The words, “Give her a Stradivarius,” had hardly been spoken aloud by
young Mackintosh when he was surprised by a knocking upon the board
partition dividing his attic room from the one adjoining it. After a
pause, during which he listened, the knocking was renewed.
Colin, remembering that his neighbor was an infirm and melancholy
looking old fellow, whom he sometimes met wearily climbing the stairs
with a loaf of bread and a brown paper bag of comestibles hugged to
his breast, fancied himself called upon for help. He had but just
removed his coat and, putting it on, hastily ran out into the entry,
and tapped at the door of the next room.
A feeble voice called to him to come in. The interior resembled
Colin’s own in lack of comfort. A gas-jet was burning, which
revealed, lying dressed upon the bed close to the partition wall,
the man he had often seen--gentle-faced, though hollow-eyed, and
evidently racked by some chronic malady.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Colin’s neighbor, “but I must
have been dreaming. I awoke suddenly, believing I heard some one
distinctly say, ‘Give her a Stradivarius!’ And so I knocked on the
wall, the way I used to call my nephew when he lived with me.”
“I did say those words,” answered Colin, blushing. “I was thinking
aloud.”
“I beg pardon again, sir,” said the man, sitting up on the bed with
an eager expression. “This is a coincidence I think you will agree
is remarkable. I had fallen asleep thinking of a Stradivarius. I
was dreaming of it. In fact, I rarely think of anything else, in
these days. For to have owned something that in my present poverty
would have been a little fortune, and to have had it stolen from me
by my--Good God! I can’t speak of him. It’s too base for words. Mr.
Mackintosh, I’m ashamed of myself. You see, I know your name. Mine is
Rupert Thorndyke.”
“That seems somehow familiar,” said Colin, racking his brain to
recall where he had heard the two names combined.
“No doubt, like most of us working folks, you read about the doings
of the fine people who constitute high society in this town. Well,
among them you have often seen that name. The other Rupert Thorndyke
is as young and pushing and successful as I am old and timid and
collapsed. He is away up among the tiptops, Mr. Mackintosh--dines
and wines with the millionaires, and gives parties at his own rooms.
I eat bread and ham out of a paper bag upon yonder table, and am
thankful when I can afford a bottle of beer or Rhine wine to wash
it down. But he’s of my own blood. My brother’s son, and my only
living relative--named for me, to my sorrow. When his father was in
business with me in musical instruments at--Broadway I was the senior
partner, and we prospered for many years. Then my brother got into
speculations, and I had to make good the money he lost. Rupert, who
was a clever dog, had been sent by me to the University. Well, my
brother died of a broken heart; and Rupert came to live with me for
a while. Got me to send him to Europe once or twice, which I could
ill afford to do. He was such a handsome fellow, had such a winning
way with him, one could refuse him nothing. Then some of his former
classmates at college voted him into a fashionable club. I paid the
entrance fee and dues, keeping my homely self out of sight of his
grand companions. Mr. Mackintosh, you will wonder at my want of
self-control. But you’re a gentleman, and have got a heart, too--I
can see it. I’ve often wanted to make your acquaintance.”
“Go on, if it relieves you, Mr. Thorndyke,” said the young man,
dropping upon a chair beside the bed.
“Then you will honor me by drinking a glass of claret,” said the
other, arising with some difficulty from his recumbent position. “I
am rather stiff with rheumatic pains, as you see. I lay down here
before dinner to rest a while, and must have slept till now. Pray
share my good luck. My employer--for I am serving where I once ruled,
Mr. Mackintosh--gave me a bottle of Pontet Canet in honor of his
birthday.”
“I have just supped, thank you,” said Colin, unwilling to hurt him by
refusal. “But I’ll have a glass of wine with you with pleasure.”
The old man, shuffling about, produced glasses and a bottle, together
with a Bologna sausage and some biscuits. As he sat munching and
sipping opposite Colin at table, his dull eyes brightened with the
feast.
