JUSSERET MAKES A REPORT
In Paris a small party of gentlemen, among whom were represented all the
national types of Southern Europe, were engaged in an informal
discussion of very formal affairs. They occupied a private suite in the
Hotel Ritz overlooking the column of the _Place Vendome_. Upon a table
swept clean of draperies and bric-a-brac lay an outstretched map of the
Mediterranean littoral, whereon a small peninsula had been marked with
certain experimental and revised boundaries in red and blue and black.
The atmosphere was thick with the smoke from cigars and cigarettes, and
through the veneering amenities of much courtesy the gentlemen of
Europe's _Cabinets Noirs_ wrangled with insistence. Finally Monsieur
Jusseret took the floor, and the others dropped respectfully into an
attitude of listening.
"It is hardly necessary," he began, "to discuss what has been done in
Galavia. That is long since a stale story. Our governments, acting in
concert, made it possible to remove Karyl and crown Louis." He smiled
quietly. "You know how short a reign Louis enjoyed before death claimed
him. Perhaps you do not know that his death was not unforeseen by me."
There was an outburst of exclamations under which France's
representative remained unmoved.
"Our object," he explained coldly, "was the disruption of Galavia's
integrity. In reducing this Kingdom to a province, the supplanting of
Karyl with Louis was essential only as an initial step. The instability
of that government had to be demonstrated to the world by more
continuous disorders. It was necessary to show that the Kingdom had
become incapable of self-rule. It followed that the removal of Louis was
equally natural--and imperative."
Don Alphonso Rodriguez, bearing the secret credentials of Spain, came to
his feet with the hauteur of offended dignity.
"My government" he said, with austere deliberation, "had the right to
know what matters were being transacted. France appears to have assumed
exclusive control. Is it too late to inquire of France"--he bent a
chilling frown upon the smiling Jusseret--"what she now purposes? It
appears that Spain knew no more than the newspapers. Spain also believed
that Louis died by his own hand, and artlessly assumed the motive of
disappointment in his love for Marie Astaride. We believed we were being
frankly informed."
The more accomplished diplomat lifted brows and hands in a deprecating
gesture. "_Mon ami_," he responded with suavity, "you flatter me. What I
have done is nothing. I have only paved the way. Quite possibly Louis
did kill himself. If so it was a meritorious act, but whether he did so
or whether some mad young officer, infatuated and jealous, was the real
author of the result, the result stands--and meets our requirements.
France does not care what flag flies over the Governor-General's Palace
in Puntal, provided it be the flag of a nation in concert with France.
France suggests that the Governor-General should be a Galavian, and
points to the one man conspicuously capable--who happens to be," he
added with an amused laugh, "my particular enemy."
"You mean Von Ritz?" The question came from Italy's delegate.
Jusseret bowed his head. "Von Ritz," he affirmed.
Don Alphonso Rodriguez laughed with a note of incredulity. "And how do
you propose," he demanded, "to persuade this loyal adviser of Karyl to
accept a deputyship at the hands of Karyl's enemies?"
Again Jusseret smiled. "It will be Von Ritz or a foreigner," he
explained. "We must convince him that his beloved Kingdom can henceforth
be only a province in any event--that it may prosper under his guidance
or suffer under a more oppressive hand. That done, his patriotism will
prove our ally. We have only to convince him that no member of Karyl's
house can reign and live--and that it must be himself or an alien."
"It would have been as easy," demurred the Portuguese delegate, "to have
persuaded Von Ritz that Karyl himself should abdicate."
Jusseret felt the hostility of the other members. In spite of the
realization, or perhaps because of it, he glanced from face to face with
unruffled urbanity.
"_Messieurs_," he suggested, "you overlook the hypotheses--and in
reaching conclusions hypotheses are serviceable. You, gentlemen," he
continued blandly, "regarded the initial steps as impracticable. What I
volunteered to do, I have so far done. We have one object. The insatiate
ambition of that nation, which we need not name, must not gain
additional Mediterranean foothold. Spain or Portugal, it is one to us,
may decide the matter of suzerainty between themselves."
"How do you mean to persuade Von Ritz?" insisted Don Alphonso.
"In the young Queen, who is the sole eligible candidate for the Throne,
we have at heart an unwilling heir. Von Ritz distrusts France. Let the
suggestion come from Portugal, a friend who can speak persuasively--and
convincingly. Let him see the inevitable result unless he consents. Let
all which we have done be denounced. Lead him to believe that he holds
as steward"--Jusseret raised his hands as he concluded--"for Karyl's
heir, if there should be one. These things are mere details."
