the former possessors became aware of its loss, and I make no
doubt had their agents abroad immediately.
Meanwhile, the case hung here, complicated and tantalizing, when
one morning I woke in London. No sooner had G. heard of my arrival
than he called, and, relating the affair, requested my assistance. I
confess myself to have been interested,--foolishly so, I thought
afterward; but we all have our weaknesses, and diamonds were mine. In
company with the Marquis, I waited upon the solicitor, who entered
into the few details minutely, calling frequently upon Ulster, a
young, fresh-looking man, for corroboration. We then drove to the
jeweller's new quarters, took him, under charge of the officers, to
his place of business, where he nervously showed me every point that
could bear upon the subject, and ended by exclaiming, that he was
ruined, and all for a stone he had never seen. I sat quietly for a
few moments. It stood, then, thus:--G. had given the thing to the
solicitor, seen it put into the box, seen the box put into the desk;
but while the confidential clerk, Ulster, locked the desk, the
solicitor waited on the Marquis to the door,--returning, took the
box, without opening it again, to the jeweller, who, in the hurry,
shut it up in his safe, also without opening it. The case was
perfectly clear. These mysterious things are always so simple! You
know now as well as I, who took the diamond.
I did not choose to volunteer, but assented, on being desired. The
police and I were old friends; they had so often assisted me, that I
was not afraid to pay them in kind, and accordingly agreed to take
charge of the case, still retaining their aid, should I require it.
The jeweller was now restored to his occupation, although still
subjected to a rigid surveillance, and I instituted inquiries into
the recent movements of the young man Ulster. The case seemed to me
to have been very blindly conducted. But, though all that was brought
to light concerning him in London was perfectly fair and aboveboard,
it was discovered that, not long since, he had visited Paris,--on the
solicitor's business, of course, but gaining thereby an opportunity
to transact any little affairs of his own. This was fortunate; for if
any one could do anything in Paris, it was myself.
It is not often that I act as a detective. But one homogeneous to
every situation could hardly play a pleasanter part for once. I have
thought that our great masters in theory and practice, Machiavel and
Talleyrand, were hardly more, on a large scale.
I was about to return to Paris, but resolved to call previously on
the solicitor again. He welcomed me warmly, although my suspicions
had not been imparted to him, and, with a more cheerful heart than
had lately been habitual to him, entered into an animated
conversation respecting the great case of Biter v. Bit, then
absorbing so much of the public attention, frequently addressing
Ulster, whose remarks were always pertinent, brief, and clear. As I
sat actively discussing the topic, feeling no more interest in it
than in the end of that cigar I just cut off, and noting exactly
every look and motion of the unfortunate youth, I recollect the
curious sentiment that filled me regarding him. What injury had he
done me, that I should pursue him with punishment? Me? I am, and
every individual is, integral with the commonwealth. It was the
commonwealth he had injured. Yet, even then, why was I the one to
administer justice? Why not continue with my coffee in the morning,
my kings and cabinets and national chess at noon, my opera at night,
and let the poor devil go? Why, but that justice is brought home to
every member of society,--that naked duty requires no shirking of
such responsibility,--that, had I failed here, the crime might, with
reason, lie at my door and multiply, the criminal increase
himself?
Very possibly you will not unite with me; but these little
catechisms are, once in a while, indispensable, to vindicate one's
course to one's self.
This Ulster was a handsome youth;--the rogues have generally all
the good looks. There was nothing else remarkable about him but his
quickness; he was perpetually on the alert; by constant activity, the
rust was never allowed to collect on his faculties; his sharpness was
distressing,--he appeared subject to a tense strain. Now his quill
scratched over the paper unconcernedly, while he could join as easily
in his master's conversation: nothing seemed to preoccupy him, or he
held a mind open at every point. It is pitiful to remember him that
morning, sitting quiet, unconscious, and free, utterly in the hands
of that mighty Inquisition, the Metropolitan Police, with its
countless arms, its cells and myrmidons in the remotest corners of
the Continent,--at the mercy of so merciless a monster, and momently
closer involved, like some poor prey round which a spider spins its
bewildering web. It was also curious to observe the sudden suspicion
that darkened his face at some innocent remark,--the quick shrinking
and intrenched retirement, the manifest sting and rancor, as I
touched his wound with a swift flash of my slender weapon and
sheathed it again, and, after the thrust, the espionage, and the
relief at believing it accidental. He had many threads to gather up
and hold;--little electric warnings along them must have been
constantly shocking him. He did that part well enough; it was a
mistake, to begin with; he needed prudence. At that time I owed this
Ulster nothing; now, however, I owe him a grudge, for some of the
most harassing hours of my life were occasioned me by him. But I
shall not cherish enmity on that account. With so promising a
beginning, he will graduate and take his degree from the loftiest
altitude in his line. Hemp is a narcotic; let it bring me
forgetfulness.
In Paris I found it not difficult to trace such a person, since he
was both foreign and unaccustomed. It was ascertained that he had
posted several letters. A person of his description had been seen to
drop a letter, the superscription of which had been read by one who
picked it up for him. This superscription was the address of the very
person who was likely to be the agent of the former possessors of the
diamond, and had attracted attention. After all,--you know the Secret
Force,--it was not so impossible to imagine what this letter
contained, despite of its cipher. Such a person also had been met
among the Jews, and at certain shops whose reputation was not of the
clearest. He had called once or twice on Mme. de St. Cyr, on business
relative to a vineyard adjoining her chateau in the Gironde, which
she had sold to a wine merchant of England. I found a zest in the
affair, as I pursued it.
We were now fairly at sea, but before long I found we were likely
to remain there; in fact, nothing of consequence eventuated. I began
to regret having taken the affair from the hands in which I had found
it, and one day, it being a gala or some insatiable saint's day, I
was riding, perplexed with that and other matters, and paying small
attention to the passing crowd. I was vexed and mortified, and had
fully decided to throw up the whole,--on such hairs do things
hang,--when, suddenly turning a corner, my bridle-reins became
entangled in the snaffle of another rider. I loosened them
abstractedly, and not till it was necessary to bow to my strange
antagonist on parting, did I glance up. The person before me was
evidently not accustomed to play the dandy; he wore his clothes ill,
sat his horse worse, and was uneasy in the saddle. The unmistakable
air of the gamin was apparent beneath the superficies of the
gentleman. Conspicuous on his costume, and wound like an order of
merit upon his breast, glittered a chain, the chain,--each tiny
brick-like gem spiked with a hundred sparks, and building a fabric of
sturdy probabilities with the celerity of the genii in constructing
Aladdin's palace. There, a cable to haul up the treasure, was the
chain;--where was the diamond? I need not tell you how I followed
this young friend, with what assiduity I kept him in sight, up and
down, all day long, till, weary at last of his fine sport, as I
certainly was of mine, he left his steed in stall and fared on his
way a-foot. Still pursuing, now I threaded quay and square, street
and alley, till he disappeared in a small shop, in one of those dark
crowded lanes leading eastward from the Pont Neuf, in the city. It
was the sign of a marchand des armures, and having provided myself
with those persuasive arguments, a sergent-de-ville and a gendarme, I
entered.
A place more characteristic it would be impossible to find. Here
were piled bows of every material, ash, and horn, and tougher fibres,
with slackened strings, and among them peered a rusty clarion and
battle-axe, while the quivers that should have accompanied lay in a
distant corner, their arrows serving to pin long, dusty, torn banners
to the wall. Opposite the entrance, an archer in bronze hung on
tiptoe, and levelled a steel bow, whose piercing fleche seemed
sparkling with impatience to spring from his finger and flesh itself
in the heart of the intruder. The hauberk and halberd, lance and
casque, arquebuse and sword, were suspended in friendly congeries;
and fragments of costly stuff swept from ceiling to floor, crushed
and soiled by the heaps of rusty firelocks, cutlasses, and gauntlets
thrown upon them. In one place, a little antique bust was half hid in
the folds of some pennon, still dyed with battle-stains; in another,
scattered treasures of Dresden and Sevres brought the drawing-room
into the campaign; and all around bivouacked rifles, whose polished
barrels glittered full of death,--pistols, variously mounted, for an
insurgent at the barricades, or for a lost millionnaire at the
gaming-table,--foils, with buttoned bluntness,--and rapiers whose
even edges were viewless as if filed into air. Destruction lay
everywhere, at the command of the owner of this place, and, had he
possessed a particle of vivacity, it would have been hazardous to bow
beneath his doorway. It did not, I must say, look like a place where
I should find a diamond. As the owner came forward, I determined on
my plan of action.
"You have, sir," I said, handing him a bit of paper, on which were
scrawled some numbers, "a diamond in your possession, of such and so
many carats, size, and value, belonging to the Duke of X., and left
with you by an Englishman, Mr. Arthur Ulster. You will deliver it to
me, if you please."
"Monsieur!" exclaimed the man, lifting his hands, and surveying me
with the widest eyes I ever saw. "A diamond! In my possession! So
immense a thing! It is impossible. I have not even seen one of the
kind. It is a mistake. Jacques Noailles, the vender of jewels en
gros, second door below, must be the man. One should perceive that my
business is with arms, not diamonds. I have it not; it would ruin
me."
Here he paused for a reply, but, meeting none, resumed. "M. Arthur
Ulster!--I have heard of no such person. I never spoke with an
Englishman. Bah! I detest them! I have no dealings with them. I
repeat, I have not your jewel. Do you wish anything more of me?"
His vehemence only convinced me of the truth of my suspicions.
"These heroics are out of place," I answered. "I demand the
article in question."
