A STRANGE VOYAGE
I
The _Wanderer_, carrying Sir Jules Achon and his party, lay in Ragusa
harbour when the fugitives came down from the hills. The two boats were
moored almost side by side in the offing, and hardly had Faber set foot
aboard when he sent a message to Gabrielle, begging her help in an
emergency. Half an hour later she met him at the head of the gangway
ladder, and he led her at once into the gorgeous saloon of the
_Savannah_, as his own boat was named.
"Is this the emergency?" she asked laughingly, as she pointed to the
wonderful decoration of the cabin. He told her as bluntly that it was
not.
"I've got a patient on board," he said. "Will you help me?"
"You know that I will--very gladly. Is he here now?"
"It's not he--it's she. That's why I sent for one of her own sex. God
help a foreign woman in this part of the world! This is a mere baby. She
calls me an 'old, old man.' So I guess she's interesting."
He betrayed no emotion of any kind. His anxiety concerning the child,
his perception of the irony of fate directing his footsteps into such
strange paths, the baser curiosity which had sent him into the hills,
were masked successfully by that clear-cut face. Gabrielle imagined that
his act was an impulse of charity, and she was pleased that he had made
her the instrument of it.
"Where is this precious derelict, and what has happened to her?"
"She's in the pink saloon. Don't speak of it lightly. She's lost her
father, and has not a friend in the world. I knew she would find her way
to your heart. Shall we go and see her? The doctor's there now, I guess.
We'll have to get our orders."
He led the way to the cabin, and they went in. It was a beautiful room,
and his servants already had smothered it in flowers. A young Austrian
doctor from Ragusa was trying to give the head stewardess his
instructions, and failing as dismally. He turned with relief to
Gabrielle, whose German was pretty if not eloquent. The cabin was to be
kept as quiet as possible; the patient must be watched zealously in case
of sudden collapse. He understood that this was a case of shock, and
could know nothing until consciousness returned. His suggestion that a
nurse should be fetched from one of the military hospitals was refused
almost ungraciously by the English girl he so plainly admired. Gabrielle
would play the part herself. She had already removed her furs, and was
busy about the cabin where artistic fingers could do so much. It was
quite needless for the doctor to repeat his instructions as he was
prepared to; she dismissed both him and her host with a wave of the hand
which said "begone" as no tongue could have uttered the word.
It was nine o'clock at night before Faber saw her again. His dinghy had
gone across to the _Wanderer_ with a message explaining the
circumstances, but he himself remained on deck, waiting for news that
might be a new echo of this pitiful tragedy. But a few days ago he had
entered that beautiful place and discovered the little nomad whose life
now hung upon a thread. He had wished to bring happiness to her father
and herself, but had failed beyond repair. Money did not help him in the
wilds of Albania, nor could money buy one jot or tittle of content for
the child of the man he had discovered in the cavern. Had not he himself
paid for the journey to Ranovica--a whim which cost the life of a man to
whom he owed his very existence? And now the child was his legacy. He
stood at the taffrail wondering what unnameable secret she had carried
down from the hills.
Perhaps he remembered the multitude of women who had so suffered since
God Almighty created a battlefield; but understanding had never come in
that way hitherto. Little Maryska--he would have given a good deal of
his lavish fortune to have saved her life that night. His heart bounded
when Gabrielle came out of the cabin at last to bring him better news of
the invalid.
"She is conscious and would see you. I think you had better go down."
"Do you approve my going?"
She looked at him in a curious way.
"She has asked for you, Mr. Faber."
"Why, then, I'll go right now. Have you eaten that dinner yet?"
"As much as I want. I must go now and get my things from the yacht."
"But you'll come back, sure?"
"I think I must--there's no one else."
"That's right down fine of you. I knew you'd do it when you understood."
She looked him full in the face and smiled.
"There are some things no woman can misunderstand. I shall not be very
long. Please let her talk as little as possible."
"Ah!" he said, fallen to a grave manner. "I fear this is a bad business
altogether."