“Good stuff, this,” he went on. “I’ll warrant the great Mr. Rupert
Thorndyke has no more relish for his supper with the rich and
exclusive Mrs. Beaumoris after the theater to-night! My employer
gives me his morning paper when he has done with it, Mr. Mackintosh,
and I bring it home, and under this gas-jet read the fashionable
intelligence. I always know what’s going on in society. Look at this
old ledger; I have cut out and pasted in it all that is said about
my namesake--where he goes, and what he does. Rupert is a musical
virtuoso--hand in glove with all the artists, who sing and play at
his rooms for nothing. The fine ladies attend, too, and admire the
beautiful upholstery and decorations that I paid for when I was
flush. Rupert has a collection of musical instruments, ‘small but
unrivaled,’ so the papers say. Mr. Mackintosh, I’d give a year of
my life to look over that collection and make sure of my--my--lost
Stradivarius.”
“Do you mean to say--” began Colin, indignantly.
“When I failed in business I had saved that violin to be sold only in
case of dire emergency. Rupert, better than another, knew its value.
He always coveted it, but though I had squeezed myself dry to supply
him, I would not give this up. For a long time, I should tell you, I
kept on terms with my nephew. I never obtruded myself, but I saw him
from time to time, taking a fool’s pride in the grand gentleman I had
created.”
His head drooped forward. He seemed lost in reverie. Colin, who had
begun this adventure with indifference, felt his suspicions awaken
and grow keen with the man’s story.
“A pride I am afraid your nephew did not appreciate, Mr. Thorndyke,”
said the young man finally, to arouse him.
“Eh! Oh! of course not,” exclaimed the instrument-maker, coming out
of his trance. “I was thinking of what a handsome fellow Rupert is.
His eyes are so blue, his smile so open, his manner so winning, no
one under God’s heaven would take him to be a--oh! _is_ he that? Has
my brother’s boy fallen so low? He might have turned on the hand that
fed and reared him; he might have shaken me off because I am poor and
commonplace and rusty; but I can’t believe--yet what must I believe?
Listen, Mr. Mackintosh, to the proofs. After my failure, as I said, I
had put away my precious Stradivarius in its case, in a trunk in the
one room I kept--better than this, but still, one room only. I had
to go over to Philadelphia, once, to see a man from whom I hoped to
collect a few hundreds owing me. I came back rejoiced because I had
got nearly the whole sum. The maid at the boarding-house said nobody
had called or asked for me in my absence. I went straight to the
trunk, and opened it to put away my cash. I found the violin-case
empty--the treasure gone! Just as I was about to give the alarm to
the house, I saw on the floor under the edge of the trunk, this--”
He took from his pocket an unset scarabeus, jade-green in hue, that
might have been worn in a man’s ring or pin.
“It was his. I had often seen him wear it in a scarf. He had showed
it to me on his first return from Cairo. How could I alarm the
boarding-house, or set the police upon the track of Rupert? Rupert
a th-- Oh, no! I won’t say the word! Not till it’s proved will I
call him so. I found traces of wax on my latch-key of the house
door, that I had been in the habit of throwing, with my other keys,
on the dressing-table every night. Rupert had recently sent a man
there with a note enclosing me a present of twenty-five dollars.
While I wrote the answer the man must have taken the impression of
my keys. Mr. Mackintosh, I had mistrusted that gift of money, though
I kept it to pay my way to Philadelphia, and my board. Although I
had given Rupert all, it was the first he had given me. I returned
it to him the day after my discovery of the loss, with two lines,
“Take your money, and give me back my Stradivarius.” He answered in
such a brutal tone it makes me sick to think of it, disclaiming all
knowledge of my Stradivarius. I burnt his letter, but these words are
sunk into my heart, ‘From this time forth I refuse to see or to speak
to one who has done me this foul wrong.’ That was two years ago, Mr.
Mackintosh--two years ago. I have not prospered since; I am living
on a pittance of pay because the times are hard, and my employer
has nothing like the business _we_ used to have. Are you cold, sir?
If so, I can light the gas-stove. I keep it for _very_ cold weather
generally. My nephew, as I said, has gone to a play to-night, to see
Sara Bernhardt, with a party invited by Mrs. Beaumoris. His friends
are very exclusive, and he is a great favorite--or perhaps it was
last night he went to the theater; I am losing my memory, you see.”
“How does he continue to cut such a dash without fortune?” asked
Colin, anxious to satisfy himself without exciting the poor old
fellow’s suspicion.
