I BURN A FEW BRIDGES
Accompanied by Hazzard and Smith, I went over the castle from top to
bottom, in quest of the reason for Tarnowsy's prompt acceptance of my
demand. We made no doubt that he had a good and sufficient reason for
wanting the place, and but one thing suggested itself to our
imagination: his absolute certainty that treasure was hidden somewhere
about the venerable pile, treasure of considerable magnitude, you may
be sure, or he would not have revealed such alacrity in accepting my
terms. Sentiment had nothing to do with this surprising move on his
part. That was all bosh. He had an ulterior motive, and it was for me
to get the better of him at his own game if I could. While I was eager
to get rid of the castle at any price, I did not relish the thought
of being laughed at for a fool by Maris Tarnowsy after he had laid his
greedy hands upon treasure that had been mine without my knowledge.
He was no fool. The castle meant nothing to him as a home or as an
investment. No doubt he would blow it to pieces in order to unearth
the thing he knew its walls secreted.
We spent two unprofitable days in going over the place, and in the end
sank down tired, defeated and without the slightest evidence in our
possession that so much as a half crown lay hidden there as
treasure-trove. I gave in and announced that if Tarnowsy could find
anything worth having he was entitled to it so far as I was concerned,
and I wouldn't begrudge him a farthing's worth.
He telegraphed that he would arrive on the morning of the third day,
accompanied by his lawyer, a notary and an architect. My four guests
departed in haste by the late night train, after extracting a promise
from me to join them in Vienna when I was no longer the master of
Schloss Rothhoefen. I rather relished the thought of a brief vacation!
Then, like the spider, I crept back into my web and waited for the
foolish fly, knowing all the time that he would have the better of me
in the long run.
I confess to a feeling of sadness in parting with the place, after
all, elephantine though it was in every sense of the word. Within its
grey and ancient walls that beautiful thing called love had come to
me, to live with me forever. It had come unbidden, against my will,
against my better judgment, and in spite of my prejudices, but still
it was a thing to cherish and to hold in its virgin youth all through
the long years to come. It would always be young and sweet and
rose-coloured, this unrequited love of mine. Walking through the empty,
dismantled rooms that had once been hers, I grew sick with longing,
and, in something like fear, fled downward, absurd tears blinding my
eyes. Verily, I was a fool,--a monstrous, silly fool!
Tarnowsy was as bland and smiling as a May morning as he came jauntily
down the great hall to where I awaited him.
"I am here incognito, my dear Smart," he said, extending his gloved
hand, which I took perforce. "Sub rosa, you might say," he went on
with a wry smile. "A stupid, unchivalric empire has designs upon me,
perfunctorily perhaps, but it's just as well not to stir up the monkeys,
as you Americans would put it."
"Our late friend, the baron, was not totally without friends, I take
it," said I drily.
He made a grimace. "Nor enemies," he declared. "Brave men usually have
more enemies than friends, and he was a brave man, a truly brave man.
Because he was a brave man I have no feeling of regret over the outcome
of our--er--meeting. It is no honour to kill a coward, Mr. Smart."
He introduced his three companions. I was surprised to see that the
lawyer was not the fawning Schymansky, and later on inquired for him.
Tarnowsy laughed. "Poor old Schymansky! He is in prison."
"Aha! I am not surprised," said I.
"He was my second, poor chap. It did not occur to him to run away after
the--er--duel. They had to make an example of some one. His trial comes
up next week. I am afraid he may be dealt with rather harshly. I miss
him dreadfully. But let us come to the matter in hand, Mr. Smart. I
daresay your time is valuable. You have no objection to my going over
the place with Mr. Saks, I am sure. He is the architect who is to
rebuild the castle for me. My attorney and Mr. Pooly,--the
notary,--will, with your assistance, draw up the proper contracts
preliminary to the formal transfer, and I will sign them with you upon
my return."
"Would it not be better to discuss the question of payments before we
go any further, Count Tarnowsy?"
"You will be paid in cash, Mr. Smart, the instant the deed is
transferred," he said coldly.
I followed him to the top of the stairs which descended to the basement
of the castle. It was rather significant that he elected to explore
the lower regions first of all.
"I shall accompany you," said I deliberately.