She did not ask him why, nor had she any clue to his meaning. The whole
affair was a mystery which could have but a human solution. She made
light of the romantic story concerning Louis de Paleologue, and
believed, with a feminine instinct for the obvious, that vulgar
flirtation had been the impulse of Faber's journey. All this hurt her
pride, but could not be the just subject of complaint. Tenaciously she
clung to the idea that she might yet use this master intellect for the
schemes which had lifted her father and herself from the slough of
monotony to a little place in the story of the world. This very
accident, this revelation of a man's weakness, might be a precious
opportunity, however deeply her vanity suffered. If she succeeded, her
triumph must be the greater; if she failed----But failure was a word
which Gabrielle Silvester refused to add to her vocabulary.
So she went over to the _Wanderer_ to tell her father of the sick girl,
and to add, almost in a whisper, "I believe there's a good deal in it."
To which Silvester replied that he was sorry to hear it, "for," said he,
"there is no man alive who could do so great a work if he would come
over to us."
II
Faber went straight down to Maryska's cabin and found her crouching upon
a pillow. The long, jet black hair had been taken down, and lay in a
tangled skein about her; she was very pale, and her eyes glowed as with
a fever. Evidently she had been listening for his footsteps, for she
turned instantly when he came in and fixed her eyes upon him.
"It's Mr. Faber," she said, but without satisfaction.
He took a chair and drew it to her bedside.
"Well, Maryska, are you feeling better, my dear?"
She paid not the slightest heed to the question. Sitting up in bed, she
closed her gown about her chest and breathed a little heavily. Then she
said, without warning:
"Where is my father?"
He bent his head, fearing to meet her gaze.
"My dear little girl, you'll remember all about that presently."
There was a long pause upon this.
"Yes," she said at last, and still apparently unmoved; "I do remember.
Why did you let him die, Mr. Faber?"
"I, Maryska? I had nothing to do with it. If he had taken my advice he
would not have left the Pasha's side. I was quite a long way off when it
happened."
She insisted, looking at him with pathetic eyes.
"If you had not come to Ragusa, he would not have left me. I am sorry
you came. Shall I be kept here long?"
"Do you mean in this ship?"
"Yes, of course. Is it your ship, then?"
"It's my ship--at least, I've hired it. Don't you like it, my dear?"
She looked round about her critically.
"You are not very rich," she said at last. "We came from America in a
much larger ship than this. He was with me then."
Her eyes filled suddenly with tears, and she saw no longer either the
cabin or the man. Faber covered the outstretched hand, and stroked it
softly.
"My poor little girl! You must make your home with me now."
She shook her head.
"You are not rich; it would be different with you," she said; and then,
in just the childish tone she had used at the Cantina, she exclaimed, "I
don't believe you have much money."
He laughed, and reassured her.
"I've a great deal more than you or I will ever want, Maryska."
It was evident that the wolf-child was suspicious. The gipsy instincts
were awake.
"Will you give me some money if I want any?"
"I'll give you as much as you ask me for."
"Five crowns, say--would you give me five crowns?"
"Of course I would."
"Here and now?" and she held out her hand.
He was nonplussed for the moment, but he took a bank-note from his
pocket, and thrust it into her tiny fist.
"There, I guess there are fifty crowns and more there, Maryska. You
shall have another when you want it."
The hand closed upon the bank-note like a vise. None the less, her
thoughts were not wholly of the money.
"If my father had been here he would have been very glad of this. He
will never know now."
"I don't believe that. He'll know that you've become my little daughter,
Maryska. He'll understand that all right. My home's yours now. I want
you to understand that right here."
She shook her head, the long hair smoothed back from her forehead.
"He will never know. I cannot speak to him. I have tried so hard and he
does not hear me."
"Believe no such thing, my dear. He hears every word you say. He knows
that you will be happy with me."
She looked up inquiringly.
"With you, Mr. Faber? Why should I stay with you?"
"Because I mean to make a home for you."
"Will you make it upon this ship?"
"Why, you couldn't live always upon a ship."