“Nobody knows exactly. He was always lucky in speculation, and very
daring. I gave him money to start with--all I could spare--and he
went on and on. Yes, he must have a good purse to live as he does. I
don’t envy Rupert; but oh! if I had the courage to go to-night and
try to get into his rooms--to say I am his uncle and could wait till
he came in--and then search there, and find out--”
“Perhaps he has sold the Stradivarius,” said Colin.
“Oh, don’t say that, Mr. Mackintosh. I hope against hope that he’s
keeping it as the gem of his collection--that I may one day look at
it again. I’d know it in a hundred. There is a tiny vein of color
in the wood, that looks like a hand with an outstretched finger, on
the right side, near the bridge of the instrument. Enough for any
one--for you, for instance, who know nothing of violins, to identify
it by. But I’d know my beauty, as far as I could see her!”
As he filled a cracked glass with grape-juice for the third time and
tossed it off, Colin saw that unusual treat had affected his poor old
brain.
“_In vino veritas_, Mr. Mackintosh,” he resumed, smiling wistfully.
“I’ve told you my story as it hasn’t passed my lips since I got my
death wound. You go into society, don’t you? I judge from this,”
touching the sleeve of Colin’s evening coat.
“To a very limited degree,” said Mackintosh, feeling much abashed.
“Because, I thought if you do, it might come in your way to help me.”
But in the act of making this suggestion the instrument-maker forgot
what he had begun to say. He wandered, grew drowsy; and Colin, soon
aiding him to bed, left him there sound asleep.
The pathos of this incident dwelt with Mackintosh for days. He longed
to tell Kathleen, whose interest, he knew, would be keenly aroused
in view of the object of the old artisan’s mania. But in one way or
another Colin failed to see any of the Blair family. He continued to
meet Thorndyke on the stairs, and to exchange greetings with him.
There was, however, no repetition of the first attempt at confidence.
Thorndyke, as if aware that he had betrayed too much, looked shy of
further converse with his stalwart and friendly young neighbor. Colin
had almost begun to think the whole story a dream.
At last, when the need to look upon Kathleen’s bright face became
overpowering, Colin turned, late one afternoon, through a softly
falling veil of snow in the direction of the Blairs’ house. As he
shook off the feathered flakes upon their door mat, he pleased
himself by believing he would be asked to walk at once into the cosy
intimacy of the family room, where at that hour Kathleen and her
mother were wont to meet for tea.
Kathleen would be wearing her gown of brown serge, with the slashes
of crimson, that so well became her glowing brunette beauty--looking
like the genius of home! Mrs. Blair would put away her galley slips
and blue pencil, and come over to the tea-table beside the coal
fire. Both of these gentle creatures would turn upon him the gaze of
friendliest interest.
Colin’s gateway of hope, in the shape of Mr. Blair’s front door,
moved inward. Behind it stood an elderly woman, endeavoring to
dry her parboiled hands upon a checked apron before receiving the
visitor’s card between thumb and finger.
“Yes, sir, gone out; both Miss Kathleen and the madam,” she said,
with bursting pride. “It was in a cab that I fetched meself from
the stable. Some kind of a grand music party, where our young lady
was goin’ to play, sir; and they’d not be out of it till after six.
No. 6--Fifth Avenue, sir, they told the coachman. Perhaps you’d be
knowin’ the house, Mr. Mackintosh?”
Colin, blessing his stupidity in forgetting that this was Kathleen’s
important twenty-fifth, retraced his steps. Down fell his air-castle
of a quiet hour with her. Vanished his fond imagining of some token
from her of sweet half-hidden regret that they had been so long
apart. With cruel clearness of sight he beheld the true ambition
of her life. By the time he should have taken a slow step higher
in his profession, Kathleen would have soared into an empyrean,
whither he could not follow. Henceforward a fret and fever for public
approbation would possess her young being; she would be forever
unfitted to plod through life at a poor man’s side--and, spite of his
great love, Colin had no mind to be the appendage of a successful
public favorite.
Doggedly, obstinately, the young fellow tramped far uptown, welcoming
the sting of wind and snow in his face. Near the confines of the Park
he found himself, his bare hands in the pockets of his overcoat, his
face reddened with cold, his jaw set, his eyes heavy, brought to a
halt before the house indicated to him by the Blair’s voluble maid.
There could be no doubt that a festivity was in progress behind the
brick and marble front here presented to the avenue. Over a carpet
running out to the curbstone, guests were passing to and from their
carriages, beneath the shelter of an awning lighted by pendent
lanterns. Spite of the snow, the aperture on either side the tunnel
of striped canvas was blocked, not only by footmen comfortably humped
in mountains of black fur, but by the lookers-on, who seem to be
never tired of this common phase of a city’s pleasuring.
Colin, on the outer edge of one flank of the vagrant army, stood for
a while, governed by some impulse he could not have explained. Among
his comrades were one or two women and children, miserably clad,
content to stand gaping at the show. Colin, to all appearance one of
their class, excited no surprise, except that a tawdry girl wearing
an old feather boa coquettishly around her throat asked him with some
vexation not to go crowding other folks out of the places they had
got before he came.
A lady effecting her exit from the house, was met by a young man
who had just jumped out of a hansom, whom she greeted in accents
maternally affectionate.
“So late, Mr. Thorndyke?” she said, in staccato reproach. “It’s
almost over now, and Levitsky will play no more. But Anatolia is just
about to sing her last. Nothing would tempt me to leave, but that
Nita, poor girl, is at home with a bad throat.”
“It’s a success, then?” said (ignoring Nita) the young man, at whom
Colin Mackintosh gazed eagerly, seeking to be convinced of his
identity with the thief of the Stradivarius.
He was handsome, golden-haired, open-faced, smiling. What a brave
nephew for the old neighbor on the attic landing! But Colin did not
know his Christian name, and that--
“Ha, Rupert,” said a man, coming out. “Why are you behind time?
There’s a new girl playing on the violin that I know will please your
fastidious fancy.”
The lady’s trim little brougham now stopping the way, the two young
men aided her footman to introduce her goodly bulk within its open
door. At this achievement, the group around the awning uttered an
“A--a--h!” of satisfaction, and the carriage drove away.
“Any new violinist that is worth the asking you may count upon at
my party on Wednesday night,” said Thorndyke, carelessly. “And as I
know the young person in question fairly well, I have little doubt of
getting her to do what I wish. If you are _épris_, Clarkson, drop in
and I’ll give you a chance at her.”
“All right, old chap, good-by.”
As the two men separated, Colin clenched his fists.
* * * * *
None too soon for Kathleen’s eager ambition had arrived the day of
her appearance before an audience that would make or mar her hope of
establishing herself as a performer, at semi-private concerts.
Punctual to the hour appointed by her patroness, the rusty cab, that
in the eyes of the Blairs’ maid servant had conferred style upon
their dwelling by pulling up in front of it, had deposited at the
Beaumoris portal the young violinist and her mother.
In a wide hall, beneath orange trees ranged against tapestries of
great age and fabulous value, they were received by two automata
in claret and silver livery, whose mission on gala days it was to
forever point out to guests the way toward distant cloak-rooms. The
fiddle-case, no less than the hesitating manner of their entry,
betraying our ladies to these potentates, they were hurried with
scant courtesy upstairs, and bidden to wait in the morning-room until
the pleasure of the mistress concerning them should be ascertained.
Kathleen saw the flush on her mother’s cheek at the moment when Molly
caught the gleam in her child’s eye.
“Don’t mind, darling.”
“It’s a mistake, of course, dearest,” were spoken simultaneously.
Thereupon the two grasped hands for a little reassuring squeeze, and
looked around them comforted.
Neither had seen anything comparable to this boudoir, its fantastic
furnishings gathered from every quarter of the globe, its floor
strewn with skins and rugs soft as velvet, its litter of costly
curios, and cushions heaped upon gilded couches. Kathleen, getting
up to pace the room with a free, impatient step, paused oftenest
before the clusters of long-stemmed roses that hung their royal
heads over the rim of tall crystal vases, and the gems of pictures
upon the satin background of the walls. Then standing amazed by the
writing-table, with its fittings and toys of beaten silver, she
whispered, merrily:
“What a contrast to our war-worn old writing things at home. Upon
this blotter one could only write invitations to a Vere de Vere.”
She was interrupted by a Frenchwoman, whose entry, with the glib
assurance that Madame would see them shortly, conveyed more of
comradeship than of respect.
There was a long wait. Kathleen, wearied of her splendid prison,
employed her time by falling upon a novel, of whose contents she
possessed herself after the rapid fashion of the reader accustomed to
absorb new books.
Mrs. Blair took up no volume. In silence she sat thinking of the days
when she and Lottie Earl, now the owner of this stately domicile,
had been schoolmates and bosom friends. To shut her eyes to the
Beaumoris luxury was to conjure up Lottie’s early home in Clinton
Place, whither Molly had often repaired by invitation to spend
Saturdays. The sad-colored walls hung with dreary landscapes in oil,
upon which no eye was ever seen to cast a fleeting glance; the carpet
and curtains flowered garishly, the basement dining-room, the little
girls exchanging vows of friendship!
A more tender memory was that of the day when Lottie’s mother had
died. Was it not Molly for whom they had sent to soothe and console
the terrified child? Molly’s faithful breast upon which Lottie that
night had sobbed herself to sleep?
The door again opened. This time it was Mrs. Beaumoris in person,
attired for the reception of her guests--Mrs. Beaumoris, perplexed,
annoyed, an open letter in her hand. It was an easier matter for this
lady to recognize fresh, bright-eyed Molly Christian, who, under the
impulse of fond retrospect, now sprang up to greet her, than for
Molly to identify her old playmate in this faded woman, with the pale
hair elaborately crimped, the cold, restless blue eyes--the prim,
unsmiling mouth!
Mrs. Blair’s affectionate words died upon her lips. She faltered,
blushed, and drew back with a pang at the plain indication that her
surprise was as unwelcome as it was ill-timed.
“You--you--are Miss Blair’s mother?” said Mrs. Beaumoris, in tones
she could not make other than thin and chill. “Why was I not told of
this before?”
“Because--because,” began Molly, and emotion overpowered her, cutting
short her speech.
“My mother thought it could naturally make no difference whose child
you had hired to play before your guests,” said Kathleen, sweeping
grandly into the breach. “But we are quite ready to go away now, if
the arrangement does not please you.”
“Of course not,” exclaimed their hostess, recovering herself. “You
will excuse me if I am a little upset, when I tell you that not
fifteen minutes ago I received this letter from Madame Claudia’s
manager, saying the tiresome creature has a cold and can’t sing this
afternoon. All I could do was to send off my maid in a cab, offering
Claudia’s terms to Anatolia, who’ll come, I’m pretty sure, if for
nothing but a chance to supplant Claudia. Anatolia can’t stand being
last year’s favorite, and really she sang adorably in Faust last
week, when Claudia was ill, don’t you think so--or did you not chance
to hear her? If she comes, she’ll be here for the end of the first
half of the programme. Your daughter will play just before her--and
will no doubt have encores. Levitsky says everything that is nice of
you, Miss--er--you have no professional name, I believe?”
“My name is Kathleen Blair,” said the girl, carrying her head
high. Into her heart, for the first time in her life, entered the
wandering demon of revenge. She longed to be in a position to return
impertinence!
Kathleen’s second number upon the programme of Mrs. Beaumoris’s
concert left no doubt of her success. Levitsky himself had conducted
her before the audience. Madame Anatolia had coquettishly (in view of
the audience) presented the girl with her corsage bouquet of violets.
As Kathleen retired again into the little room serving as a harbor
for the performers, the musical Miss Beaumoris (who kept outsiders
from intruding there), looking very sour, asked Miss Blair to allow
Mr. Rupert Thorndyke to compliment her upon her achievement.
Kathleen possessed just enough of the spice of Mother Eve to see that
this courtesy on the part of Miss Beaumoris had been wrung from her
by the newcomer. Madame Anatolia, whom Mr. Thorndyke saluted with
an air of cordial intimacy, leaned over and whispered in the young
girl’s ear:
“Take care how you enjoy the dangerous delight of his company in
_this_ house. They consider him their own particular property.”
Molly Blair, standing guard over her beautiful and successful child,
could not understand the reckless toss of Kathleen’s head, the
defiance of her curled lip.
“That lends zest!” Kathleen answered to Anatolia, who smiled. The
prima donna, knowing the world as she did, had no objection to enjoy
a small comedy behind the scenes. Nor was she disappointed. Rupert
Thorndyke, with an air of entire unconsciousness, refrained from
again turning toward the musical Miss Beaumoris. With his handsome
head bent over the newly risen star, he exerted all his powers of
fascination. He was no longer the cool, indifferent person who had
dropped in at the Blair’s little supper. