I AM FORCED INTO BEING A HERO
My humblest apologies, dear reader, if I have led you to suspect that
I want to be looked upon as a hero. Far from patting myself on the
back or holding my chin a little higher because of the set-to in my
baronial halls, I confess to a feeling of shame. In my study, where
the efficient Blatchford put arnica and bandages on my swollen knuckles,
I solemnly declared in the presence of those who attended the
clinic--(my entire establishment was there to see that I had the proper
attention and to tell me how happy they were that it wasn't any
worse)--I say, I declared to all of them that I was an unmitigated
fool and undeserving of the slightest mead of praise.
They insisted upon making a hero of me, and might have succeeded, had
not the incomparable Britton made the discovery that the Count's
revolver was not loaded! Still, they vociferated, I could not have
known that at the time of the encounter, nor was it at all likely that
the Count knew it himself.
I confess to an inward and shameless glory, however, in the realisation
that I had been able to punch the head of the man who had lived with
and abused that lovely creature upstairs. He had struck her on more
than one occasion, I had it from her own lips. Far worse than that,
he had kissed her! But of course I had not knocked him down for that.
I did it because it was simpler than being knocked down myself.
The worst feature of the whole unhappy business was the effect it was
likely to have upon my commonly pacific nature. Heretofore I had avoided
physical encounters, not because I was afraid of the result, but because
I hate brutal, unscientific manifestations of strength. Now, to my
surprise, I found that it was a ridiculously easy matter to knock a
man down and end the squabble in short order, thereby escaping a great
deal in the shape of disgusting recriminations, and coming off
victorious with nothing more vital in the way of wounds than a couple
of bruised knuckles. (No doubt, with practice, one could even avoid
having his knuckles barked.)
Was it not probable, therefore, that my habitual tendency to turn away
wrath with a soft answer might suffer a more or less sanguinary shock?
Now that I had found out how simple it was, would I not be satisfied
to let my good right hand settle disputes for me--with uniform
certainty and despatch? Heaven is my witness that I have no desire to
be regarded as a bruiser. I hope that it may never fall to my lot to
again knock a man down. But if it should be necessary, I also wish to
record the hope that the man may be a husband who has mistreated his
wife.
In the course of Blatchford's ministrations I was regaled with eloquent
descriptions of the manner in which my late adversary took his departure
from the castle. He went forth vowing vengeance, calling down upon my
head all the maledictions he could lay his tongue to, and darkly
threatening to have me driven out of the country. I was not to expect
a call from his seconds. He would not submit his friends to the
indignities they were sure to encounter at the hands of a barbarian
of my type. But, just the same, I would hear from him. I would regret
the day, etc., etc.
I had forgotten Mr. Bangs, the lawyer. Sitting alone in my study, late
in the afternoon, smoking a solitary pipe of peace, I remembered him:
the man with the top button off. What had become of him? His presence
(or, more accurately, his absence) suddenly loomed up before me as the
forerunner of an unwelcome invasion of my preserves. He was, no doubt,
a sort of advance agent for the Titus family and its immediate
ramifications.
Just as I was on the point of starting out to make inquiries concerning
him, there came to my ears the sound of tapping on the back of Red
Ludwig's portrait. Not until then did it occur to me that I had been
waiting for two hours for that simple manifestation of interest and
curiosity from the regions above.
I rushed over and rapped resoundingly upon Ludwig's pudgy knee. The
next instant there was a click and then the secret door swung open,
revealing the eager, concerned face of my neighbour.
"What has happened?" she cried.
I lifted her out of the frame. Her gaze fell upon the bandaged fist.
"Mr. Bangs spoke of a pistol. Don't tell me that he--he shot you!"
I held up my swollen hand rather proudly. It smelled vilely of arnica.
"This wound was self-inflicted, my dear Countess," I said, thrilled
by her expression of concern. "I had the exquisite pleasure--and
pain--of knocking your former husband down."
"Oh, splendid!" she cried, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "Mr.
Bangs was rather hazy about it, and he would not let me risk
telephoning. You knocked Maris down?"
"Emphatically," said I.
She mused. "I think it is the first time it has ever happened to him.
How--how did he like it?"
"It appeared to prostrate him."
She smiled understandingly. "I am glad you did it, Mr. Smart."