"Monsieur doubts me?" he asked, with a rueful face,--"questions my
word, which is incontrovertible?" Here he clapped his hand upon a
couteau-de-chasse lying near, but, appearing to think better of it,
drew himself up, and, with a shower of nods flung at me, added,﹃I
deny your accusation!﹄I had not accused him.
"You are at too much pains to convict yourself. I charge you with
nothing," I said. "But this diamond must be surrendered."
"Monsieur is mad!" he exclaimed, "mad! he dreams! Do I look like
one who possesses such a trophy? Does my shop resemble a mine? Look
about! See! All that is here would not bring a hundredth part of its
price. I beseech Monsieur to believe me; he has mistaken the number,
or has been misinformed."
"We waste words. I know this diamond is here, as well as a costly
chain--"
"On my soul, on my life, on my honor," he cried clasping his hands
and turning up his eyes, "there is here nothing of the kind. I do not
deal in gems. A little silk, a few weapons, a curiosity, a nicknack,
comprise my stock. I have not the diamond. I do not know the thing. I
am poor. I am honest. Suspicion destroys me!"
"As you will find, should I be longer troubled by your
denials."
He was inflexible, and, having exhausted every artifice of
innocence, wiped the tears from his eyes,--oh, these French! life is
their theatre,--and remained quiet. It was getting dark. There was no
gas in the place; but in the pause a distant street-lamp swung its
light dimly round.
"Unless one desires to purchase, allow me to say that it is my
hour for closing," he remarked, blandly, rubbing his black-bearded
chin.
"My time is valuable," I returned. "It is late and dark. When your
shop-boy lights up--"
"Pardon,--we do not light."
"Permit me, then, to perform that office for you. In this blaze
you may perceive my companions, whom you have not appeared to
recognize."
So saying, I scratched a match upon the floor, and, as the
sergent-de-ville and the gendarme advanced, threw the light of the
blue spirit of sulphurous flame upon them. In a moment more the match
went out, and we remained in the demi-twilight of the distant
lantern. The marchand des armures stood petrified and aghast. Had he
seen the imps of Satan in that instant, it could have had no greater
effect.
"You have seen them?" I asked. "I regret to inconvenience you; but
unless this diamond is produced at once, my friends will put their
seal on your goods, your property will be confiscated, yourself in a
dungeon. In other words, I allow you five minutes; at the close of
that time you will have chosen between restitution and ruin."
He remained apparently lost in thought. He was a big, stout man,
and with one blow his powerful fist could easily have settled me. It
was the last thing in his mind. At length he lifted his
head,--"Rosalie!" he called.
At the word, a light foot pattered along a stone floor within, and
in a moment a little woman stood in an arch raised by two steps from
our own level. Carrying a candle, she descended and tripped toward
him. She was not pretty, but sprightly and keen, as the perpetual
attrition of life must needs make her, and wore the everlasting
grisette costume, which displays the neatest of ankles, and whose cap
is more becoming than wreaths of garden millinery. I am too minute, I
see, but it is second nature. The two commenced a vigorous whispering
amid sundry gestures and glances. Suddenly the woman turned, and,
laying the prettiest of little hands on my sleeve, said, with a
winning smile,--
"Is it a crime of lèse-majesté?"
This was a new idea, but might be useful.
"Not yet," I said; "two minutes more, and I will not answer for
the consequence.'
Other whispers ensued.
"Monsieur," said the man, leaning on one arm over the counter, and
looking up in my face, with the most engaging frankness,--"it is true
that I have such a diamond; but it is not mine. It is left with me to
be delivered to the Baron Stahl, who comes as an agent from his court
for its purchase."
"Yes,--I know."
"He was to have paid me half a million francs,--not half its
worth,--in trust for the person who left it, who is not M. Arthur
Ulster, but Mme. de St. Cyr."
Madame de St. Cyr! How under the sun--No,--it could not be
possible. The case stood as it stood before. The rogue was in deeper
water than I had thought; he had merely employed Mme. de St. Cyr. I
ran this over in my mind, while I said, "Yes."
"Now, sir," I continued, "you will state the terms of this
transaction."
"With pleasure. For my trouble I was myself to receive patronage
and five thousand francs. The Baron is to be here directly, on other
and public business. Reine du ciel, Monsieur! how shall I meet
him?"
"He is powerless in Paris; your fear is idle."
"True. There were no other terms."
"Nor papers?"
"The lady thought it safest to be without them. She took merely my
receipt, which the Baron Stahl will bring to me from her before
receiving this."
"I will trouble you for it now."
He bowed and shuffled away. At a glance from me, the gendarme
slipped to the rear of the building, where three others were
stationed at the two exits in that direction, to caution them of the
critical moment, and returned. Ten minutes passed,--the merchant did
not appear. If, after all, he had made off with it! There had been
the click of a bolt, the half-stifled rattle of arms, as if a door
had been opened and rapidly closed again, but nothing more.
"I will see what detains my friend," said Mademoiselle, the little
woman.
We suffered her to withdraw. In a moment more a quick
expostulation was to be heard.
"They are there, the gendarmes, my little one! I should have run,
but they caught me, the villains! and replaced me in the house. Oh,
sacre!"--and rolling this word between his teeth, he came down and
laid a little box on the counter. I opened it. There was within a
large, glittering, curiously cut piece of glass. I threw it
aside.
"The diamond!" I exclaimed.
"Monsieur had it," he replied, stooping to pick up the glass with
every appearance of surprise and care.
"Do you mean to say you endeavored to escape with that bawble?
Produce the diamond instantly, or you shall hang as high as Haman!" I
roared.
Whether he knew the individual in question or not, the threat was
efficient; he trembled and hesitated, and finally drew the identical
shagreen case from his bosom.
"I but jested," he said. "Monsieur will witness that I relinquish
it with reluctance."
"I will witness that you receive stolen goods!" I cried, in
wrath.
He placed it in my hands.
"Oh!" he groaned, from the bottom of his heart, hanging his head,
and laying both hands on the counter before him,--"it pains, it
grieves me to part with it!"
"And the chain," I said.
"Monsieur did not demand that!"
"I demand it now."
In a moment, the chain also was given me.
"And now will Monsieur do me a favor? Will he inform me by what
means he ascertained these facts?"
I glanced at the garcon, who had probably supplied himself with
his masters finery illicitly;--he was the means;--we have some
generosity;--I thought I should prefer doing him the favor, and
declined.
I unclasped the shagreen case; the sergent-de-ville and the
gendarme stole up and looked over my shoulder; the garcon drew near
with round eyes; the little woman peeped across; the merchant, with
tears streaming over his face, gazed as if it had been a loadstone;
finally, I looked myself. There it lay, the glowing, resplendent
thing! flashing in affluence of splendor, throbbing and palpitant
with life, drawing all the light from the little woman's candle, from
the sparkling armor around, from the steel barbs, and the distant
lantern, into its bosom. It was scarcely so large as I had expected
to see it, but more brilliant than anything I could conceive of. I do
not believe there is another such in the world. One saw clearly that
the Oriental superstition of the sex of stones was no fable; this was
essentially the female of diamonds, the queen herself, the principle
of life, the rejoicing receptive force. It was not radiant, as the
term literally taken implies; it seemed rather to retain its
wealth,--instead of emitting its glorious rays, to curl them back
like the fringe of a madrepore, and lie there with redoubled
quivering scintillations, a mass of white magnificence, not
prismatic, but a vast milky lustre. I closed the case; on reopening
it, I could scarcely believe that the beautiful sleepless eye would
again flash upon me. I did not comprehend how it could afford such
perpetual richness, such sheets of lustre.
At last we compelled ourselves to be satisfied. I left the shop,
dismissed my attendants, and, fresh from the contemplation of this
miracle, again trod the dirty, reeking streets, crossed the bridge,
with its lights, its warehouses midway, its living torrents who
poured on unconscious of the beauty within their reach. The thought
of their ignorance of the treasure, not a dozen yards distant, has
often made me question if we all are not equally unaware of other and
greater processes of life, of more perfect, sublimed and, as it were,
spiritual crystallizations going on invisibly about us. But had these
been told of the thing clutched in the hand of a passer, how many of
them would have know where to turn? and we,--are we any better?
Chapter II
FOR a few days I carried the diamond about my person, and did not
mention its recovery even to my valet, who knew that I sought it, but
communicated only with the Marquis of G., who replied, that he would
be in Paris on a certain day, when I could safely deliver it to
him.
It was now generally rumored that the neighboring government was
about to send us the Baron Stahl, ambassador concerning arrangements
for a loan to maintain the sinking monarchy in supremacy at Paris,
the usual synecdoche for France.
The weather being fine, I proceeded to call on Mme. de St. Cyr.
She received me in her boudoir, and on my way thither I could not but
observe the perfect quiet and cloistered seclusion that prevaded the
whole house,--the house itself seeming only an adjunct of the still
and sunny garden, of which one caught a glimpse through the long open
hall--windows beyond. This boudoir did not differ from others to
which I have been admitted: the same delicate shades; all the dainty
appliances of Art for beauty; the lavish profusion of bijouterie; and
the usual statuettes of innocence, to indicate, perhaps, the presence
of that commodity which might not be guessed at otherwise; and
burning in a silver cup, a rich perfume loaded the air with
voluptuous sweetness. Through a half-open door an inner boudoir was
to be seen, which must have been Delphine's; it looked like her; the
prevailing hue was a soft purple, or gray; a prie-dieu, a bookshelf,
and desk, of a dark West Indian wood, were just visible. There was
but one picture,--a sad-eyed, beautiful Fate. It was the type of her
nation. I think she worshipped it. And how apt is misfortune to
degenerate into Fate!--not that the girl had ever experienced the
former, but, dissatisfied with life, and seeing no outlet, she
accepted it stoically and waited till it should be over. She needed
to be aroused;--the station of an ambassadrice, which I desired for
her, might kindle the spark. There were no flowers, no perfumes, no
busts, in this ascetic place. Delphine herself, in some faint rosy
gauze, her fair hair streaming round her, as she lay on a
white-draped couch, half-risen on one arm, while she read the
morning's feuilleton, was the most perfect statuary of which a room
could boast,--illumined, as I saw her, by the gay beams that entered
at the loftily-arched window, broken only by the flickering of the
vine-leaves that clustered the curiously-latticed panes without. She
resembled in kind a Nymph, just bursting from the sea; so Pallas
might have posed for Aphrodite. Madame de St. Cyr received me with
empressement, and, so doing, closed the door of this shrine. We spoke
of various things,--of the court, the theatre, the weather, the
world,--skating lightly round the slender edges of her secret, till
finally she invited me to lunch with her in the garden. Here, on a
rustic table, stood wine and a few delicacies,--while, by extending a
hand, we could grasp the hanging pears and nectarines, still warm to
the lip and luscious with sunshine, as we disputed possession with
the envious wasp who had established a priority of claim.
"It is to be hoped," I said, sipping the Haut-Brion, whose fine
and brittle smack contrasted rarely with the delicious juiciness of
the fruit, "that you have laid in a supply of this treasure that
neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, before parting with that little
gem in the Gironde."
"Ah? You know, then, that I have sold it?"
"Yes," I replied. "I have the pleasure of Mr. Ulster's
acquaintance."
"He arranged the terms for me," she said, with restraint,--adding,
"I could almost wish now that it had not been."
This was probably true; for the sum which she hoped to receive
from Ulster for standing sponsor to his jewel was possibly equal to
the price of her vineyard.
"It was indispensable at the time, this sale; I thought best to
hazard it on one more season.--If, after such advantages, Delphine
will not marry, why--it remains to retire into the country and end
our days with the barbarians!" she continued, shrugging her
shoulders; "I have a house there."
"But you will not be obliged to throw us all into despair by such
a step now," I replied.
She looked quickly, as if to see how nearly I had approached her
citadel,--then, finding in my face no expression but a complimentary
one, "No," she said, "I hope that my affairs have brightened a
little. One never knows what is in store."
Before long I had assured myself that Mme. de St. Cyr was not a
party to the theft, but had merely been hired by Ulster, who,
discovering the state of her affairs, had not, therefore, revealed
his own,--and this without in the least implying any knowledge on my
part of the transaction. Ulster must have seen the necessity of
leaving the business in the hands of a competent person, and Mme. de
St. Cyr's financial talent was patent. There were few ladies in Paris
who would have rejected the opportunity. Of these things I felt a
tolerable certainty.
"We throng with foreigners," said Madame, archly, as I reached
this point. "Diplomates, too. The Baron Stahl arrives in a day."
"I have heard," I responded. "You are acquainted?"
"Alas! no," she said. "I knew his father well, though he himself
is not young. Indeed, the families thought once of intermarriage. But
nothing has been said on the subject for many years. His Excellency,
I hear, will strengthen himself at home by an alliance with the young
Countess, the natural daughter of the Emperor."
"He surely will never be so imprudent as to rivet his chain by
such a link!"
"It is impossible to compute the dice in those despotic
countries," she rejoined,--which was pretty well, considering the
freedom enjoyed by France at that period.
"It may be," I suggested, "that the Baron hopes to open this
delicate subject with you yourself, Madame."
"It is unlikely," she said, sighing. "And for Delphine, should I
tell her his excellency preferred scarlet, she would infallibly wear
blue. Imagine her, Monsieur, in fine scarlet, with a scarf of gold
gauze, and rustling grasses in that unruly gold hair of hers! She
would be divine!"
The maternal instinct as we have it here at Paris confounds me. I
do not comprehend it. Here was a mother who did not particularly love
her child, who would not be inconsolable at her loss, would not ruin
her own complexion by care of her during illness, would send her
through fire and water and every torture to secure or maintain a
desirable rank, who yet would entangle herself deeply in intrigue,
would not hesitate to tarnish her own reputation, and would, in fact,
raise heaven and earth to--endow this child with a brilliant match.
And Mme. de St. Cyr seemed to regard Delphine, still further, as a
cool matter of Art.
These little confidences, moreover, are provoking. They put you
yourself so entirely out of the question.
"Mlle. de St. Cyr's beauty is peerless," I said, slightly
chagrined, and at a loss. "If hearts were trumps, instead of
diamonds!"
"We are poor," resumed Madame, pathetically.﹃Delphine is not an
heiress. Delphine is proud. She will not stoop to charm. Her coquetry
is that of an Amazon. Her kisses are arrows. She is Medusa!﹄And
Madame, her mother, shivered.
Here, with her hair knotted up and secured by a tiny dagger, her
gauzy drapery gathered in her arm, Delphine floated down the green
alley toward us, as if in a rosy cloud. But this soft aspect never
could have been more widely contradicted than by the stony repose and
cutting calm of her beautiful face.
"The Marquis of G.," said her mother, "he also arrives ambassador.
Has he talent? Is he brilliant? Wealthy, of course,--but gauche?"
Therewith I sketched for them the Marquis and his
surroundings.
"It is charming," said Madame. "Delphine, do you attend?"
"And why?" asked Delphine, half concealing a yawn with her
dazzling hand. "It is wearisome; it matters not to me."
"But he will not go to marry himself in France," said her mother.
"Oh, these English," she added, with a laugh,﹃yourself, Monsieur,
being proof of it, will not mingle blood, lest the Channel should
still flow between the little red globules! You will go? but to
return shortly? You will dine with me soon? Au revoir!﹄and she gave
me her hand graciously, while Delphine bowed as if I were already
gone, threw herself into a garden-chair, and commenced pouring the
wine on a stone for a little tame snake which came out and lapped
it.
Such women as Mme. de St. Cyr have a species of magnetism about
them. It is difficult to retain one's self-respect before them,--for
no other reason than that one is, at the moment, absorbed into their
individuality, and thinks and acts with them. Delphine must have had
a strong will, and perpetual antagonism did not weaken it. As for me,
Madame had, doubtless, reasons of her own for tearing aside these
customary bands of reserve--reasons which, if you do not perceive, I
shall not enumerate.
Chapter III
"HAVE YOU MET WITH anything further in your search, sir?" asked my
valet next morning.
"Oh, yes, Hay," I returned, in a very good humor,--"with great
success. You have assisted me so much, that I am sure I owe it to you
to say that I have found the diamond."
"Indeed, sir, you are very kind. I have been interested, but my
assistance is not worth mentioning. I thought likely it might be, you
appeared so quiet."--The cunning dog!--"How did you find it, sir, may
I ask?"
I briefly related the leading facts, since he had been aware of
the progress of the case to that point,--without, however, mentioning
Mme. de St. Cyr's name.
"And Monsieur did not inform us!" a French valet would have
cried.
"You were prudent not to mention it, sir," said Hay. "These walls
must have better ears than ordinary; for a family has moved in on the
first floor recently, whose actions are extremely suspicious. But is
this precious affair to be seen?"
I took it from an inner pocket and displayed it, having discarded
the shagreen case as inconvenient.
"His Excellency must return as he came," said I.
Hay's eyes sparkled.
"And do you carry it there, sir?" he asked, with surprise, as I
restored it to my waistcoat-pocket.
"I shall take it to the bank," I said. "I do not like the
responsibility."
"It is very unsafe," was the warning of this cautious fellow.
"Why, sir! any of these swells, these pickpockets, might meet you,
run against you,--so!" said Hay, suiting the action to the word,"
and, with the little sharp knife concealed in just such a ring as
this I wear, give a light tap, and there's a slit in your vest sir,
but no diamond!"--and instantly resuming his former respectful
deportment, Hay handed me my gloves and stick, and smoothed my
hat.
"Nonsense!" I replied, drawing on the gloves, "I should like to
see the man who could be too quick for me. Any news from India,
Hay?"
"None of consequence, sir. The indigo crop is said to have failed
which advances the figure of that on hand, so that one or two
fortunes will be made to-day. Your hat, sir?--your lunettes? Here
they are, sir."
"Good morning, Hay."
"Good morning, sir."
I descended the stairs, buttoning my gloves, paused a moment at
the door to look about, and proceeded down the street, which was not
more than usually thronged. At the bank I paused to assure myself
that the diamond was safe. My fingers caught in a singular slit. I
started. As Hay had prophesied there was a fine longitudinal cut in
my waistcoat, but the pocket was empty. My God! the thing was gone. I
never can forget the blank nihility of all existence that dreadful
moment when I stood fumbling for what was not. Calm as I sit here and
tell of it, I vow to you a shiver courses through me at the very
thought. I had circumvented Stahl only to destroy myself. The diamond
was lost again. My mind flew like lightning over every chance, and a
thousand started up like steel spikes to snatch the bolt. For a
moment I was stunned, but, never being very subject to despair, on my
recovery, which was almost at once, took every measure that could be
devised. Who had touched me? Whom had I met? Through what streets had
I come? In ten minutes the Prefect had the matter in hand. My
injunctions were strict privacy. I sincerely hoped the mishap would
not reach England; and if the diamond were not recovered before the
Marquis of G. arrived,--why, there was the Seine. It is all very well
to talk,--yet suicide is so French an affair, that an Englishman does
not take to it naturally, and, except in November, the Seine is too
cold and damp for comfort, but during that month I suppose it does
not greatly differ in these respects from our own atmosphere.