A faint scowl came into his face. He eyed me fixedly for a moment,
then shrugged his shoulders and said that his only desire was to avoid
putting me to any unnecessary trouble. If I cared to come, he would
be more than grateful. "It isn't necessary to visit the cellars, Saks,"
he said to the architect. "Ample time for that sort of rummaging. I
particularly want your opinion on the condition of the intersecting
walls on this floor and above. My scheme of improvements, Mr. Smart,
contemplates the enlargement of these halls by throwing them into one."
"A very simple process," said I, "if the whole structure doesn't topple
down upon your heads while you're about it."
"I shall contrive to save my scalp, Mr. Smart, no matter what happens.
It is very precious to me."
We went over the castle rather hurriedly, I thought, but he explained
that Saks merely wanted a general idea of the structure; he would
return another day to make a careful inspection.
"I daresay you are surprised that I should be willing to pay double
your original price for Schloss Rothhoefen," he ventured, pausing in
the corridor to light a cigarette. We were on our way to the top of
the east wing.
"Oh, no," I said calmly. "I am aware that treasure is buried here. As
a matter of fact, I've tried to unearth it myself, but without success.
I wish you better luck."
"Thanks," said he laconically, after the first swift glance of inquiry.
"It is doubtless a fairy tale, handed down by tradition. I take no
stock in it. My principal object in acquiring Rothhoefen is to satisfy
a certain vanity which besets me. I have it on excellent authority
that my ex-father-in-law,--the man Titus, you know,--talks of buying
the property and performing the stupendous, characteristic American
feat of removing it, stone and timber, just as it is, to his estate
north of New York City. No one but a vulgar, purse-proud American would
think of doing such a thing."
The news staggered me. Could there be anything in what he said? If it
was true that Jasper Titus contemplated such a quixotic move, there
could be but one compelling force behind the whim: sentiment. But not
sentiment on the part of Jasper Titus.
"I cannot believe that he considers doing such a thing," I said rather
blankly. "You see, if any one should know, I am that one. He has not
approached me, of that you may be sure."
He did not appear to be interested. "My information is not
authoritative, Mr. Smart," said he. "It came to me through my
representatives who conferred with his lawyers a fortnight ago in
regard to certain difficulties that had existed between us. From what
they were able to gather, the idea has taken root in the old man's
head. Now, I want to buy this place for no other reason than to tell
him that he hasn't enough money in his possession to purchase it from
me. D'you see? Vanity, you may call it, as I do, but it pleases me to
coddle it."
Very thoughtfully I strode along beside him. Would I be serving the
Countess ill or well by selling the place to Tarnowsy? It was _her_
whim, of course, and it was a foolish one.
"Suppose that he offered you twice what you are to pay me for the
place," said I, struck by a sudden thought.
He laughed easily. "You will not, it seems, acquit me of cupidity, Mr.
Smart. I should not sell to him under any consideration. That is final.
Take it or leave it."
By this time we were in the rooms once occupied by the Countess. He
glanced about the apartment carelessly.
"Deserted, I observe," he remarked with a queer smile.
My heart almost stood still. "Eh? What do you mean?"
"If I am not mistaken, these are the rooms once occupied by your valet's
wife. Am I right?"
I steadied myself. "She has gone away," I said. "Couldn't stand the
climate."
"I see," said he, but he was still smiling. "How does your valet stand
it?"
"Nicely," said I, with a conscious blush.
"I mean the separation, of course."
"Certainly. He is used to it."
"Isn't it rather odd that he should still think she is here, in the
castle?"
"Does he?" I murmured.
"I inquired for her when I encountered him downstairs. He said she was
quite well this morning, except for a headache."
"She is subject to headaches, I believe," said I, with the utmost
nonchalance. He lifted his right eyebrow slightly, but said no more
on the subject.
A pile of rubbish lay heaped in one corner of the room, swept up and
left there by the big Schmicks to await the spring house cleaning
season I presume. Tarnowsy at first eyed the heap curiously, then
rather intently. Suddenly he strode across the room and gingerly rooted
among the odds and ends with the toe of his highly polished boot.
To my horror a dilapidated doll detached itself and rolled out upon
the floor,--a well-remembered treasure of Rosemary's and so unique in
appearance that I doubt if there was another in the world like it.
Indeed, I have a distinct recollection of being told that the child's
father had painted in the extraordinary features and had himself
decorated the original flaxen locks with singular stripes of red and
white and blue, a sardonic tribute to the home land of her mother.