"If I remember correctly, you once said that he had struck you,
Countess."
Her face flushed. "Yes. On three separate occasions he struck me in
the face with his open hand. I--I testified to that effect at the
trial. Every one seemed to look upon it as a joke. He swore that they
were--were love pats."
"I hope his lack of discrimination will not lead him to believe that
I was delivering a love pat," said I, grimly.
"Now, tell me everything that happened," she said, seating herself in
my big armchair. Her feet failed to touch the floor. She was wearing
the little tan pumps.
When I came to that part of the story where I accused Tarnowsy of
duplicity in connection with the frescoes, she betrayed intense
excitement.
"Of course it was all a bluff on my part," I explained.
"But you were nearer the truth than you thought," she said, compressing
her lips. After a moment she went on: "Count Hohendahl sold the
originals over three years ago. I was here with Maris at the time of
the transaction and when the paintings were removed. Maris acted as
an intermediary in the deal. Hohendahl received two hundred thousand
dollars for the paintings, but they were worth it. I have reason to
believe that Maris had a fourth of the amount for his commission. So,
you see, you were right in your surmise."
"The infernal rascal! Where are the originals, Countess?"
"They are in my father's villa at Newport," she said. "I intended
speaking of this to you before, but I was afraid your pride would be
hurt. Of course, I should have spoken if it came to the point where
you really considered having those forgeries restored."
"Your father bought them?"
"Yes. While we were spending our honeymoon here in Schloss Rothhoefen,
Mr. Smart," she said. Her face was very pale.
I could see that the dark associations filled her mind, and abruptly
finished my tale without further reference to the paintings.
"He will challenge you," she said nervously. "I am so sorry to have
placed you in this dreadful position, Mr. Smart. I shall never forgive
myself for--"
"You are in no way concerned in what happened to-day," I interrupted.
"It was a purely personal affair. Moreover, he will not challenge me."
"He has fought three duels," she said. "He is not a physical coward."
Her dark eyes were full of dread.
I hesitated. "Would you be vitally interested in the outcome of such
an affair?" I asked. My voice was strangely husky.
"Oh, how can you ask?"
"I mean, on Rosemary's account," I stammered. "He--he is her father,
you see. It would mean--"
"I was not thinking of the danger to him, Mr. Smart," she said simply.
"But can't you see how dreadful it would be if I were to kill Rosemary's
father?" I cried, completely forgetting myself. "Can't you see?"
A slow flush mounted to her brow. "That is precisely what I was
thinking, Mr. Smart. It would be--unspeakably dreadful."
I stood over her. My heart was pounding heavily. She must have seen
the peril that lay in my eyes, for she suddenly slipped out of the
chair and faced me, the flush dying in her cheek, leaving it as pale
as ivory.
"You must not say anything more, Mr. Smart," she said gently.
A bitter smile came to my lips, and I drew back with a sickening sense
of realisation. There _was_ nothing more to be said. But I now
thoroughly understood one thing: I was in love with her!...
I am something of a philosopher. I submit that my attitude at the time
of my defeat at the hands of the jeweller's clerk proves the point
conclusively. If I failed at that time to inspire feelings of love in
the breast of a giddy stenographer, what right had I to expect anything
better from the beautiful Countess Tarnowsy, whose aspirations left
nothing to the imagination? While she was prone to chat without visible
restraint at this significantly trying moment, I, being a philosopher,
remained silent and thoughtful. Quite before I knew it, I was myself
again: a steady, self-reliant person who could make the best of a
situation, who could take his medicine like a man. Luckily, the medicine
was not so bitter as it might have been if I had made a vulgar,
impassioned display of my emotions. Thank heaven, I had _that_ to be
thankful for.
She was speaking of the buttonless lawyer, Mr. Bangs. "He is waiting
to see you this evening, Mr. Smart, to discuss ways and means of getting
my mother and brothers into the castle without discovery by the spies
who are undoubtedly watching their every move."
I drew in another long, deep breath. "It seems to me that the thing
cannot be done. The risk is tremendous. Why not head her off?"
"Head her off? You do not know my mother, Mr. Smart. She has made up
her mind that her place is here with me, and there isn't anything in
the world that can--head her off, as you say."
"But surely _you_ see the danger?"
"I do. I have tried to stop her. Mr. Bangs has tried to stop her. So
has father. But she is coming. We must arrange something."