A preternatural activity now possessed me. I slept none, ate
little, worked immoderately. I spared no efforts, for everything was
at stake. In the midst of all, G. arrived. Hay also exerted himself
to the utmost; I promised him a hundred pounds, if I found it. He
never told me that he said how it would be, never intruded the state
of the market, never resented my irritating conduct, but watched me
with narrow yet kind solicitude, and frequently offered valuable
suggestions, which, however, as everything else did, led to nothing.
I did not call on G., but in a week or so his card was brought up one
morning to me. "Deny me," I groaned. It yet wanted a week of the day
on which I had promised to deliver him the diamond Meanwhile the
Baron Stahl had reached Paris, but he still remained in private,--few
had seen him.
The police were forever on the wrong track. Today they stopped the
old Comptesse du Quesne and her jewels, at the Barriere; to-morrow,
with their long needles, they riddled a package of lace destined for
the Duchess of X. herself; the Secret Service was doubled; and to
crown all, a splendid new star of the testy Prince de Ligne was
examined and proclaimed to be paste,--the Prince swearing vengeance,
if he could discover the cause,--while half Paris must have been
under arrest. My own hotel was ransacked thoroughly,--Hay begging
that his traps might be included,--but nothing resulted, and I
expected nothing, for, of course, I could swear that the stone was in
my pocket when I stepped into the street. I confess I never was
nearer madness,--every word and gesture stung me like asps,--I walked
on burning coals. Enduring all this torment, I must yet meet my daily
comrades, eat ices at Tortoni's, stroll on the Boulevards, call on my
acquaintance, with the same equanimity as before. I believe I was
equal to it. Only by contrast with that blessed time when Ulster and
diamonds were unknown, could I imagine my past happiness, my present
wretchedness. Rather than suffer it again, I would be stretched on
the rack till ever! bone in my skin were broken. I cursed Mr. Arthur
Ulster every hour in the day; myself, as well; and even now the word
diamond sends a cold blast to my heart. I often met my friend the
marchand des armures. It was his turn to triumph; I fancied there
must be a hang-dog kind of air about me, as about every sharp man who
has been outwitted. It wanted finally but two days of that on which I
was to deliver the diamond.
One midnight, armed with a dark lantern and a cloak, I was
traversing the streets alone,--unsuccessful, as usual, just now
solitary, and almost in despair. As I turned a corner, two men were
but scarcely visible a step before me. It was a badly-lighted part of
the town. Unseen and noiseless I followed. They spoke in low
tones,--almost whispers; or rather, one spoke,--the other seemed to
nod assent.
"On the day but one after to-morrow," I heard spoken in English.
Great Heavens! was it possible? had I arrived at a clew? That was the
day of days for me.﹃You have given it, you say, in this billet,--I
wish to be exact, you see,﹄continued the voice,--"to prevent
detection, you gave it, ten minutes after it came into your hands, to
the butler of Madame," (here the speaker stumbled on the rough
pavement, and I lost the name,) "who," he continued,﹃will put it in
the--﹄(a second stumble acted like a hiccough) "cellar."
"Wine-cellar," I thought; "and what then?"
"In the--." A third stumble was followed by a round German oath.
How easy it is for me now to fill up the little blanks which that
unhappy pavement caused!
"You share your receipts with this butler. On the day I obtain
it," he added, and I now perceived his foreign accent, "I hand you
one hundred thousand francs; afterward, monthly payments till you
have received the stipulated sum. But how will this butler know me,
in season to prevent a mistake? Hem!--he might give it to the
other!"
My hearing had been trained to such a degree that I would have
promised to catch any given dialogue of the spirits themselves, but
the whisper that answered him eluded me. I caught nothing but a faint
sibillation. "Your ring?" was the rejoinder. "He shall be instructed
to recognize it? Very well. It is too large,--no, that will do, it
fits the first finger. There is nothing more. I am under infinite
obligations, sir; they shall be remembered. Adieu!"
The two parted; which should I pursue? In desperation I turned my
lantern upon one, and illumined a face fresh with color, whose black
eyes sparkled askance after the retreating figure, under straight
black brows. In a moment more he was lost in a false cul-de-sac, and
I found it impossible to trace the other.
I was scarcely better off than before; but it seemed to me that I
had obtained something, and that now it was wisest to work this vein.
"The butler of Madame--." There were hundreds of thousands of Madames
in town. I might call on all, and he as old as the Wandering Jew at
the last call. The cellar. Wine-cellar, of course,--that came by a
natural connection with butler,--but whose? There was one under my
own abode; certainly I would explore it. Meanwhile, let us see the
entertainments for Wednesday. The Prefect had a list of these. For
some I found I had cards; I determined to allot a fraction of time to
as many as possible; my friends in the Secret Service would divide
the labor. Among others, Madame de St. Cyr gave a dinner, and, as she
had been in the affair, I determined not to neglect her on this
occasion, although having no definite idea of what had been, or plan
of what should be done. I decided not to speak of this occurrence to
Hay, since it might only bring him off some trail that he had
struck.
Having been provided with keys, early on the following evening I
entered the wine-cellar, and, concealed in an empty cask that would
have held a dozen of me, waited for something to turn up. Really,
when I think of myself, a diplomate, a courtier, a man-about-town,
curled in a dusty, musty wine-barrel, I am moved with vexation and
laughter. Nothing, however, turned up,--and at length I retired
baffled. The next night came,--no news, no identification of my
black-browed man, no success; but I felt certain that something must
transpire in that cellar. I don't know why I had pitched upon that
one in particular, but, at an earlier hour than on the previous
night, I again donned the cask. A long time must have elapsed; dead
silence filled the spacious vaults, except where now and then some
Sillery cracked the air with a quick explosion, or some newer wine
bubbled round the bung of its barrel with a faint effervescence. I
had no intention of leaving this place till morning, but it suddenly
appeared like the most woeful waste of time. The master of this
tremendous affair should be abroad and active; who knew what his keen
eyes might detect; what loss his absence might occasion in this nick
of time? And here he was, shut up and locked in a wine-cellar! I
began to be very nervous; I had already, with aid, searched every
crevice of the cellar; and now I thought it would be some consolation
to discover the thief, if I never regained the diamond. A distant
clock tolled midnight. There was a faint noise,--a mouse?--no, it was
too prolonged;--nor did it sound like the fiz of Champagne;--a great
iron door was turning on its hinges; a man with a lantern was
entering; another followed, and another. They seated themselves. In a
few moments, appearing one by one and at intervals, some thirty
people were in the cellar. Were they all to share in the proceeds of
the diamond? With what jaundiced eye we behold things! I myself saw
all that was only through the lens of this diamond, of which not one
of these men had ever heard. As the lantern threw its feeble glimmer
on this group, and I surveyed them through my loophole, I thought I
had never seen so wild and savage a picture, such enormous shadows,
such bold outline, such a startling flash on the face of their
leader, such light retreating up the threatening arches. More
resolute brows, more determined words, more unshrinking hearts, I had
not met. In fact, I found myself in the centre of a conspiracy, a
society as vindictive as the Jacobins, as unknown and terrible as the
Marianne of to-day. I was thunderstruck, too, at the countenances on
which the light fell,--men the loyalest in estimation, ministers and
senators, millionnaires who had no reason for discontent, dandies
whose reason was supposed to be devoted to their tailors, poets and
artists of generous aspiration and suspected tendencies, and one
woman,--Delphine de St. Cyr. Their plans were brave, their
determination lofty, their conclave serious and fine; yet as slowly
they shut up their hopes and fears in the black masks, one man bent
toward the lantern to adjust his. When he lifted his face before
concealing it, I recognized him also. I had met him frequently at the
Bureau of Police; he was, I believe, Secretary of the Secret
Service.
I had no sympathy with these people. I had sufficient liberty
myself, I was well enough satisfied with the world, I did not care to
revolutionize France; but my heart rebelled at the mockery, as this
traitor and spy, this creature of a system by which I gained my fame,
showed his revolting face and veiled it again. And Delphine, what had
she to do with them? One by one, as they entered, they withdrew, and
I was left alone again. But all this was not my diamond.
Another hour elapsed. Again the door opened, and remained ajar.
Some one entered, whom I could not see. There was a pause,--then a
rustle,--the door creaked ever so little. "Art thou there?" lisped a
shrill whisper,--a woman, as I could guess.
"My angel, it is I," was returned, a semitone lower. She
approached, he advanced, and the consequence was a salute resonant as
the smack with which a Dutch burggomaster may be supposed to set down
his mug. I was prepared for anything. Ye gods! if it should be
Delphine! But the base suspicion was birth-strangled as they spoke
again. The conversation which now ensued between these lovers under
difficulties was tender and affecting beyond expression. I had felt
guilty enough when an unwilling auditor of the conspirators,--since,
though one employs spies, one does not therefore act that part one's
self, but on emergencies,--an unwillingness which would not, however,
prevent my turning to advantage the information gained; but here, to
listen to this rehearsal of woes and blisses, this ah mon Fernand,
this aria in an area, growing momently more fervent, was too much I
overturned the cask, scrambled upon my feet, and fled from the cellar
leaving the astounded lovers to follow, while, agreeably to my
instincts and regardless of the diamond, I escaped the embarrassing
predicament.
At length it grew to be noon of the appointed day. Nothing had
transpired; all our labor was idle. I felt, nevertheless, more
buoyant than usual,--whether because I was now to put my fate to the
test, or that today was the one of which my black-browed man had
spoken, and I therefore entertained a presentiment of good fortune, I
cannot say. But when, in unexceptionable toilet, I stood on Mme. de
St. Cyr's steps, my heart sunk. G. was doubtless already within, and
I thought of the marchand des armures' exclamation,﹃Queen of Heaven,
Monsieur! how shall I meet him!﹄I was plunged at once into the
profoundest gloom. Why had I undertaken the business at all? This
interference, this good-humor, this readiness to oblige,--it would
ruin me yet! I forswore it, as Falstaff forswore honor. Why needed I
to meddle in the melee? Why--But I was no catechumen. Questions were
useless now. My emotions are not chronicled on my face, I flatter
myself; and with my usual repose I saluted our hostess. Greeting G.
without any allusion to the diamond, the absence of which allusion he
received as a point of etiquette, I was conversing with Mrs. Leigh,
when the Baron Stahl was announced. I turned to look at his
Excellency. A glance electrified me. There was my dark-browed man of
the midnight streets. It must, then, have been concerning the diamond
that I had heard him speak. His countenance, his eager glittering
eye, told that to-day was as eventful to him as to me. If he were
here, I could well afford to be. As he addressed me in English, my
certainty was confirmed; and the instant in which I observed the
ring, gaudy and coarse, upon his finger, made confirmation doubly
sure. I own I was surprised that anything could induce the Baron to
wear such an ornament. Here he was actually risking his reputation as
a man of taste, as an exquisite, a leader of haut ton, a gentleman,
by the detestable vulgarity of this ring. But why do I speak so of
the trinket? Do I not owe it a thrill of as fine joy as I ever knew?
Faith! it was not unfamiliar to me. It had been a daily sight for
years. In meeting the Baron Stahl I had found the diamond.
The Baron Stahl was then, the thief? Not at all. My valet, as of
course you have been all along aware, was the thief.
My valet, moreover, was my instructor; he taught me not again to
scour Cathay for what might be lying under my hand at home. Nor have
I since been so acute as to overreach myself. Yet I can explain such
intolerable stupidity only by remembering that when one has been in
the habit of pointing his telescope at the stars, he is not apt to
turn it upon pebbles at his feet.
The Marquis of G. took down Mme. de St. Cyr; Stahl preceded me,
with Delphine. As we sat at table, G. was at the right, I at the left
of our hostess Next G. sat Delphine; below her, the Baron; so that we
were nearly vis-à-vis. I was now as fully convinced that Mme.
de St. Cyr's cellar was the one, as the day before I had been that
the other was; I longed to reach it. Hay had given the stone to a
butler--doubtless this--the moment of its theft; but, not being aware
of Mme. de St. Cyr's previous share in the adventure, had probably
not afforded her another. And thus I concluded her to be ignorant of
the game we were about to play; and I imagined, with the interest
that one carries into a romance, the little preliminary scene between
the Baron and Madame that must have already taken place, being
charmed by the cheerfulness with which she endured the loss of the
promised reward.
As the Baron entered the dining-room, I saw him withdraw his
glove, and move the jewelled hand across his hair while passing the
solemn butler, who gave it a quick recognition;--the next moment we
were seated. There were only wines on the table, clustered around a
central ornament,--a bunch of tall silver rushes and flagleaves, on
whose airy tip danced fleurs-de-lis of frosted silver, a design of
Delphine's,--the dishes being on sidetables, from which the guests
were served as they signified their choice of the variety on their
cards. Our number not being large, and the custom so informal,
rendered it pleasant.
I had just finished my oysters and was pouring out a glass of
Chablis, when another plate was set before the Baron.
"His Excellency has no salt," murmured the butler,--at the same
time placing one beside him. A glance, at entrance, had taught me
that most of the service was uniform; this dainty little saliere I
had noticed on the buffet, solitary, and unlike the others. What a
fool had I been! Those gaps in the Baron's remarks caused by the
pavingstones, how easily were they to be supplied!
"Madame?"
Madame de St. Cyr.
"The cellar?"
A salt-cellar.
How quick the flash that enlightened me while I surveyed the
saliere!
"It is exquisite! Am I never to sit at your table but some new
device charms me?" I exclaimed. "Is it your design, Mademoiselle?" I
said, turning to Delphine.
Delphine, who had been ice to all the Baron's advances, only
curled her lip. "Des babioles!" she said.
"Yes, indeed!" cried Mme. de St. Cyr, extending her hand for it.
"But none the less her taste. Is it not a fairy thing? À
Cellini! Observe this curve, these lines! but one man could have
drawn them!"--and she held it for our scrutiny. It was a tiny hand
and arm of ivory, parting the foam of a wave and holding a golden
shell, in which the salt seemed to have crusted itself as if in some
secretest ocean-hollow. I looked at the Baron a moment; his eyes were
fastened upon the saliere, and all the color had forsaken his
cheeks,--his face counted his years. The diamond was in that little
shell. But how to obtain it? I had no novice to deal with; nothing
but finesse would answer.
"Permit me to examine it?" I said. She passed it to her left hand
for me to take. The butler made a step forward.
"Meanwhile, Madame," said the Baron, smiling, "I have no
salt."
The instinct of hospitality prevailed;--she was about to return
it. Might I do an awkward thing? Unhesitatingly. Reversing my glass,
I gave my arm a wider sweep than necessary, and, as it met her hand
with violence, the saliere fell. Before it touched the floor I caught
it. There was still a pinch of salt left,--nothing more.
"A thousand pardons!" I said, and restored it to the Baron.
His Excellency beheld it with dismay; it was rare to see him bend
over and scrutinize it with starting eyes.
"Do you find there what Count Arnaldos begs in the song," asked
Delphine,--"the secret of the sea, Monsieur?"
He handed it to the butler, observing, "I find here no--"
"Salt, Monsieur?" replied the man, who did not doubt but all had
gone right, and replenished it.
Had one told me in the morning, that no intricate manoeuvres, but
a simple blunder, would effect this, I might have met him in the Bois
de Boulogne.
"We will not quarrel," said my neighbor, lightly, with reference
to the popular superstition.
"Rather propitiate the offended deities by a crumb tossed over the
shoulder," added I.
"Over the left?" asked the Baron, to intimate his knowledge of
another idiom, together with a reproof for my gauchene.
"A gauche,--quelquefois c'est justement a droit, " I replied.
"Salt in any pottage," said Madame, a little uneasily, "is like
surprise in an individual; it brings out the flavor of every
ingredient, so my cook tells me."
"It is a preventive of palsy," I remarked, as the slight trembling
of my adversary's finger caught my eye.
"And I have noticed that a taste for it is peculiar to those who
trace their blood," continued Madame.
"Let us, therefore, elect a deputation to those mines near
Cracow," said Delphine.
"To our cousins, the slaves there?" laughed her mother.
"I must vote to lay your bill on the table, Mademoiselle," I
rejoined.
"But with a boule blanche, Monsieur?"
"As the salt has been laid on the floor," said the Baron.
Meanwhile, as this light skirmishing proceeded, my sleeve and Mme.
de St. Cyr's dress were slightly powdered, but I had not seen the
diamond. The Baron, bolder than I, looked under the table, but made
no discovery. I was on the point of dropping my napkin to accomplish
a similar movement when my accommodating neighbor dropped hers. To
restore it, I stooped. There it lay, large and glowing, the Sea of
Splendor, the Moon of Milk, the Torment of my Life, on the carpet,
within half an inch of a lady's slipper Mademoiselle de St. Cyr's
foot had prevented the Baron from seeing it; now it moved and
unconsciously covered it. All was as I wished. I hastily restored the
napkin, and looked steadily at Delphine,--so steadily, that she
perceived some meaning, as she had already suspected a game. By my
sign she understood me, pressed her foot upon the stone and drew it
nearer. In France we do not remain at table until unfit for a lady's
society,--we rise with them. Delphine needed to drop neither napkin
nor handkerchief; she composedly stooped and picked up the stone, so
quickly at no one saw what it was.
"And the diamond?" said the Baron to the butler, rapidly, as he
passed.
"It was in the saliere," whispered the astonished creature.
Chapter IV
IN THE DRAWING-ROOM I sought the Marquis.
"To-day I was to surrender you your property," I said; "it is
here."
"Do you know," he replied, "I thought I must have been
mistaken?"
"Any of our volatile friends here might have been," I resumed;
"for us it is impossible. Concerning this, when you return to France,
I will relate the incidents; at present, there are those who will not
hesitate to take life to obtain its possession. A conveyance leaves
in twenty minutes; and if I owned the diamond, it should not leave me
behind. Moreover, who knows what a day may bring forth? To-morrow
there may be an émeute. Let me restore the thing as you
withdraw."
The Marquis, who is not, after all, the Lion of England, pausing a
moment to transmit my words from his ear to his brain, did not
afterward delay to make inquiries or adieux, but went to seek Mme. de
St. Cyr and wish her good-night, on his departure from Paris. As I
awaited his return, which I knew would not be immediate, Delphine
left the Baron and joined me.
"You beckoned me?" she asked.
"No, I did not."
"Nevertheless, I come by your desire, I am sure."
"Mademoiselle," I said, "I am not in the custom of doing favors; I
have forsworn them. But before you return me my jewel, I risk my head
and render one last one, and to you."
"Do not, Monsieur, at such price," she responded, with a slight
mocking motion of her hand.
"Delphine! those resolves, last night, in the cellar, were daring,
the were noble, yet they were useless."
She had not started, but a slight tremor ran over her person and
vanished while I spoke.
"They will be allowed to proceed no farther,--the axe is
sharpened; for the last man who adjusted his mask was a spy,--was the
Secretary of the Secret Service."
Delphine could not have grown paler than was usual with her of
late. She flashed her eye upon me.
"He was, it may be, Monsieur himself," she said.
"I do not claim the honor of that post."
"But you were there, nevertheless,--a spy!"
"Hush, Delphine! It would be absurd to quarrel. I was there for
the recovery of this stone, having heard that it was in a
cellar,--when, stupidly enough, I had insisted should be a
wine-cellar."