I turned away as he stooped and picked up the soiled, discarded effigy.
When next I looked at him, out of the corner of my eye, he was holding
the doll at arm's length and staring at it with a fixed gaze. I knew
that he recognised it. There could be no doubt in his mind as to the
identity of that tell-tale object. My heart was thumping fiercely.
An instant later he rejoined me, but not a word did he utter concerning
the strange discovery he had made. His face was set and pallid, and
his eyes were misty. Involuntarily I looked to see if he had the doll
in his hand, and in that glance observed the bulging surface of his
coat pocket.
In silence we stood there awaiting the reappearance of Saks, who had
gone into one of the adjoining rooms. I confess that my hand trembled
as I lighted a fresh cigarette. He was staring moodily at the floor,
his hands clasped behind his back. Something smacking of real
intelligence ordered me to hold my tongue. I smoked placidly, yet
waited for the outburst. It did not come. It never came. He kept his
thoughts, his emotions to himself, and for that single display of
restraint on his part I shall always remember him as a true descendant
of the nobility.
We tramped down the long flights of stairs side by side, followed by
the superfluous Mr. Saks, who did all of the talking. He was, I think,
discoursing on the extraordinary ability of ancient builders, but I
am not absolutely certain. I am confident Tarnowsy did not hear a word
the fellow said.
In my study we found Poopendyke and the two strangers.
"Have you made out the papers?" demanded the Count harshly. An ugly
gleam had come to his eyes, but he did not direct it toward me. Indeed,
he seemed to avoid looking at me at all.
"Yes, Count Tarnowsy," said the lawyer. "They are ready for the
signatures."
"Perhaps Mr. Smart may have reconsidered his offer to sell," said
Tarnowsy. "Let him see the contracts."
"I have not reconsidered," I said quietly.
"You may sign here, Mr. Smart," said the notary, as he gave me the
document, a simple contract, I found.
"Jasper Titus will offer more than I can afford to pay," said the
Count. "Please do not feel that I am taking an unfair advantage of
you. I am absolutely certain that he wants to buy this place for--his
granddaughter, a descendant of barons."
The significance of this remark was obvious, and it was the nearest
he ever came to uttering the conviction that had been formed in that
illuminating five minutes upstairs. If he suspected,--and I think he
did,--he preferred not to ask the questions that must have been searing
his curious brain. It was a truly wonderful demonstration of
self-restraint. I would have given much to have been able to read his
innermost thoughts, to watch the perplexed movements of his mind.
"Schloss Rothhoefen is yours, Count Tarnowsy," said I. "It is for you
to say whether his whim shall be gratified."
His lips twitched. I saw his hand touch the bulging coat-pocket with
a swift, passing movement.
"Will you be good enough to sign, Mr. Smart?" he said coldly. He glanced
at his watch. "My time is valuable. When can you give possession?"
"The day the deed is transferred."
"That will be in less than three days. I have satisfied myself that
the title is clear. There need be no delay."
We signed the contract after I had requested Poopendyke to read it
aloud to me. It called for the payment of fifty thousand kronen, or
a little over two thousand pounds sterling, at the time of signing.
His lawyer handed me a package of crisp banknotes and asked me to count
them. I did so deliberately, the purchaser looking on with a sardonic
smile.
"Correct," said I, laying the package on the table. He bowed very
deeply.
"Are you satisfied, Mr. Smart, that there are no counterfeits among
them?" he inquired with polite irony. Then to his lawyer: "Take the
gentleman's receipt for the amount in the presence of witnesses. This
is a business transaction, not a game of chance." It was the insult
perfect.
As he prepared to take his departure, he assumed an insinuating air
of apology, and remarked to me:
"I owe you an apology, Mr. Smart. There was a time when I did you an
injustice. I suspected you of keeping your mistress here. Pray forgive
my error."
Five days later I was snugly ensconced in the ducal suite at the
Bristol, overlooking the Kartnerring-strasse, bereft of my baronial
possessions but not at all sorry. My romance had been short-lived. It
is one thing to write novels about mediaeval castles and quite another
thing to try to write a novel in one of them. I trust I may never again
be guilty of such arrant stupidity as to think that an American-born
citizen can become a feudal baron by virtue of his dollars and cents,
any more than an American-born girl can hope to be a real,
dyed-in-the-wool countess or duchess because some one needs the money
more than she does. It would be quite as impossible, contrariwise,
to transform a noble duke into a plain American citizen, so there you
are, even up.
My plans were made. After a fortnight in Vienna, I expected to go west
to London for the autumn, and then back to New York. Strange to relate,
I was homesick. Never before had my thoughts turned so restlessly, so
wistfully to the haunts of my boyhood days. I began to long for the
lights of Broadway (which I had scornfully despised in other days),
and the gay peacockery of Fifth Avenue at four in the afternoon. It
seemed to me that nowhere in all the world was life so joyous and
blithe and worth while as in "old New York"; nowhere were the theatres
so attractive, nowhere such restaurants. Even, in retrospect, the
subway looked alluring, and as for the Fifth Avenue stages they were
too beautiful for words. Ah, what a builder of unreal things a spell
of homesickness may become if one gives it half a chance!
As for Schloss Rothhoefen, I had it on excellent authority (no less
a person than Conrad Schmick himself) that barely had I shaken the
dust of the place from myself before the new master put into execution
a most extraordinary and incomprehensible plan of reconstruction. In
the first place, he gave all the servants two weeks' notice, and then
began to raze the castle from the bottom upward instead of the other
way round, as a sensible person might have been expected to do. He was
knocking out the walls in the cellars and digging up the stone floors
with splendid disregard for that ominous thing known as a cataclysm.
The grave question in the minds of the servants was whether the usual
and somewhat mandatory two weeks' notice wouldn't prove a trifle too
long after all. In fact, Hawkes, with an inspiration worthy of an
office boy, managed to produce a sick grand-mother and got away from
the place at the end of one week, although having been paid in full
for two.
The day on which I left for Paris still saw Tarnowsy at work with his
masons, heroically battering down the walls of the grim old stronghold,
and I chuckled to myself. It was quite evident that he hadn't found
the hiding place up to that time.
After several days in Paris, I took myself off to London. I was
expecting letters at Claridge's, where I always take rooms, not because
I think it is the best hotel in London but because I am, to some extent,
a creature of habit. My mother took me to Claridge's when I was a boy
and I saw a wonderful personage at the door whom I was pleased to call
the King. Ever since then I have been going to Claridge's and while
my first king is dead there is one in his place who bids fair to live
long, albeit no one shouts encouragement to him. He wears the most
gorgeous buttons I've ever seen, and I doubt if King Solomon himself
could have been more regal. Certainly not Nebuchadnezzar. He works
from seven in the morning until seven at night, and he has an imperial
scorn for anything smaller than half a sovereign.
There were many letters waiting there for me, but not one from the
Countess Aline. I had encouraged the hope that she might write to me;
it was the least she could do in return for all that I had done for
her, notwithstanding my wretched behaviour on the last day of our
association. While I had undoubtedly offended in the most flagrant
manner, still my act was not unpardonable. There was tribute, not
outrage in my behaviour.
Poopendyke fidgeted a good deal with the scanty results of my literary
labours, rattling the typed pages in a most insinuating way. He oiled
his machine with accusative frequency, but I failed to respond. I was
in no mood for writing. He said to me one day:
"I don't see why you keep a secretary, Mr. Smart. I don't begin to
earn my salt."
"Salt, Mr. Poopendyke," said I, "is the cheapest thing I know of. Now
if you had said pepper I might pause to reflect. But I am absolutely,
inexorably opposed to rating anything on a salt basis. If you--"
"You know what I mean," he said stiffly. "I am of no use to you."
"Ah," said I triumphantly, "but you forget! Who is it that draws the
salary checks for yourself and Britton, and who keeps the accounts
straight? Who, I repeat? Why, you, Mr. Poopendyke. You draw the checks.
Isn't that something?"
"If--if I didn't know you so well, I wouldn't hesitate to call you a
blooming fool, Mr. Smart," said he, but he grinned as he said it.
"But he who hesitates is lost," said I. "This is your chance, don't
let it slip." He looked at me so steadily for a moment that I was in
some fear he would not let it slip.