I was pacing the floor in front of her. She had resumed her place in
the chair.
"My deepest regret, Countess, lies in the fact that our little visits
will be--well, at an end. Our delightful little suppers and--"
"Oh, but think of the comfort it will be to you, not having me on your
mind all of the time. I shall not be lonesome, I shall not be afraid,
I shall not be forever annoying you with selfish demands upon your
good nature. You will have time to write without interruption. It will
be for the best."
"No," said I, positively. "They were jolly parties, and I shall miss
them."
She looked away quickly. "And, if all goes well, I shall soon be safely
on my way to America. Then you will be rid of me completely."
I was startled. "You mean that there is a plan afoot to--to smuggle
you out of the country?"
"Yes. And I fear I shall have to trouble you again when it comes to
that. You must help me, Mr. Smart."
I nodded slowly. Help her to get away? I hadn't thought of that lately.
The prospect left me rather cold and sick.
"I'll do all that I can, Countess."
She smiled faintly, but I was certain that I detected a challenge,--a
rather unkind challenge,--in her eyes. "You will come to see me in New
York, of course."
I shook my head. "I am afraid we are counting our chickens before
they're hatched. One or the other of us may be in jail for the next
few years."
"Heavens!"
"But I'll come to see you in New York, if you'll let me," I cried,
trying to repair the damage I had done. "I was jesting when I spoke
of jail."
Her brow was puckered in thought. "It has just occurred to me, my dear
friend, that even if I do get safely away, you will be left here to
face the consequences. When it becomes known that you sheltered me,
the authorities may make it extremely uncomfortable for you."
"I'm not worrying about that."
"Just the same, it is something to worry about," she said, seriously.
"Now, here is what I have had in mind for a long, long time. Why don't
you come with me when I leave? That will be the safest plan."
"You are not in earnest!"
"Assuredly. The plan is something like this: I am to be taken by slow
stages, overland, to a small Mediterranean port. One of a half-dozen
American yachts now cruising the sea will be ready to pick me up.
Doesn't it seem simple?"
"It seems simple enough," said I. "But there are a lot of 'ifs' between
here and the little port you hope to reach. It will not be an easy
matter to manage the successful flight of a party as large as yours
will be."
"Oh," she cried, "I shall be quite alone, except for Rosemary and
Blake,--and Mr. Bangs."
"But your mother? You can't leave her here."
"You will have to smuggle her out of the castle a day or two in advance.
It is all thought out, Mr. Smart."
"By Jove!" I exclaimed, with more irascibility than I intended to show.
"If I succeed in doing all that is expected of me, I certainly will
be entitled to more than an invitation to come and see you in New
York."
She arose and laid her fingers upon my bandaged hand. The reckless
light had died out of her eyes.
"I have thought that out, too, Mr. Smart," she said, quietly. "And
now, good-bye. You will come up to see Mr. Bangs to-night?"
Considerably mystified by her remark, I said I would come, and then
assisted her through the opening in the wall. She smiled back at me
as the portrait swung into place.
What did she mean? Was it possible that she meant to have old man Titus
reward me in a pecuniary way? The very thought of such a thing caused
me to double up my fist--my recently discovered fist!--and to swear
softly under my breath. After a few moments I was conscious of a fierce
pain in the back of my hand.
* * * * * *
Bangs was a shrewd little Englishman. As I shook hands with him--using
my left hand with a superfluous apology--I glanced at the top of his
waistcoat. There was no button missing.
"The Countess sewed it on for me," he said drily, reading my thoughts.
I stayed late with them, discussing plans. He had strongly advised
against any attempt on Mrs. Titus's part to enter her daughter's
hiding-place, but had been overruled. I conceived the notion, too,
that he was a very strong-minded man. What then must have been the
strength of Mrs. Titus's resolution to overcome the objections he put
in her way?
He, too, had thought it all out. Everybody seems to have thought
everything out with a single exception,--myself. His plan was not a
bad one. Mrs. Titus and her sons were to enter the castle under cover
of night, and I was to meet them in an automobile at a town some fifteen
kilometers away, where they would leave the train while their watchers
were asleep, and bring them overland to Schloss Rothhoefen. They would
be accompanied by a single lady's maid and no luggage. A chartered
motor boat would meet us up the river a few miles, and--well, it looked
very simple! All that was required of me was a willingness to address
her as "Mother" and her sons as "brothers" in case there were any
questions asked.