"It was, then--"
"In a salt-cellar,--a blunder which, as you do not speak English,
you cannot comprehend. I never mix with treason, and did not wish to
assist at your pastimes. I speak now, that you may escape."
"If Monsieur betrays his friends, the police, why should I expect
a kinder fate?"
"When I use the police, they are my servants, not my friends. I
simply warn you, that, before sunrise, you will be safer travelling
than sleeping,--safer next week in Vienna than in Paris."
"Thank you! And the intelligence is the price of the diamond? If I
had not chanced to pick it up, my throat," and she clasped it with
her fingers, "had been no slenderer than the others?"
"Delphine, will you remember, should you have occasion to do so in
Vienna, that it is just possible for an Englishman to have
affections, and sentiments, and, in fact, sensations? that, with him,
friendship can be inviolate, and to betray it an impossibility? And
even were it not, I, Mademoiselle have not the pleasure to be classed
by you as a friend."
"You err. I esteem Monsieur highly."
I was impressed by her coolness.
"Let me see if you comprehend the matter," I demanded.
"Perfectly. The arrest will be used to-night, the guillotine
tomorrow."
"You will take immediate measures for flight?"
"No,--I do not see that life has value. I shall be the debtor of
him who takes it."
"A large debt. Delphine, I exact a promise of you. I do not care
to have endangered myself for nothing. It is not ù worth while
to make your mother unhappy. Life is not yours to throw away. I
appeal to your magnanimity."
"'Affections, sentiments, sensations!'" she quoted. "Your own
danger for the affection,--it is an affair of the heart! Mme. de St.
Cyr's unhappiness,--there is the sentiment. You are angry,
Monsieur,--that must be the sensation."
"Delphine, I am waiting."
"Ah, well. You have mentioned Vienna,--and why? Liberals are
countenanced there?"
"Not in the least. But Madame l'Ambassadrice will be
countenanced.'
"I do not know her."
"We are not apt to know ourselves."
"Monsieur, how idle are these cross-purposes!" she said, folding
her fan.
"Delphine," I continued, taking the fan, "tell me frankly which of
these two men you prefer,--the Marquis or his Excellency."
"The Marquis? He is antiphlogistic,--he is ice. Why should I
freeze myself? I am frozen now,--I need fire!"
Her eyes burned as she spoke, and a faint red flushed her
cheek.
"Mademoiselle, you demonstrate to me that life has yet a value to
you."
"I find no fire," she said, as the flush fell away.
"The Baron?"
"I do not affect him."
"You will conquer your prejudice in Vienna."
"I do not comprehend you, Monsieur;--you speak in riddles, which I
do not like."
"I will speak plainer. But first let me ask you for the
diamond."
"The diamond? It is yours? How am I certified of it? I find it on
the floor; you say it was in my mother's saliere; it is her affair,
not mine. No, Monsieur, I do not see that the thing is yours."
Certainly there was nothing to be done but to relate the story,
which I did, carefully omitting the Baron's name. At its conclusion,
she placed the prize in my hand.
"Pardon, Monsieur." she said; "without doubt you should receive
it. And this agent of the government,--one could turn him like hot
iron in this vice,--who was he?"
"The Baron Stahl."
All this time G. had been waiting on thorns, and, leaving her now,
I approached him, displayed for an instant the treasure on my palm,
and slipped it into his. It was done. I bade farewell to this Eye of
Morning and Heart of Day, this thing that had caused me such pain and
perplexity and pleasure, with less envy and more joy than I thought
myself capable of. The relief and buoyancy that seized me, as his
hand closed upon it, I shall not attempt to portray. An abdicated
king was not freer.
The Marquis departed, and I, wandering round the salon, was next
stranded upon the Baron. He was yet hardly sure of himself. We talked
indifferently for a few moments, and then I ventured on the great
loan. He was, as became him, not communicative, but scarcely thought
it would be arranged. I then spoke of Delphine.
"She is superb!" said the Baron, staring at her boldly.
She stood opposite, and, in her white attire on the background of
the blue curtain, appeared like an impersonation of Greek genius
relieved upon the blue of an Athenian heaven. Her severe and classic
outline, her pallor, her downcast lids, her absorbed look, only
heightened the resemblance. Her reverie seemed to end abruptly, the
same red stained her cheek again, her lips curved in a proud smile,
she raised her glowing eyes and observed us regarding her. At too
great distance to hear our words, she quietly repaid our glances in
the strength of her new decision, and then, turning, began to
entertain those next her with an unwonted spirit.
"She has needed," I replied to the Baron, "but one thing,--to be
aroused, to be kindled. See, it is done! I have thought that a life
of cabinets and policy might achieve this, for her talent is second
not even to her beauty."
"It is unhappy that both should be wasted," said the Baron. "She,
of course, will never marry."
"Why not?"
"For various reasons."
"One?"
"She is poor."
"Which will not signify to your Excellency. Another?"
"She is too beautiful. One would fall in love with her. And to
love one's own wife--it is ridiculous!"
"Who should know?" I asked.
"All the world would suspect and laugh."
"Let those laugh that win."
"No,--she would never do as a wife; but then as--"
"But then in France we do not insult hospitality!"
The Baron transferred his gaze to me for a moment, then tapped his
snuff-box, and approached the circle round Delphine.
It was odd that we, the arch enemies of the hour, could speak
without the intervention of seconds; but I hoped that the Baron's
conversation might be diverting,--the Baron hoped that mine might be
didactic.
They were very gay with Delphine. He leaned on the back of a chair
and listened. One spoke of the new gallery of the Tuileries, and the
five pavilions,--a remark which led us to architecture.
"We all build our own houses," said Delphine, at last, "and then
complain that they cramp us here, and the wind blows in there, while
the fault is not in the order, but in us, who increase here and
shrink there without reason."
"You speak in metaphors," said the Baron.
"Precisely. A truth is often more visible veiled than nude."
"We should soon exhaust the orders," I interposed; "for who builds
like his neighbor?"
"Slight variations, Monsieur! Though we take such pains to conceal
the style, it is not difficult to tell the order of architecture
chosen by the builders in this room. My mother, for instance--you
perceive that her pavilion would be the florid Gothic."
"Mademoiselle's is the Doric," I said.
"Has been," she murmured, with a quick glance.
"And mine, Mademoiselle?" asked the Baron, indifferently.
"Ah, Monsieur," she returned, looking serenely upon him, "when one
has all the winning cards in hand and yet loses the stake, we allot
him un pavillon chinois."--which was the polite way of dubbing him
Court Fool.
The Baron's eyes fell. Vexation and alarm were visible on his
contracted brow. He stood in meditation for some time. It must have
been evident to him that Delphine knew of the recent
occurrences,--that here in Paris she could denounce him as the agent
of a felony, the participant of a theft. What might prevent it?
Plainly but one thing: no woman would denounce her husband. He had
scarcely contemplated this step on arrival.
The guests were again scattered in groups round the room. I
examined an engraving on an adjacent table. Delphine reclined as
lazily in a fauteuil as if her life did not hang in the balance. The
Baron drew near.
"Mademoiselle," said he, "you allotted me just now a cap and
bells. If two should wear it?--if I should invite another into my
pavillon chinois?--if I should propose to complete an alliance,
desired by my father, with the ancient family of St. Cyr?--if, in
short, Mademoiselle, I should request you to become my wife?"
"Eh, bien, Monsieur,--and if you should?" I heard her coolly
reply.
But it was no longer any business of mine. I rose and sought Mme.
de St. Cyr, who, I thought, was slightly uneasy, perceiving some
mystery to be afloat. After a few words, I retired.
Archimedes, as perhaps you have never heard, needed only a lever
to move the world. Such a lever I had put into the hands of Delphine,
with which she might move, not indeed the grand globe, with its
multiplied attractions, relations, and affinities, but the lesser
world of circumstances, of friends and enemies, the circle of hopes,
fears, ambitions. There is no woman, as I believe, but could have
used it.
Chapter V
THE NEXT DAY was scarcely so quiet in the city as usual. The great
loan had not been negotiated. Both the Baron Stahl and the English
minister had left Paris,--and there was a coup d'état.
But the Baron did not travel alone. There had been a ceremony at
midnight in the Church of St. Sulpice, and her excellency the
Baroness Stahl, nee de St. Cyr, accompanied him.
It is a good many years since. I have seen the diamond in the
Duchess of X.'s coronet, once, when a young queen put on her
royalty,--but I have never seen Delphine. The Marquis begged me to
retain the chain, and I gave myself the pleasure of presenting it,
through her mother, to the Baroness Stahl. I hear, that, whenever she
desires to effect any cherished object which the Baron opposes, she
has only to wear this chain, and effect it. It appears to possess a
magical power, and its potent spell enslaves the Baron as the lamp
and ring of Eastern tales enslaved the Afrites. The life she leads
has aroused her. She is no longer the impassive Silence; she has
found her fire. I hear of her as the charm of a brilliant court, as
the soul of a nation of intrigue. Of her beauty one does not speak,
but her talent is called prodigious. What impels me to ask the idle
question, If it were well to save her life for this? Undoubtedly she
fills a station which, in that empire, must be the summit of a
woman's ambition. Delphine's Liberty was not a principle, but a
dissatisfaction. The Baroness Stahl is vehement, is Imperialist, is
successful. While she lives, it is on the top of the wave; when she
dies--ah! what business has Death in such a world?
As I said, I have never seen Delphine since her marriage. The
beautiful statuesque girl occupies a niche into which the blazing and
magnificent intrigante cannot crowd. I do not wish to be
disillusioned. She has read me a riddle,--Delphine is my Sphinx.