Before I had been in London a week it became perfectly clear to me
that I could not stretch my stay out to anything like a period of two
months. Indeed, I began to think about booking my passage home inside
of two weeks. I was restless, dissatisfied, homesick. On the ninth day
I sent Poopendyke to the booking office of the steamship company with
instructions to secure passage for the next sailing of the
_Mauretania_, and then lived in a state of positive dread for fear the
confounded American tourists might have gobbled up all of the cabins.
They are always going home it seems to me, and they are always trying to
get on a single unfortunate ship. In all my experience abroad, I've
never known a time when Americans were not tumbling over each other
trying to get back to New York in time to catch a certain train for
home, wherever that may be. But Poopendyke managed it somehow. He must
have resorted to bribery.
I awoke one morning to find a long and--I was about to say
interesting--letter from the Countess! It was a very commonplace
communication I found on the third or fourth reading. The sum and
substance of its contents was the information that she was going to
Virginia Hot Springs with the family for a month or two and that Lord
Amberdale was to join them there.
It appeared that her father, being greatly overworked, was in need of
a rest, and as the golf links at Hot Springs are especially designed
to make it easy for rich men, his doctor had ordered him to that
delightful resort. She hoped the rest would put him on his feet again.
There was a page or so of drivel about Amberdale and what he expected
to do at the New York Horse Show, a few lines concerning Rosemary; and
a brief, almost curt intimation that a glimpse or two of me would not
be altogether displeasing to her if I happened to be coming that way.
It may be regarded as a strange coincidence that I instructed Britton
that very evening to see that my golf clubs were cleaned up and put
into good shape for a little practice on a course near London, where
I had been put up by an English author, and who was forever ding-donging
at me to come out and let him "put it all over me." I went out and
bought a new brassie to replace the one destroyed by the experimenting
Rocksworth youth, and before I got through with it had a new putter,
a niblick and a spoon, neither of which I needed for the excellent
reason that I already possessed a half dozen of each.
Keyed up to a high pitch of enthusiasm, I played golf for ten days,
and found my friend to be a fine sportsman. Like all Englishmen, he
took a beating gracefully, but gave me to understand that he had been
having a good deal of trouble with rheumatism or neuritis in his right
elbow. On the last day we played he succeeded in bringing me in two
down and I've never seen neuritis dispersed so quickly as it was in
his case. I remember distinctly that he complained bitterly of the
pain in his elbow when we started out, and that he was as fit as a
fiddle at the eighteenth hole. He even went so far as to implore me
to stay over till the next sailing of the Mauretania.
But I took to the high seas. Mr. Poopendyke cabled to the Homestead
at Hot Springs for suitable accommodations. I cannot remember when I
had been so forehanded as all that, and I wonder what my secretary
thought of me. My habit is to procrastinate.
I almost forgot to mention a trifling bit of news that came to me the
day before sailing. Elsie Hazzard wrote in great perturbation and at
almost unfeeling length to tell me that Count Tarnowsy had unearthed
the supposedly mythical Rothhoefen treasure chests and was reputed to
have found gold and precious jewels worth at least a million dollars.
The accumulated products of a century's thievery! The hoard of all the
robber barons! Tarnowsy's!
Strange to say I did not writhe nor snarl with disappointment and rage.
I took the news with a _sang froid_ that almost killed poor Poopendyke.
He never quite got over it.
Nor was I especially disturbed or irritated by the telegram of
condolence I received on board ship from Tarnowsy himself. He could
not resist the temptation to gloat. I shall not repeat the message for
the simple reason that I do not wish to dignify it by putting it into
permanent form. We were two days out when I succeeded in setting my
mind at rest in respect to Aline, Countess Tarnowsy. I had not thought
of it before, but I remembered all of a sudden that I held decided
scruples against marrying a divorced woman. Of course, that simplified
matters. When one has preconceived notions about such matters they
afford excellent material to fall back upon, even though he may have
disregarded them after a fashion while unselfishly thinking of some
one else. As I say, the recollection of this well-defined though
somewhat remorseless principle of mine had the effect of putting my
mind at rest in regard to the Countess. Feeling as strongly as I did
about marriage with divorcees, she became an absolutely undesirable
person so far as matrimony was concerned. I experienced a rather
doubtful feeling of relief. It was not so hard to say to myself that
Lord Amberdale was welcome to her, but it was very, very difficult to
refrain from adding the unamiable words: "damn him."
This rigid, puritanical principle of mine, however, did not declare
against the unrighteousness of falling in love with a divorcee.