This was Tuesday. They were coming on Thursday, and the train reached
the station mentioned at half-past twelve at night. So you will see
it was a jolly arrangement.
I put Mr. Bangs up in my best guest-chamber, and, be it said to my
credit, the Countess did not have to suggest it to me. As we said good
night to her on the little landing at the top of the stairs, she took
my bandaged paw between her two little hands and said:
"You will soon be rid of me forever, Mr. Smart. Will you bear with me
patiently for a little while longer?" There was a plaintive, appealing
note in her voice. She seemed strangely subdued.
"I can bear with you much easier than I can bear the thought of being
rid of you," I said in a very low voice. She pressed my clumsy hand
fiercely, and I felt no pain.
"You have been too good to me," she said in a very small voice. "Some
day, when I am out of all this trouble, I may be able to tell you how
much I appreciate all you have done for me."
An almost irresistible--I was about to say ungovernable--impulse to
seize her in my arms came over me, but I conquered it and rushed after
Mr. Bangs, as blind as a bat and reeling for a dozen steps or more.
It was a most extraordinary feeling.
I found myself wondering if passion had that effect on all men. If
this was an illustration of what a real passionate love could do to
a sensible, level-headed person, then what, in heaven's name, was the
emotion I had characterised as love during my placid courtship of the
faintly remembered typewriter? There had been no such blinding,
staggering sensation as this. No thoughts of physical contact with my
former inamorata had left me weak and trembling and dazed as I was at
this historic moment.
Bangs was chattering in his glib English fashion as we descended to
my study, but I did not hear half that he said. He looked surprised
at two or three of the answers I made to his questions, and I am sure
there were several of them that I didn't respond to at all. He must
have thought me an unmannerly person.
One remark of his brought me rather sharply to my senses. I seemed
capable of grasping its awful significance when all the others had
gone by without notice.
"If all goes well," he was saying, "she should be safely away from
here on the fourteenth. That leaves less than ten days more, sir, under
your hospitable roof."
"Less than ten days," I repeated. This was the fifth of the month. "If
all goes well. Less than ten days."
Again I passed a sleepless night. A feeling of the utmost loneliness
and desolation grew up within me. Less than ten days! And then she
would be "safely away" from me. She and Rosemary! There was a single
ray of brightness in the gloom that shrouded my thoughts: she had urged
me to fly away with her. She did not want to leave me behind to face
the perils after she was safely out of them. God bless her for thinking
of that!
But of course what little common sense and judgment I had left within
me told me that such a course was entirely out of the question. I could
not go away with her. I could do no more than to see her safely on her
way to the queer little port on the east coast of Italy. Then I should
return to my bleak, joyless castle,--to my sepulchre,--and suffer all
the torments of the damned for days and weeks until word came that she
was actually safe on the other side of the Atlantic.
What courage, what pluck she had! Criminal? No, a thousand times, no!
She was claiming her own, her dearest own. The devil must have been
in the people who set themselves up as judges to condemn her for
fighting so bravely for that which God had given her. Curse them all!
... I fear that my thoughts became more and more maudlin as the
interminable night went on.
Always they came back to the sickening realisation that I was to lose
her in ten days, and that my castle would be like a tomb.
Of course the Hazzards and the Billy Smiths were possible panaceas,
but what could they bring to ease the pangs of a secret nostalgia?
Nothing but their own blissful contentment, their own happiness to
make my loneliness seem all the more horrible by contrast. Would it
not be better for me to face it alone? Would it not be better to live
the life of a hermit?
She came to visit me at twelve o'clock the next day. I was alone in
the study. Poopendyke was showing Mr. Bangs over the castle.
She was dressed in a gown of some soft grey material, and there was
a bunch of violets at her girdle.
"I came to dress your hand for you," she said as I helped her down
from Red Ludwig's frame.
Now I have neglected to mention that the back of my hand was swollen
to enormous proportions, an unlovely thing.
"Thank you," I said, shaking my head; "but it is quite all right.