Chapter VI
AS FOR MR. HAY--I once said the Antipodes were tributary to me,
not thinking that I should ever become tributary to the Antipodes.
But such is the case; since, partly through my instrumentality, that
enterprising individual has been located in their vicinity, where
diamonds are not to be had for the asking, and the greatest rogue is
not a Baron.
THE MAD LADY
CERTAINLY there was a house there, half-way up Great Hill, a
mansion of pale cream-colored stone, built with pillared porch and
wings, vines growing over some parts of it, a sward like velvet
surrounding it; the sun was flashing back from the windows--but--Why?
Why had none of the Godsdale people seen that house before? Could the
work of building have gone on sheltered by the thick wood in front,
the laborers and the materials coming up the other side of the hill?
It would not be visible now if, overnight, vistas had not been cut in
the wood.
The Godsdale people seldom climbed the hill; there were rumors of
ill-doing there in long past days, there were perhaps rattlesnakes,
it was difficult except from the other side, there was nothing to see
when you arrived, and few ever wandered that way. Why any one should
wish to build there was a mystery. As the villagers stared at the
place they saw, or thought they saw, swarthy turbaned servitors
moving about, but so far off as to be indistinct. In fact, it was all
very indistinct; so much so that Parson Solewise even declared there
was no house there at all. But when Mr. Dunceby, the schoolmaster,
opened his spy-glass and saw a lady--who, he said, was tall, was
dark, was beautiful, with flowing draperies about her of black and
filmy stuff--come down the terrace-steps and enter a waiting
automobile that speedily passed round the scarp of the hill and went
down the other side, the thing was proved. Mr. Ditton, the village
lawyer, also saw it without having recourse to the spy-glass; but as
Mr. Ditton had but lately had what he called a nip, and indeed
several of them, he was in that happy state of sweet good nature
which agrees with the last speaker.
Every day for several days, even weeks, the lady was seen to enter
the automobile, and be taken round the side of the hill and down to
the plain intersected by many roads and ending in a marsh bounded by
the great river. The car would go some distance, and then, apparently
at an order given through the long speaking-tube, would turn about
and take a different course, only to be as quickly reversed and sent
to another road on the right or on the left. Sometimes it would seem
to certain of the adventurous youth coming and going on the great
plain that the chauffeur remonstrated, but evidently the more she
insisted, and the car went on swiftly in the new direction,
wrecklessly plunging and rocking over deep-rutted places as if both
driver and passenger were mad. Indeed they came to call the woman the
Mad Lady. She seemed to be on a wild search for something that lay
she knew not where, or for the right road to it in all the tangle of
roads. One day, it was Mr. Dunceby and Mr. Ditton who, coming from a
fishing-trip--Mr. Ditton's flask quite empty--saw a ride which they
averred was the wildest piece of daredeviltry ever known, or would
have been but for the black tragedy at its end.
The car was speeding down Springwood way, as if running a race
with the wind, when suddenly it swerved, backed, and turned about,
going diagonally opposite into Blueberry lane, crossed over from that
by a short cut to Commoners, only to reverse again--the lady inside,
as well as they could see, giving contradictory and excited
orders--and after one or two more turns and returns and zigzags, the
car shot forward with incredible swiftness, as if the right way were
found at last, straight down the long dike or causeway over which the
farmers hauled their salt hay from the marsh in winter--the marsh now
swollen to a morass by the high tides and recent rains. And then, as
if in the accelerating speed the chauffeur found himself helpless,
they saw the car bound into the air--at least Mr. Ditton did--the
lady fling the door open, crying: "It is here! It is here!" pitching
forward at the words and tossed out like a leaf, the chauffeur thrown
off as violently, and all plunged into the morass, sucked down by the
quicksand, and seen no more.
When a deputation of the Godsdale people, the constable, the
parson, the schoolmaster, Mr. Ditton, and some others, climbed the
path to Great Hill top, they found the house there quite empty, no
living soul to be seen, and without furnishing of any kind. Was it
possible that every one had absconded during the time in which the
people had exclaimed and discussed and delayed, and that they had
taken rugs and hangings and paintings and statuary with them? Or, as
Parson Solewise conjectured, had there never been anything of the
sort there? Yet there were others who, on returning to the village,
vowed that the rich rugs, the soft draperies, the wonderful pictures
they had seen were something not known by them to exist before, and
that turbaned slaves were packing them away with celerity.
One thing certainly was strange: a wing of the house had vanished,
the porch and the eastern wing were there, but there was no west
wing; if there ever had been the grass was growing over it. The
schoolmaster said it was due to the perspective; they would see it
when down in the village again. And so they did. Mr. Ditton, however,
went back to review the case; but, on the spot again, there was no
western wing to that strange building.
The automobile was raised by some friendly hands, chiefly boys,
cleansed, and taken up Great Hill and left in its place. After that,
for some years the good people of Godsdale talked of the mansion, and
marvelled, and borrowed the schoolmaster's spy-glass to look at it.
But at last it was as an old story, and half forgotten at that; and
then one and another had died; and no one came to claim the place;
and other things filled the mind.
It so chanced that Mary Solewise, the old parson's daughter, one
afternoon in her rambles with her lover, came out on the
half-forgotten house and, stepping across the terrace, looked in at
one of the windows that at a little distance had seemed to stare at
them. Her lover was the young poet who had come to Godsdale for the
sake of its quiet, that he might finish his epic to the resonance of
no other noise than the tune in his thought. The epic is quite
unknown now; but we all know and sing his songs, which are pieces of
perfection. But he himself said Mary Solewise was the best poem he
had found.
With a little money, some talent, and plenty of time, he was
content till this song of Mary began to sing in his heart; and then
when he found she was his for this life and all life to come, he
found also that his small income needed to be trebled; it was too
narrow a mantle to stretch over himself and Mary too. He could, after
a fashion, make the little money sufficient, perhaps his verses would
bring in something--verse had made more poets than Tennyson rich--but
there was no roof to shelter her. And so in the midst of his
happiness he was wretched. He could not enjoy the sunshine for fear
of a weather-breeder. Of course if he chose to go back, if he chose
to submit--but that sacrifice of honor was not to be dreamed. He
lived in the hope that his epic would bring immediate fame and
fortune, but, alas, his life and thought were so taken up by Mary
that he could not work on the epic at all. They went off and sat down
on the edge of the terrace. The great house, in the flickering
afternoon sunshine through the shadows of leaves, seemed to tremble.
One felt it might melt away. There was to the poet something really
appealing about it. "This forsaken place has a personality," he said.
"It seems as if it were asking some one to come and companion it, to
save it from itself and the doom of forsaken things."
It was very evidently, indeed, by way of falling to pieces: bricks
had toppled from the chimney-stacks, spiders had spun their webs
everywhere, and one might expect to find a brother to dragons in the
great halls. "To live in it?" asked Mary. "Why, the very thing! Let
the creepers cover all the main part and hold it up with their strong
ropes if need be. But there in the east wing the rooms are
reasonable. You have such a knack with carpentry and machines and
things, you could turn that long window into a door, we could bolt
off the main part--and--and there we are!"
"It is God-given!" said the lover. "But would you not be afraid of
ghosts? This is a place to be known of these shadowy people."
"I would give anything to see one!" she exclaimed, and then began
to shiver as if fearing to be taken at her word. Her hair had fallen
down in her struggles with bushes and boughs and briers on the way
up; she was braiding it in a shining rope of gold.
"It will grow and shroud you in gold in your grave," he said,
passing a tress of it across his lips.
The color mounted in her cheeks, exquisite as that on a
rose-petal; nothing could be more the opposite of ghostliness than
she, the very picture of vital strength.
All at once it seemed to the poet that here was a way to put fresh
being into this dead place, to suspend its decay, till it gathered
force and new meaning and became instead of a suspected apparition a
thing glowing with life. He went to the window and looked in; it gave
way under his hand, and he stepped across. "This shall be the door,"
he said.
"And this the living-room," she replied. And they went through the
wing.
"It is quite ample enough," he exclaimed.
"More than enough," she said.
"It will do very well," he continued. "I will come up with old
Will and brooms and pails, and clear out the dust and cobwebs and
litter, and mop and scour. I can do it."
"And I can help. Oh, how I can help!"
"Here will be your sewing-room. Here will be my writing-room--only
you will sit there, too. Here is our own room. How fine a great fire
roaring up this chimney will be! Here can be pantry and kitchen.
See--there is water running from some spring higher up the hill. It
is really quite perfect. Why did we never think of it before? No one
claims it. We shall be married now the moment it is ready to receive
a bride. A fine place, those great halls, for children to romp in. I
hear them now with their piping silver voices!"
"And I will have a garden on this side, with rows of lilies, with
rows of roses, with white sweet-william against blue larkspur, with
gillyflowers and pansies--oh, why didn't we think of this
before!"
"We will need some furnishing--"
"Not a great deal. Mother and father will give us things they
don't use. And we can make tables and dressers--you can."
"And I shall be paid for my verses the Magazine of Light accepted,
some time."
"And there is the old automobile--though I don't know if I would
like to ride in that, even if I could."
"I think I can furbish it up. I'll take a look at it. I always had
a way with tools. Oh, yes, you will like to ride in it. It won't be
quite--the same--may need some new parts."
"But--the poor Mad Lady--won't we be afraid?"
"Of what? She wouldn't hurt us if she could, and she couldn't if
she would. She will be glad to have her limousine give pleasure to a
young wife and her adoring man-at-arms. Oh, Mary, we have a home! But
it's too good to be true. Come, let us hurry down before the whole
thing fades like a dream!"