She became practical.
"I would sooner live in Ragusa; but not in the Cantina, because he would
not be there with us. It is very cheap, and if you had the money we
could live very well upon a crown a day and the wine. I have had no wine
since I came away; the lady would not give me any. If you have any money
left and would send for some wine----" She looked up beseechingly, with
a look which reminded him of the little wild wolf who had run to the
wine-shop the night he discovered her father. He hardly knew how to
satisfy her.
"I'll send down anything the doctor orders for you. If he says wine----"
"Oh!" she cried, flown into a passion in an instant. "I could kill
you--I could kill you for that!" And without another word she turned her
face to the wall and still clutching her money tenaciously, she made it
plain that she had done with him.
"All right, Maryska," he said, rising, "you shall have the wine all
right. I don't care that for the doctors; I'll see to it myself."
She did not answer him, and lay so still that she might have been dead.
III
Gabrielle returned immediately after the interview was terminated, and
with her Harry Lassett, who by no means liked the circumstances of her
visit, and had come to verify them. She went at once to Maryska's cabin,
but Lassett remained on deck to sample the green cigars, and
incidentally to cross-question their owner. He talked upon a number of
subjects with the assurance of twenty-three years and the experience of
ten.
"I've heard a lot of things about you from Gabrielle. Of course, you
know I'm engaged to her."
Faber finished the operation of striking a match and then lighted his
cigar.
"Why, is that so? My congratulations. When is it to be?"
"Oh, I dunno; marriage is a considerable proposition. Besides, I'm going
out to Australia next winter--cricket, you know."
"Ah! you play ball, then? Is there much to it?"
Harry grinned.
"Nothing. I'm an amateur, you know--that is, if you know anything about
the game at all. We can't take any money for our services, so we have to
charge expenses. And jolly well we're worth it--some of us," he added
with conviction.
Faber nodded, as though he understood perfectly.
"I guess you deliver the goods. There's something of that sort in my
country, only we don't call 'em amateurs. Anyway, the name doesn't hurt.
You'll be married when you come back, I suppose?"
"Ah! there you _cherchez la femme_. Gabrielle isn't struck with
marriage--not very much. She's full of this tomfool business about peace
on earth and goodwill toward Wilhelm. It makes me sick to listen to it.
The yacht loaded up with cranks, and every one of them trying to get
something out of Sir Jules. It's almost as good a game as Throgmorton
Street, if you can find the mugs, chiefly those with handles. I tell
you, I'm just fed up with it."
"You don't get thin on it, sure. How long does Sir Jules propose to stop
here? Has he said that?"
"He'll stop on the off chance of another interview with the Emperor on
his return from Corfu."
"The first one wasn't satisfactory, then?"
"Oh, lots of pats on the back and that sort of thing--plenty of butter,
but not much bread. By the way, do you think there's anything in the
business, or is it just fancy?"
"I think there's a great deal. Sir Jules Achon is about the deepest
thinker in this line I've yet struck. But he wants a man with him--he
wants a hustler. Europe listens when you beat the drum, but it's got to
be a mighty big drum nowadays. He's merely playing with fiddle-sticks."
"That's because his drummer is on the sick list. I hear he's a regular
roarer--Rupert Trevelle, who hustled Balfour into the Blue Ensign Club.
He was to have been here, but he's down with neuritis or something. They
say that's why we're all drifting about the Adriatic doing nothing but
patting each other's back. It will be different when Trevelle gets
going."
"Then set him going right quick. Does Miss Silvester take to it kindly?
Is she dead earnest?"
"That's just what I want to know. I'll tell you what, though--she won't
be when she's married to me. No peace at any price in my house, I'm
d----d if there is."
"Don't believe in it, eh?"
"Does any good Britisher really believe in it? Wars made us what we are.
Would Nelson have gone to a law court? And what price would Drake
receive in a county court action for singeing the Spanish King's beard?
I tell you it's all d----d nonsense, and some of 'em must know it to be
so. When I am married to Gabrielle----But here she comes, my boy, so
mum's the word. There's time enough for arguments--eh, what?"