Britton attended to it this morning. It is good of you to think about
it, Countess. It isn't--"
"I thought about it all night," she said, and I could believe her after
the light from the windows had fallen upon her face. There were dark
circles under her eyes and she was quite pale. Her eyes seemed
abnormally large and brilliant. "I am so sorry not to be able to do
one little thing for you. Will you not let me dress it after this?"
I coloured. "Really, it--it is a most trifling bruise," I explained,
"just a little black and blue, that's all. Pray do not think of it
again."
"You will never let me do anything for you," she said. Her eyes were
velvety. "It isn't fair. I have exacted so much from you, and--"
"And I have been most brutal and unfeeling in many of the things I
have said to you," said I, despairingly. "I am ashamed of the nasty
wounds I have given you. My state of repentance allows you to exact
whatsoever you will of me, and, when all is said and done, I shall
still be your debtor. Can you--will you pardon the coarse opinions of
a conceited ass? I assure you I am not the man I was when you first
encountered me."
She smiled. "For that matter, I am not the same woman I was, Mr. Smart.
You have taught me three things, one of which I may mention: the
subjection of self. That, with the other two, has made a new Aline
Titus of me. I hope you may be pleased with the--transfiguration."
"I wish you were Aline Titus," I said, struck by the idea.
"You may at least be sure that I shall not remain the Countess Tarnowsy
long, Mr. Smart," she said, with a very puzzling expression in her
eyes.
My heart sank. "But I remember hearing you say not so very long ago
that you would never marry again," I railed.
She regarded me rather oddly for a moment. "I am very, very glad that
you are such a steady, sensible, practical man. A vapid, impressionable
youth, during this season of propinquity, might have been so foolish
as to fall in love with me, and that would have been too bad."
I think I glared at her. "Then,--then, you are going to marry some
one?"
She waited a moment, looking straight into my eyes.
"Yes," she said, and a delicate pink stole into her cheek, "I am going
to marry some one."
I muttered something about congratulating a lucky dog, but it was all
very hazy to me.
"Don't congratulate him yet," she cried, the flush deepening. "I may
be a very, very great disappointment to him, and a never-ending
nuisance."
"I'm sure you will--will be all right," I floundered. Then I resorted
to gaiety. "You see, I've spent a lot of time trying to--to make another
woman of you, and so I'm confident he'll find you quite satisfactory."
She laughed gaily. "What a goose you are!" she cried.
I flushed painfully, for, I give you my word, it hurt to have her laugh
at me. She sobered at once.
"Forgive me," she said very prettily, and I forgave her. "Do you know
we've never given the buried treasure another thought?" she went on,
abruptly changing the subject. "Are we not to go searching for it?"
"But it isn't there," said I, steeling my heart against the longing
that tried to creep into it. "It's all balderdash."
She pouted her warm red lips. "Have you lost interest in it so soon?"
"Of course, I'll go any time you say," said I, lifelessly. "It will
be a lark, at all events."
"Then we will go this very afternoon," she said, with enthusiasm.
My ridiculous heart gave a great leap. "This very afternoon," I said,
managing my voice very well.
She arose. "Now I must scurry away. It would not do for Mr. Bangs to
find me here with you. He would be shocked."
I walked beside her to the chair that stood below the portrait of
Ludwig the Red, and took her hand to assist her in stepping upon it.
"I sincerely hope this chap you're going to marry, Countess, may be
the best fellow in the world," said I, still clasping her hand.
She had one foot on the chair as she half-turned to face me.
"He is the best fellow in the world," she said.
I gulped. "I can't tell you how happy I shall be if you--if you find
real happiness. You deserve happiness--and love."
She gripped my hand fiercely. "I want to be happy! I want to be loved!
Oh, I want to be loved!" she cried, so passionately that I turned away,
unwilling to be a witness to this outburst of feeling on her part. She
slipped her hand out of mine and a second later was through the frame.
I had a fleeting glimpse of a slim, adorable ankle. "Good-bye," she
called back in a voice that seemed strangely choked. The spring in the
gold mirror clicked. A draft of air struck me in the face. She was
gone.
"What an infernal fool you've been," I said to myself as I stood there
staring at the black hole in the wall. Then, I gently, even caressingly
swung old Ludwig the Red into place. There was another click. The
incident was closed.
A very few words are sufficient to cover the expedition in quest of
the legendary treasures of the long dead Barons. Mr. Bangs accompanied
us. Britton carried a lantern and the three Schmicks went along as
guides. We found nothing but cobwebs.