* * * * *
Benton worked his way slowly to San Francisco through the Far East. It
is not difficult to avoid newspapers between Ismaïlia and Manila, and
with the dogged determination to let the day set by Cara answer all
questions of his future, he had neither sought nor received tidings from
Galavia.
He had not permitted himself great indulgence in hope. The past months
had brought too many disappointments, and he knew that they had all been
but episodes leading up to the climax which must come with the day when
he inquired for a letter at "Idle Times."
He dreaded a return to "Idle Times" before the day set for his inquiry.
Bristow's place stood for too much of memory, and the inevitable
questions of his friend loomed before him, as the trifle which a man who
has stood much more than trifles cannot bring himself to face. Yet there
was no danger of his being late. That time was the one fixed point on
the calendar of his future. One day before his three months had come to
an end, he arrived, but he did not go to Van Bristow's house. He did
not announce his coming. He went by the less frequented streets of the
near-by village to its inadequate hotel, where he found only a drummer
for a New York shoe house and a gentleman traveling "out of Chicago"
with samples of ready-made clothing.
For a time he sat in the dingy parlor of the place and listened to the
jarring talk of the commercial travelers. Already Galavia and the months
which had been, seemed receding into an improbable dream, but the misery
of their bequeathing was poignantly real.
He rose impatiently and made his way to the livery-stable, where he
hired a saddle horse. His idea was merely to be alone. The reins hung on
the neck of his spiritless mount and the roads he went were the roads it
took of its own unguided selection.
Suddenly Benton looked up. He was in a lane between overarching trees; a
lane which he remembered. Off to the side were the hills bristling with
pines, raised against the sky like the lances of marching troops. It was
the road he had ridden with her on that day when her horse fell at the
fence--and there, on the side of the hill, stood a dilapidated cabin:
the cabin upon whose porch he had poured water over her hands from a
gourd dipper.
It was only the end of September, but an early frost had flushed the
woods and hillsides into a hint of the crimson and gold they were soon
to wear in more profligate splendor. The fragrant, blue mist of wood
smoke drifted over the fields at the foot of the knobs. The hills were
seen through a wash of purple. From somewhere to the far left drifted
the mellowed music of fox-hounds. Riding slowly, the man came at length
to the cabin gate.
The same farmer sat as indolently now as then, on the top step. The
setter dog started up to growl as the horseman dismounted.
The man did not recognize him, but the proffer of Benton's cigar-case
proved a sufficient credential, and a discussion of the weather appeared
a satisfactory reason for remaining. It was only a verbal and logical
step from weather to crops, and in ten minutes the visitor was being
shown over the place. When the round of cribs and stables was completed
it was time for the host to feed his stock, and, saying good-by at the
barn, he left Benton to make his way alone to the cabin. Passing through
the house from the back, the man halted suddenly and with abrupt
wonderment at the front door.
For upright and slim, with a small gauntleted hand resting on one of the
rude posts of the porch, gazing off intently into the coloring west,
stood an unmistakable figure in a black riding habit. Incredulous,
suddenly stunned under the cumulative suspense of the past three
months, he stood hesitant. Then the figure slowly turned and, as the old
heart-breaking, heart-recompensing smile came to her lips and eyes, the
girl silently held out both arms to him.
Finally he found time to ask: "How long have you been here?"
"Six weeks," she answered. "And it's been lonesome."
"Your answer, Cara," he whispered. "What is your answer?"
"I am here," she said. "Don't you see me? I'm the answer."
THE END
* * * * *
BIOGRAPHIES
* * * * *
TWO POPULAR AUTHORS
&
SOMETHING ABOUT THEM
* * * * *
[Illustration: Charles Neville Buck]
CHARLES NEVILLE BUCK
Though still a young man--he has only just passed his thirtieth
year--Charles Neville Buck, the author of "The Lighted Match," has
travelled far and done much. Although it was as late as January, 1909,
that he first settled down to write for the magazines, he has made
already an established reputation as a short story writer, and promises
to make an even greater name as a novelist. His first novel, "The Key to
Yesterday," was one of the successes of the last publishing season, and
we shall be greatly surprised if "The Lighted Match" does not prove
still more popular.
Born in Louisville, Ky., he visited South America with his father, the
Hon. C. W. Buck, United States Minister to Peru. Since then he has
travelled in Europe, covering the ground where he places the scenes in
"The Key to Yesterday" and "The Lighted Match."
After graduation, Mr. Buck studied art, and for a year was the chief
cartoonist on Louisville's leading daily paper. He then turned to
editorial and reportorial work, which brought him into close contact
with Kentucky politics and the mountain feuds. In 1902, while still a
reporter, he was admitted to the Bar, but never practised.
Successful as he is at the short story, it is in the novel that Mr. Buck
does his finest work. The novel rather than the short story gives scope
for those little touches which make for style and atmosphere, and it is
at these that Mr. Buck peculiarly excels. The vivid interest of his
plots is apt to blind the reader to this merit, for Mr. Buck's novels
have what some consider the only virtue of a novel, that they can be
read for the story alone; but it is there, nevertheless, and for some
constitutes the greatest charm of his work. In "The Lighted Match," even
more than in "The Key to Yesterday," is this artistic finish noticeable.
"The Lighted Match" is not only a bully good story, it is literature as
well.
[Illustration: P. G. Wodehouse]
PELHAM GRANVILLE WODEHOUSE
During the past year a phrase has been frequently heard among magazine
and book men in New York when the name of Pelham Granville Wodehouse has
been mentioned. This phrase is "the logical successor to O. Henry"--and
it is misleading. Any humorist who tried to follow in the tracks of O.
Henry would be merely an imitator and the task would be as unwise as
though O. Henry had cramped his own freedom in an effort to walk in the
footprints of Mark Twain or any other predecessor in the field of humor.
Wodehouse suggests O. Henry only in that he has suddenly come into
universal recognition as a remarkable humorist. He wields a pen which
commands an uncommon power of satire, without the suggestion of vitriol
or bitterness. His humor has a sparkle, effervescence and spontaneity
which has put him in an incredibly short time in the front rank of
writers, and since the materialistic barometer at least records the
opinion of the editors and since the editors are supposed to know, has
brought him into that envied coterie whose rate per word in the
magazines has soared skyward.
P. G. Wodehouse was born in Guildford, England, in 1881, and while still
an infant he accompanied his parents to Hong Kong, where the elder
Wodehouse was a judge. He is a cousin of the Earl of Kimberley. In his
school days he went in for cricket, football and boxing, and made for
himself a reputation in athletics.
For two years Mr. Wodehouse went into a London bank and observed the
passing parade from a high stool, but this was not quite in keeping with
his tastes, and we find him next publishing a column of humorous
paragraphs in the _London Globe_, under the head of "By the Way." Later
he assumed the editorship of this department, and many of his paragraphs
lived longer than the few hours' existence of most newspaper humor. Also
since all writers experimentally venture into the dramatic, he wrote
several vaudeville sketches which have had popular English productions.
Three years ago P. G. Wodehouse came to New York. He liked the American
field and wanted to see whether his humor would strike the American
fancy. It struck. Mr. Wodehouse had tried his wings here only a few
months when magazine editors were bidding for his manuscripts. His
short stories have appeared generally in the magazines, and while one
often finds the delightful touch of pathos, there is always an abundance
of laughter. In _Cosmopolitan, Collier's Weekly, Ainslee's_, and many
other publications these stories appear as often as Mr. Wodehouse will
contribute.
His novel, "The Intrusion of Jimmy," last year was a decided success. In
it Mr. Wodehouse demonstrated his ability to hold his sprinting speed
over a Marathon distance. The book, after giving the flattering returns
of a large sale, found its second production on the stage. In its
dramatized version with the title, "A Gentleman of Leisure," it has had
its tryout on the road and has proven a success. With Douglas Fairbanks
in the leading rôle, it will be one of next Fall's elaborate productions
on Broadway.
In personality Mr. Wodehouse is quite as interesting as one might gather
from his writings. Physically a man of splendid proportions and mentally
a fountain of spirited humor, he is, nevertheless, modest to the point
usually termed "retiring," and is well known only after long
acquaintanceship. He is fond of all sports, and on reaching America
became truly the native in his enthusiasm for baseball. Mr. Wodehouse
says that one epoch of his literary career dates from his purchase of an
automobile in 1907. The purchase was an investment of considerable
gravity to a young writer just commencing to command an entree. The
automobile lasted some two weeks and came to a violent end against a
telephone pole. Mr. Wodehouse thought out the major problems of life
sitting on the turf near the pole from a more or less lacerated point of
view. He decided, among other things, that his _forte_ was rather
writing about motors than riding about _in_ motors.
Mr. Wodehouse's second novel will be an even greater success than "The
Intrusion of Jimmy." Mr. Wodehouse spent last winter on the Riviera
writing this book, and his friends who have read the advance pages,
agree with the publishers that it will deserve and receive even greater
cordiality than the first. The title will be "The Prince and Betty," and
it will be something for novel readers to look forward to.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Lighted Match, by Charles Neville Buck