A GREAT deal of nonsense has been written about the inartistic
qualities of the modern man’s evening clothes. The truth is that no
other costume so befits a stalwart, good-looking young fellow. It is in
plain black and white, and affects none of the effeminacy of lace and
ruffles and colour which made a fop of the dandy centuries ago. There is
a manly dignity about dinner-dress which nothing else can give, except
perhaps a suit of armour, but armour, unless it be chain mail, develops
inconveniences at table.
When Miss Berrington entered the dining-room, and found her guest
standing by the huge open log-fire, awaiting her, she stopped still for
a moment in amazement, and then an expression of unqualified admiration
came over her ever-changing face.
“Why--why--” she hesitated, as he came eagerly forward with a smile to
meet her, “is this really Mr. Steele?”
“It is Fletcher’s Mr. Steele, madam. You have tamed the bear, Miss
Berrington, and Fletcher has groomed him, that’s all.”
“I remember, Mr. Steele, that you interdicted the topic of costume; but
may I be permitted the vanity of congratulating Fletcher and myself on
our collaboration?”
John laughed as he led her to the head of the table.
“In my youth I read once of an enchanted land, presided over by a fairy
princess so gracious and so good that when outside barbarians wandered
into her realm, they became what we would call civilised; but I never
knew this land and this princess existed until to-day.”
In the soft glow of the shaded candles the expressive face of the girl
seemed almost handsome. She wore no jewels, but even the young man’s
uncritical eye could not mistake the richness and exquisite design
of her evening gown, which indicated that if this young woman shunned
society, she had nevertheless chosen an artist for her dressmaker.
The dinner was so excellent that Steele regretted he had mentioned
his negro cook. White-fish from the icy waters of Lake Superior is
unequalled by anything that swims, unless it be the brook-trout which
the northern streams that enter Lake Superior produce. Wild turkey of
the Michigan woods is world-renowned as the choicest of game.
Although Steele’s hostess drank nothing but cold spring water, an
ancient and renowned vintage sparkled at his right hand. It is little
wonder that Jack, healthily hungry, was brilliant that evening as
even he had never been before, and this poor, rich girl who listened,
delighted and amazed, began to wonder if, after all, she had not missed
a good deal in life by flouting smart society which she considered
frivolous.
After dinner, Constance Berrington put a shawl over her shoulders and
asked her guest if he would come outside and see the lake glittering
in the moonlight. On the verandah he found the unique arrangement of an
out-of-doors fireplace facing the platform, and in its depths roared a
hickory fire, which burns with a flame bright as electric light, and
leaves an ash white as flour. Two screens of sailcloth drawn like
curtains along the roof of the verandah partially fenced in this snug
spot, leaving it open only towards the lake. The pale yacht lay like a
liner’s ghost on the silver sea, bathed in the light of the moon, and
now and then the phantom ship gave forth melodious sounds as it
chimed the hours in nautical fashion, the peal sweetly mellowed by the
intervening water. John laughed in boyish glee to find himself in such a
Paradise.
“I never saw anything so beautiful,” he said; “nor have I ever known so
ambitious a fireplace, trying to warm all outdoors.”
Two rocking-chairs awaited them, and between these chairs stood a round
table, on which the silent servant placed coffee and liqueurs. The
hickory fire kindled a gleam of ineffable satisfaction in the young
man’s eyes when a box of prime cigars was placed before him.
“May I really smoke?” he asked, taking one between his fingers.
“I believe that is what they are for,” replied the girl, with a
smile, rocking gently to and fro. Then, when they were alone she said
seriously: “Mr. Steele, I want you to tell me the particulars of the
conspiracies you referred to, that proved so disastrous to you.”
“Dear princess,” he answered earnestly, “do you think I am going to
talk finance in the land of enchantment? Not likely. Do monetary centres
exist in the world? I don’t believe it. Are people struggling anywhere
to defeat one another? This silver silence denies it.”
“But the silence is not going to deny me,” she persisted. “I must know.
You said I was responsible.”
“I said such a thing? Never! That is a mistake in identity. You are
thinking of the barbarian whom you quite justly tried to ride down in
the forest. He said many stupid and false things, for which I refuse to
assume responsibility. Reluctantly I admit that that barbarian was my
ancestor, but a thousand years have passed since he lived, and I say the
race has improved.”
He blew a whiff of smoke into the still air and, watching it waft
upward, murmured softly:
“And yet those wretched comic papers say a woman cannot choose cigars.”
“I am glad they are good. It was not I who selected them, but Mr.
Nicholson.”
If some of the icy water of Lake Superior had unexpectedly dropped upon
him, he could not have appeared more startled than at the mention of
this name.
“Ye gods!” he whispered huskily, “I had forgotten that man existed! For
years he has never been out of my mind before.”
The girl’s eloquent eyes were fixed upon him.
“The smoke has disappeared into the blue,” she said, “but that name has
brought you to earth again. Now tell me what he did.”
“Miss Berrington,” he said solemnly, “you are no more responsible for
what Nicholson did, than I am for the actions of the savage who seized
your horse. Let me forget again that either the white Indian or the
savage ever lived.”
“No,” she persisted, “you must tell me.” And so he told her, sometimes
puffing at his cigar like a steam-engine, again almost allowing it to
go out. The narration was vivid, but possibly it might have been more
interesting if he had not substituted the father for the daughter in
the case of Miss Alice Fuller. When the recital was finished the girl
shivered a little; and seeing that he noticed it she said: “I think it
is getting cold, in spite of our fire. And now I shall bid you ‘Good
night.’ I must thank you for the most interesting day and evening I
ever spent in my life. Good night, and I hope you will not dream of Mr.