"Conrad," said I, as we emerged from the last of the underground
chambers, "tell me the truth: was there ever such a thing as buried
treasure in this abominable hole?"
"Yes, mein herr," he replied, with an apologetic grin; "but I think
it was discovered three years ago by Count Hohendahl and Count
Tarnowsy."
We stared at him. "The deuce you say!" cried I, with a quick glance
at the Countess. She appeared to be as much surprised as I.
"They searched for a month," explained the old man, guiltily. "They
found something in the walls of the second tier. I cannot say what it
was, but they were very, very happy, my lady." He now addressed her.
"It was at the time they went away and did not return for three weeks,
if you remember the time."
"Remember it!" she cried bitterly. "Too well, Conrad." She turned to
me. "We had been married less than two months, Mr. Smart."
I smiled rather grimly. "Count Tarnowsy appears to have had a great
run of luck in those days." It was a mean remark and I regretted it
instantly. To my surprise she smiled--perhaps patiently--and immediately
afterward invited Mr. Bangs and me to dine with her that evening. She
also asked Mr. Poopendyke later on.
* * * * * * *
Poopendyke! An amazing, improbable idea entered my head.
_Poopendyke!_
* * * * * * *
The next day I was very busy, preparing for the journey by motor to
the small station down the line where I was to meet Mrs. Titus and her
sons. It seemed to me that every one who knew anything whatever about
the arrangements went out of his way to fill my already rattle-brained
head with advice. I was advised to be careful at least one hundred
times; first in regard to the running of the car, then as to road
directions, then as to the police, then as to the identity of the party
I was to pick up; but more often than anything else, I was urged to
be as expeditious as possible and to look out for my tires.
In order to avoid suspicion, I rented a big German touring car for a
whole month, paying down a lump sum of twelve hundred marks in advance.
On Thursday morning I took it out for a spin, driving it myself part
of the time, giving the wheel to Britton the remainder.
(The year before I had toured Europe pretty extensively in a car of
the same make, driving alternately with Britton, who besides being an
excellent valet was a chauffeur of no mean ability, having served a
London actress for two years or more, which naturally meant that he had
been required to do a little of everything.)
We were to keep the car in a garage across the river, drive it
ourselves, and pay for the up-keep. We were therefore quite free to
come and go as we pleased, without the remotest chance of being
questioned. In fact, I intimated that I might indulge in a good bit
of joy-riding if the fine weather kept up.
Just before leaving the castle for the ferry trip across the river
that evening, I was considerably surprised to have at least a dozen
brand new trunks delivered at my landing stage. It is needless to say
that they turned out to be the property of Mrs. Titus, expressed by
_grande vitesse_ from some vague city in the north of Germany. They all
bore the name "Smart, U. S. A.," painted in large white letters on each
end, and I was given to understand that they belonged to my own dear
mother, who at that moment, I am convinced, was sitting down to luncheon
in the Adirondacks, provided her habits were as regular as I remembered
them to be.
I set forth with Britton at nine o'clock, in a drizzling rain. There
had been no rain for a month. The farmers, the fruit-raisers, the
growers of grapes and all the birds and beasts of the field had been
begging for rain for weeks. No doubt they rejoiced in the steady
downpour that came at half-past nine, but what must have been their
joy at ten when the very floodgates of heaven opened wide and let loose
all the dammed waters of July and August (and perhaps some that was
being saved up for the approaching September!) I have never known it
to rain so hard as it did on that Thursday night in August, nor have
I ever ceased reviling the fate that instituted, on the very next day,
a second season of drought that lasted for nearly six weeks.
But we went bravely through that terrible storm, Britton and I, and
the vehement Mercedes, up hill and down, over ruts and rocks, across
bridges and under them, sozzling and swishing and splashing in the
path of great white lights that rushed ahead of us through the gloom.
At half-past eleven o'clock we were skidding over the cobblestones of
the darkest streets I have ever known, careening like a drunken sailor
but not half as surely, headed for the Staatsbahnhof, to which we had
been directed by an object in a raincoat who must have been a policeman
but who looked more like a hydrant.
"Britton," said I, wearily, "have you ever seen anything like it?"
"Once before, sir," said he. "Niagara Falls, sir."
* * * * * * *