The parson and the schoolmaster and Mr. Ditton all went up the
next day to look over the possibilities, and they all agreed that the
plan was feasible. "The main building," said the schoolmaster,﹃could
be used for a boarding-school,﹄and he pictured himself a delighted
headmaster there in no time.
"A fine place for one of those retreats where people invite heaven
into their souls," said the parson.
"A place for much revelry unseen by the curious. I wonder it has
not been utilized," said Mr. Ditton. And then they all did their kind
best to help the poet and his sweetheart.
It was the prettiest wedding under the sun. All the village took
note, and part of the people followed the pleasant procession up the
hill. They had turned out in a body two or three weeks before and
made the path up the hill wide and smooth; and all the furnishings
and belongings had been taken up some days ago. The bridegroom, dark
and straight, prouder that morning than if the Iliad had been his
achievement, walked with his wife who, a little pale, found some
strength in leaning on his arm, her veil flowing about her, half
veil, half scarf, the rose in her hair the beginning of a long
garland of roses that the school-children had braided for her, that
fell on her shoulder and trailed to her feet. A group of the children
followed, marshalled by the schoolmaster, all prettily demure, but
full of the suspended spirit of gambol and outcry. Then came the glad
young friends and companions, and next them the parson and his wife,
solemn as if they were ascending the mount of sacrifice, which indeed
they were doing in giving their child to an almost unknown man. After
these came all who wished them well sufficiently to climb the steep;
while the music of a flute-blower went all the way along from the
sheltering wood.
A passing cloud obscured the main building, but the sun lay full
on the east wing, which seemed to give a smiling welcome. On the
terrace was a fine banquet spread, and a wedding-cake for the bride
to cut; and after the dainties had been enjoyed and Billy Biggs's
pockets stuffed as full as his stomach, and the flute-blower had come
out of the wood, they all swarmed through the east wing and over the
great house; and the schoolmaster formed a class there and told them
in his own way the story of a wedding where one of the guests, a
person of deific quality, had turned jars of water into wine. "That,"
said he,﹃is what marriage does. It gives to those who have drunk
only water the wine of life.﹄It is to be doubted if the little
people understood him, but the poet did.
After this came dancing; and presently sunset was casting ruby
fires over all the world. And the old parson went to the new husband
and wife, and blessed them as if all power were given him to bless,
and he kissed them both, and led the way home.
Then Mary went inside and divested herself of her lovely finery,
and made the tea, and they supped together, and then sat on the
door-stone and watched the moon come up and silver the great morass
in the distance; and at last they went inside, and the husband locked
the door. "Oh," said Mary, "when I heard you turn the key I knew that
we had left the world outside!"
"And that you and I are one!" said her husband.
The poet did not do much with his epic, after all, that year; but
he gave us that charming masque of "Mornings in Arcady" that haunts
its lovers as remembered strains of music do. And he made the
beginnings of his wife's garden, and he wrought with his carpentry
tools, and did some repairing on the motor-car; sooth to say, it
needed a good deal of renewing, and it took all the amount of the
check for his poem to replace the useless parts, and from other
verses, too.
And by and by came the little child, as if a small angel had
wandered out of heaven. And Mary began to have a strange foreboding
about the main building, as of some baleful influence there that
might harm the child. So her husband took the child with her and went
all over the main building, and showed her there was nothing there
but emptiness, not even gloom; for how could gloom live in a place
flooded with sunshine through all its many windows? After the twin
babies came, Mary had the clothes hung there to dry.
Sometimes now they had the flute-blower come up, and all their
friends from the village, to make merry in the spacious places of the
main building, which seemed to put on a brighter face in welcome. And
again, when there was rumor of war the women gathered there to scrape
lint and roll bandages, while their children played about. Sometimes
in summer the Sunday-school received their lessons there and sang
their hymns, and had their festa. And the poet had his wish of seeing
his children at play there. Once in a while the visiting village
children found themselves storm-bound there, staying for days
together, and the wide rooms rang with their glad voices. The place
was full of life.
One day when her mother was there, the poet came to his wife,
heralded by a great puffing and blowing, sliding to the door in the
motor-car. "It is quite regenerated," he said. "I have run it down
the road and back to make assurance doubly sure. Now mother will keep
the babies, and we will follow the poor Mad Lady's way. Oh, I have
had motors before. I could have them again if I chose to accept the
conditions."
"Oh, I shall be afraid!" she said.
"Of what?" he asked, as he had asked before.﹃The machine is all
right. Shabby, but can go like blazes. A pity I had not attended to
it when we first set up our gods here. What a thing it is to have a
wife!﹄as she obediently took her seat.
"What a thing it is to have a limousine," she answered, "and a
chauffeur!"
As the car slid along Mary idly took up the speaking-tube through
which one gives orders to the man outside. It seemed to her that she
heard murmurs in it like a voice. At first faint, then the murmurs
swelled till they were not only distinct but startling. Mary dropped
the tube, but caught it up again, and put it to her ear. It was a
woman's voice evidently. "Down this way," it seemed to say. "No, no,
try the first turn to the left. Oh, did I say the left? I mean the
right. Don't go by it! Now, straight ahead. Oh, stop, stop, let me
think--this is not right! The Springwood way, the Commoners, now the
third from the forks. Why should it be so difficult to reach the road
where they bring in the hay? Oh, shall we never arrive? Shall we
never find it? It might be lost! It might be water-soaked! It is at
the roots of the big tree that leans over the marsh. Oh, here, here!
Put on more speed! Hurry, hurry, faster! It is precious, it is
priceless, lives depend upon it!"
It was Mary's turn to try to say "Stop!" But she could not bring
herself to use that speaking-tube. She flung herself against the
glass between herself and her husband. He turned and saw her terror,
and stopped instantly. "What is it, what is it?" he cried. "Oh, Mary,
what is the matter?"
"The car is haunted! By the Mad Lady's voice!" she exclaimed. "I
hear it in the tube there! Oh, it is dreadful!"
"Nonsense, my darlingest! It is the wind you hear. Let me try it.
I hear nothing. You see we are not moving now."
"Then move!" cried Mary, "and put your ear where you would hear me
if I used it. I will go and sit with you."
She did so, and he reseated himself, and the car moved on, and the
poet listened. "By George, it is saying something," he exclaimed
presently.﹃'The third from the forks.' Why, that is just where we
are. 'It is such a small thing it might be lost.' By George, Mary,
what does this mean? There it goes again, 'Speed, hurry, hurry, it is
precious, it is priceless, lives depend--' This is the weirdest thing
I ever came across,﹄he said, as he wiped his forehead. "Look here,
suppose we obey the directions, go where she says and see what will
happen?"
Mary was trembling in every limb; her teeth chattered, but she
tried not to have it seen. They began to go forward, turning the
corner, coming out on the straight road to the marsh.
It was a season of low tides, and except for a short but terrific
thunder-storm there had been no rain for weeks, so that the marsh had
visibly shrunk. "There's no danger, we won't go out on the marsh, of
course. That chauffeur, the Mad Lady's, must have lost control, he
was going at such a horrific rate, they say."
"There is the big tree on the edge!" cried Mary, still in a
tremor, her very voice shaking.
"Let us look. We will find some sticks and turn up the earth,"
said her husband.
"Oh, it is the most awful thing!" murmured Mary. "I feel as if we
were meddling in some terrible conspiracy, as if--as if--"
"As if the Prince of the Powers of the Air had it in for you.
Never fear, sweetheart, I'm here."
He worked out the foot-rest of the car and began to break with it
the soil about the roots of the tree. And then he saw that the earth
had been torn up by a thunderbolt fallen there not long since,
stripping the bark off the tree, too, but making his work more
easy.
"There's nothing there at all!" cried Mary. "It's all our
imagination."
"There's nothing like effort," he replied. "Aha, what is this?"
And there resounded a slight metallic clang, and he wrenched out and
brought to light a small japanned box covered with rust and
mould.
"It may contain a fortune in priceless stones," he said.
"She said it was priceless," Mary answered. But they had nothing
with which to open it; and he turned the car and they went home,
feeling as if they had a weight of lead with them.
The parson had come up for his wife, and was as interested as Mary
and the poet. It took only a few minutes with a chisel to open the
box. Inside was a fast-locked ebony casket.﹃It is too bad to break
it,﹄said Mary.
"There is nothing else to do," he said, prying it open. They found
then a lock of curling hair, a slender gold ring, and a piece of thin
parchment on which was written something illegible, neither name nor
place being decipherable, but yet which had an air of marriage
lines.
"Now what does this mean?" asked the poet. "A house takes shape
out of the air apparently, a woman lives in it, and drives round
wildly in search of this box that has perhaps been stolen from her,
whose contents were needed to prove innocence, descent, rights to
property, and what-not, and loses her life searching for it. We must
get out of this, Mary! The whole thing is a baseless fabric and will
melt away, and for all I know melt us with it."
The schoolmaster and Mr. Ditton coming up on their afternoon
stroll in which they usually discussed points of the cabala, had
heard the poet's words.﹃You are doubting the stability of the
house?﹄said the schoolmaster. "You need not. It is written in the
Zohar that thought is the source of all that is, and searching the
Sephiroth we find that matter is only a form of thought. In fact the
soul builds the body--"
"Many a castle in the air has been made solid by putting in the
underpinning," said Mr. Ditton.
"My children," said the parson, "if the Mad Lady was able to
project herself and her palace to this spot, for reasons of her own,
you have projected into it yourselves. Your innocent and happy lives
have filled it with vitality, and have fixed a dream into a home. It
is as strong as the foundations of the earth. Stay here in safety,
the house and the home are permanent. The poor Mad Lady! Come,
wife."
But Mary was still trembling a little.
THE END
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