Nicholson.”
He rose and took the hand she offered, raising it, before she was aware,
to his lips.
“Princess,” he said, “I know of whom I shall dream.”
She laughed a little and was gone.
When the maid had girded round her the soft and trailing dressing-gown,
bidding her mistress “Good night,” Constance Berrington opened the
window, knelt down before it, placed her elbows on the low sill, with
her chin on her open palms, and remained thus gazing at the moonlit
lake. The ship of mist tolled the unheeded hours as on a silver chime.
At last, with a sigh that seemed to end in a sob, she murmured: “Oh, how
beautiful the world is, and yet I never appreciated it before!”
Then she closed her window.
The informative Fletcher told Steele that the breakfast hour was nine,
and the grandfather clock was striking as he entered the dining-room
next morning. The fragrance of the coffee-urn was stimulating to a
man from the keen outer air, and the girl who presided over it turned
towards him a smiling face, radiant as the dawn. Steele spread out his
arms.
“What do you think of this?” he cried, jovial as a lad with a holiday.
“This is the other suit.”
“Dear me!” replied Constance Berrington. “How came it here?”
“I was up this morning before five, donned my rags, tramped to my hut,
comforted my negro, who was nearly white with panic at my absence, put
on the other suit, and here I am.”
“Well, if you do not enjoy your breakfast after that, I shall admit my
cook inferior to your negro. Why didn’t you take one of the horses?”
“Never thought of it. I seemed to be walking in midair.”
“Then come down to earth, and buckwheat pancakes and maple syrup. Do you
prefer tea or coffee?”
“Oh, coffee, of course. The aroma excels all the perfumes of Araby.”
The breakfast was even more intimate and delightful than the dinner had
been. Daylight had not removed the glamour of the moon from the land of
enchantment. When the meal was finished, Constance Berrington rose and
said: “Before you go, I wish to show you my library.”
He followed her into this attractive room, its walls lined with books.
Here and there were cosy alcoves and recesses, with leather-covered
easy-chairs that might have graced a metropolitan club. A very solid
table of carved oak occupied the centre of the room, and beside this the
girl came to a stand, while he glanced around him in admiration.
“I never had much time for reading,” he said, “and I do envy you this
room. My own library is small, consisting mainly of books by friends of
mine who kindly presented me with some of their writings.”
“Then I wish you to accept a specimen of my works. My writings may not
be very literary, but they are concise and to the point.”
Here she placed a slip of paper before him, and glancing at it he saw
it was a cheque for ten millions. Then he looked up at her, a slow smile
coming to his lips, and shook his head.
“Princess, this is for the savage, not for me. The savage is dead.”
“You are his heir, remember.”
“No, we are too far removed from each other, the savage and I. Remember
the centuries between us, and less than ten years outlaws all claim.”
“You must accept it. It is mere transference, as you quite rightly
pointed out. It does not belong to me, but to you.”
The young woman spoke with tense eagerness, and the former frown came
into her brow before she had finished. He picked up the cheque.
“That’s right,” she said, with a sigh of relief; but the smile broadened
on his face as he slowly tore the signature from the cheque and placed
her autograph in his pocket-book.
“Give me the hope that this may prove my return ticket to Paradise, and
I am satisfied. Miss Berrington, you called me a coward yesterday, and
you spoke the truth. I was, but I hope I am one no longer. I am young
and reasonably ambitious. The world is before me. I shall begin where I
began half-a-dozen years ago. I do not need your money.”
“I shall write you another cheque--you must accept it.”
“You dare not.”
“Why?”
“Because I am your guest, and I forbid you. The rules of hospitality,
madam, extend even to the land of enchantment.”
“Is the guest so cruel, then”--there was a pathetic quaver in the
voice--“as to leave his hostess to brood over this weight of obligation?
Will he not thus, in the only possible way, lift that weight from her
shoulders?”
“No!” cried John, coming swiftly round the table to her, “I shall lift
her and the obligation together,” and, suiting the action to the word,
he picked her up as if she were a child and seated her on the table
before him. “I’ll not accept your cheque, but I ask you to accept me.”
For an instant her eyes blazed up as if lighted from within, then dulled
again. She did not in the least resent his boisterous action, but she
shook her head and said:
“I shall never marry a man who is not in love with me, and I am too
insignificant a woman for any man to love me for myself.”
“Insignificant! Magnificent is the word! Why, Constance Berrington, you
are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Your face makes every
other in the world insipid. I’m not going to try and persuade you that I
love you, because you know it. You knew it last night. You saw it in my
eyes, and I saw the knowledge in yours. Curse the money! I’ll make all
the money I need if I have you by my side. What is money, anyhow?
I’ve made it and lost it, and I can make it again and lose it again.
Constance, let us take that yacht, go to Duluth, and be married before a
magistrate for ten dollars, like a lumberman and his girl.”
She looked up at him and smiled, then down again, then up once more, and
he kissed her.
“Oh, don’t!” she cried. “There is some one coming!” A knock sounded at
the door, and Miss Berrington sprang down from the table.
“Your foot has touched the electric bell that is under the carpet,” she
whispered quickly, with a nervous laugh; then “Come in!” she cried, and
the servant entered.
Steele was turning the pages of a magazine; Constance Berrington stood
in the middle of the floor.
“Did you ring, miss?”
“Yes, tell the captain to get the yacht ready. I am going to Duluth.”
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Speculations of John Steele, by Robert Barr