Faber smiled and stood up to get another chair. Gabrielle was very
serious, and looked gracious in her perplexity. She had a strange tale
to tell of her patient, and recited it in a kind of astonished despair
which amused her host very much.
"Do you know," she exclaimed, "the child drinks wine like an alderman.
Whatever am I to do?"
"What?" cried Harry. "You're rotting, Gabrielle, you're not serious."
"It's true, every word of it. She says that she is doing it by your
orders, Mr. Faber. Is it really so?"
"How much has she taken? I sent a bottle down. It's only the light stuff
they drink hereabouts. You can hardly call it wine."
"She has drunk the whole bottle. I was never more astonished in my
life."
"We shall have to humour her a bit. Of course, it must be stopped. And
that reminds me--I want a home for her in England. Will you and your
father give her one?"
"She'll do for the 'horrid' example at your temperance meetings,
Gabrielle. Better take her."
"I think," said Gabrielle, "you had better see my father. You know that
he is undecided about this call to Yonkers."
"He won't be undecided about it when I've had my say. Is the patient all
right now? Do you think well of her?"
"I think she is terribly distressed, and is hiding it from all of us."
"A brave little girl! I guessed as much. We must get her away from this
place as soon as possible. When does Sir Jules propose to sail?"
"Not until the Emperor leaves Corfu. He said so at lunch."
"He'll weigh before then; the Emperor doesn't mean to see him a second
time. Anyway, you won't leave her, Miss Silvester, I go pat on that."
She averted her eyes from both of them, and looked away to the other
yacht.
"I don't think I ought to leave her. The better way will be for you to
see my father. She's sleeping now. We might go over to the _Wanderer_ at
once, if you liked----"
"And make it an excuse for a jolly little supper on deck," said Harry
voraciously. He had done little but eat and sleep since they left
London.
IV
Gordon Silvester was as astonished as Gabrielle by the proposition which
Faber made to him, but he listened sympathetically none the less.
"This would mean a definite refusal to Yonkers," he said, and Faber
agreed that it was so.
"I'll tell you what, Mr. Silvester. This affair has cut pretty deep down
into some of my old-fashioned notions, and is costing me more than I
care to tell any man. I came across to Europe to pay a debt I owed to
one who was my mother's friend. I meant to reward him pretty liberally.
And what have I succeeded in doing after all? You know the story.
Paleologue lies dead up at Ranovica--the child's on my yacht to judge me
for what I've done. Henceforth, she is going to stand to me as my own
daughter. I shall spare no expense to educate and train her. She'll have
the best that money can buy; all that gives a woman a chance in the
world. If you will, you and your daughter shall be my agents in this.
Live where you please, take the best house the agents can find for you,
spend all the money you can spend on making her what I would wish her to
be. You say the pastorate has tired you out, and that you would like to
devote yourself to literature. Here's the chance of your life time!
Don't tell me that you will let it go begging."
Silvester knocked out the ashes of his pipe with some deliberation. He
was very much excited by the offer, but at some pains to conceal his
surprise at it. Many schemes ran through his head--alas! none of them
had to do with Maryska de Paleologue.
"Of course," he said, "I could devote myself entirely then to the I.A.L.
It would be a great opportunity. I can imagine no finer."
"There is one finer, Mr. Silvester."
"Of what are you thinking?"
"Of a woman's soul--just the heart and the soul of a little waif from
the hills. She's a finer opportunity, for she's flesh and blood. Your
geese are all swans, Mr. Silvester. You'll know as much when they fly."
"I fear you are as hostile to us as ever. Yet it seems to me--I say it
with all reserve--that these days should have done something for us."
Faber thrust his hand deep into his pocket, and bit into his cigar.
"They've taught me nothing, except to say 'kismet.' Who knows truly how
a man's destiny works? I shall make Maryska de Paleologue one of the
richest women in Europe--well, there I come in. Money's stronger than
most things, and it's going to be stronger than a man's death on this
occasion. Wait until the story is written, then we'll draw the moral."
"Do you wish me to go to England at once?"
"To-morrow, in my yacht, if you can. I go to Berlin to sign up a
contract for rifles, but I expect to be in London in a fortnight's time.
You should have your house then. There'll be no difficulty when you show
them the money. I leave all that to you and to Miss Gabrielle. She's got
to be the good angel in this affair. I'm counting on her right through."
"You may well do that. She is a wonderful organizer; no talk, no fuss. I
am sure they would have liked her in America if we had gone to Yonkers.
As it is, I really don't know what to say to those people."
"Oh, tell them to go to hell!" said Faber, while he struck a match
sharply and relighted his cigar.
V
The _Savannah_ weighed at dawn, and all that day they steamed by the
glorious isles of the matchless Adriatic. Their destination was Venice,
whence Faber would go via Munich to Berlin. The others were to travel
direct by the Simplon to London--all but Harry Lassett, who meant to put
in a few days at Montana before he returned.
They carried a young doctor from Ragusa, but he soon discovered that he
had little to do save to take a fee, a performance which he accomplished
with truly professional grace. Maryska had a heart of iron, it appeared,
and a constitution to match it. Whatever the unnameable night had taught
her of life or of men, she held the damnable secret with the tenacity of
a race born to such acts and schooled in the creeds of ferocity. Very
silent, suspicious of all, agitated and given to fits of trembling when
alone, those with her could not read that riddle of a child's dreams
aright. To Gabrielle she remained an enigma, seemingly wanting in
gratitude and anxious to escape every occasion for it. Gordon Silvester
she treated as though he did not exist; Harry Lassett was a problem in
manhood to awake distrust and find her eyes furtive. John Faber she
trusted wholly.
They had allowed her to come on deck during the heat of the day, and she
lay there in a hammock swung between hatches. An untamed restlessness
found her starting at every sound. She would sit up and watch the
passers-by as though afraid of them; or stare at the crew with deeply
black eyes, as though seeking a friend among them. Her requests that
Faber should be sent to her were unceasing. In his turn, he liked to
hear her talk. He would watch those eloquent eyes, and forget that she
had called him "an old, old man" in the early days of their
acquaintance.
"Will you come and sit beside me, Mr. Faber, just a little while? I do
not want the others to come. I will not have them near me."
"But, Maryska, my dear, they just want to be kind to you, that's all.
Don't you like Miss Gabrielle, now?"
She thought about it. Then she said: "Is she your wife, Mr. Faber?"
"My!--what an idea! I haven't got a wife. She's engaged to the young man
over there."
"Not the one with the wolf's whiskers and the teeth."
"Of course not; he's her father. The other one who's playing with the
quoits."
She watched Harry Lassett a little while; her face became grave.
"_He_ used to play that when last he came from America. He played with
me, and then I won money for him from the others. We can't do that here;
is that right, Mr. Faber?"
He laughed and took her hand.
"Let me tell you about this money, Maryska. Do you know I'm very rich,
my dear? They call me one of the richest men in the world. You mustn't
think about money any more. I've got more than you and I will ever spend
if we live to be as old as Methuselah. So just change the subject,
little lady, and find another."
She made nothing of it, the years of the human chase pursued her. Was
she not alone now? _He_ could never help her again, and he had been so
great a part of her life.
"What is the good of telling me this? It is not my money, Mr. Faber. I
must go and get some for myself when the ship stops. You had no right to
take me away from Ragusa--my home was there. Why have you done it?"
He tried to tell her, but it was very difficult. In some moods she was
little better than a waif of the streets, who had learned to beg like a
mendicant at a church door; in others her birthright gave her a
wonderful dignity before which the plebeian in John Faber was dumb.
"I want you to have a new home, Maryska, one that you'll be glad to call
your own. That's why I'm taking you to England. Miss Gabrielle there is
going to live with you and so's her father. But it will be your own
house and everything that's in it yours. You'll like it, sure, when you
see it, my dear. I don't think you'll want to go back to Ragusa again."
She listened pensively.
"Will that boy be there?"
"The one who's playing games?"
"Yes, the boy who laughs."
"Oh, I dare say he'll come sometimes. Do you like him, then?"
"I don't know; he is very young, is he not?"
"I haven't asked his age, but I dare say he'll tell you."
"I should not ask him. Men do not like to tell their age. He never
would. Why are you paying for this house you speak of? You have no right
to pay for anything for me. You know that very well."
The question gave him his opportunity, and he told her as much of the
story as she could comprehend. Her father had been the best friend he
had ever known. He had taken his mother to America at the crisis of her
fortunes. It was an obligation he could never forget. He had meant to do
so much in return, but fate was against them both. They must act
together henceforth and make the best of their lives they could. She
must help him to honour his mother's name. In her turn Maryska replied
but vaguely. He had thought that she was not listening, but when he had
finished, and following a little interval of silence, she threw herself
back upon her cushions and cried wildly, "Jesus Christ! I never had a
mother to honour." And that surely was as lamentable a confession as any
he had heard from her lips.
VI
They were off Venice upon the following night, and so favoured by
fortune that the waxing moon gave them a vista of the hundred isles,
beautiful beyond compare.
A still sea hardly stirred a ripple upon the sandy shores of the Lido.
Venice herself stood up in a haze of soft light, her spires and domes
rising above the vast lagoon of untroubled waters, dim, mysterious,
entrancing. Seen from afar, she might have been a great house of dreams;
her windows so many stars above a silent lake; her palaces but the dark
clouds of a vision. As phantoms about them, ships drifted upon a
reluctant tide; sails took shape and glided away, spectres of an
instant, into the deeper shadows. There were musical voices crying out
of the darkness; notes of song most pleasing; the dwelling
reverberations of ancient bells to tell of hours which should have been
unnumbered. As they drew nearer still and the Dogana took shape with the
vast dome of the Maria della Salute beyond it, then it was as though the
centuries spoke with one voice, and all the lustre and the achievement
of a thousand years were revealed in a splendid instant. So is it ever
for those who approach Venice from the sea and obliterate the black
modernity which wrestles with her story. Such is the vision of her which
Turner beheld.
Faber watched the spectacle from the boat deck, and was far from
displeased to find Gabrielle at his side. There had been few
opportunities for confidential talk since they sailed from Ragusa, and
she herself had said no word to lead him to believe that the course of
her life was about to be changed. Very stately in mien this night, her
height accentuated by the place where she stood, her hair a little wild
beneath her wrap, eyes very bright and searching, her manner restful, he
wondered whence came the "aristocrat" in her lineage, and how a mere
manse had sent forth such a missioner. Let the assembly be what it
might, Gabrielle Silvester would take a proud place. Intellectually she
was far above him in education and artistic perception, but he suffered
a sense of inferiority with patience, and admired her the more because
she could awaken it. Bertie Morris had said that she was "cold and
Saxon." Faber doubted the truth of that.
They discussed many things in an ordinary way. She spoke of the story of
Venice and found him skilfully parrying his own ignorance. He knew
little of the history of the place--had heard of St. Mark's and of the
"Three." The lion's mouth struck him as a fine idea. There ought to be
one in every city for cranks and faddists, he said, and a special box
for politicians and newspaper men. When she asked him if the vision of
the city suggested nothing more, he thrust his hands into his pockets
and said that it reminded him of New York Bay.
"Which is to say that all this talk of fine buildings is so much flute
blowing. I guess our people wouldn't give New York second best if they
spoke the whole truth. You'll never admit as much yourself just because
you're full of Eastern prejudices. That's to be expected. A thing which
has stood a thousand years has got the moss of the world's approval
pretty thick upon it. I take off my hat to Venice, but I'm thinking of
New York all the time."
"Of the temples of a mighty industry? Isn't that in the advertisement
line? I don't think you can be quite serious, though. It must mean more
to you than that."
"Why should it mean more to me. I guess it's brick and marble anyway,
and not so very much better because it's old. What we are seeing
to-night comes out of heaven--light and atmosphere and the sea for a
setting. I could show you a night in New York Bay which is up to
anything hereabouts. Why should I spread myself when conviction isn't
there? Yonder's a beautiful city--is it worse because there are others?"
Convention bade her smile, but she would yet try to teach him.
"You have no true inspiration," she said; "there will never be another
great building in the world until we find the key to the old. If a man's
faith could move mountains, he might build such a city as that. But the
faith must be there, I am sure of that."
"Meanwhile the world gets along very well on stucco fronts. No one
believes very much in anything but money. You yourself are but half
convinced, and you want to make a convert of me. Now, isn't that the
truth, Miss Gabrielle?"
She was very angry with him.
"You rich men have no ideals. You discredit the ideals of others. If I
had your money, I would build such a temple to peace as would compel the
world to come in. Oh! think what one might do, the name one might leave,
the homes one might save. It is money that hides all this from you,
money that hides even the purpose of life itself. You grub in the
valleys when imagination should lead you to the hill-top. Your eyes look
downwards--how shall anyone teach you to see?"
He smoked on patiently. Presently, he said:
"There's something in the Bible about the blind leading the blind. I'll
tell you what. You are trying to convince yourself about this peace
nonsense, and in the end you may succeed. When you do, I'll build your
temple for you; it's a promise between us, and shall be kept. The
heretic building the church for the faithful; I like the idea of that,
don't you?"
"You will never build it," she said. "I have come to know that now. You
have not the imagination to build; nothing teaches you in spirit."
And then she exclaimed with very real conviction:
"You are a man without pity for humanity--all your story is told in
that."
He accepted the savage assault with a smile that was unchanging. Candour
in women pleased him; as his wife, this woman would carry him far upon
an unfamiliar road his ambition had often sought. In the vulgar phrase,
she would bring culture.
"I may be without pity for humanity," he said, "but humanity's had a
good many dollars out of my pocket. Do you know how much humanity I
employ at Charleston, I wonder? Well, all told, I dare say there are
some nine thousand hands, all eating and drinking at the expense of the
man whom nothing touches in spirit. When I'm dead, maybe I'll write as
good an epitaph as your friends who blow other people's trumpets and
give their money for the archangels who don't exist. Anyway, I'll let
the record stand, and as to this temple of yours, I'll build it all
right, and you shall have it as a wedding present. Can I say fairer than
that?"
She looked up quickly, her face flushed.
"Why do you speak of a wedding present?"
"Because I must make haste to do what I ought to have done long ago, and
congratulate you--of course, I did not know."
She laughed rather hardly. Very wonderful castles were falling all about
her, and a woman's chagrin did not help her.
"We were both very ignorant," she said helplessly.
He watched her closely. "A very old friend, Mr. Lassett, isn't he?"
"I have known him all my life."
"Ah, that is the sure way of knowing him better. Did I hear he was a
cricketer? I thought he said something of the kind."
"He is one of the greatest cricketers England has had. Anything else?"
"Why, no; well, I congratulate you. You'll be married, I suppose, before
we meet again."
She was surprised at this.
"Are you not coming to see Maryska?"
"When she asks for me, yes; but I know the sex. She'll have forgotten my
name in a month's time; it is the privilege of women."
"And in that case----"
"Oh," he said, "I shall be in America building my temple. It's steel
mostly, and butters a good deal of humanity's bread."
She was very much perplexed.
"Maryska will never like that. I am sure she will be very unhappy
without you."
"I don't agree," he said, and bade her listen.
The sound of young voices came up to them from the cabin. Harry Lassett
was talking to Maryska, and when she answered him, there was a little
ripple of girlish laughter, which seemed to say that she had found a
friend.
"I don't agree," Faber repeated, and then with some sternness, he added:
"Mr. Lassett is teaching her cricket, I suppose. Well, that's a game I'd
rather she didn't learn!"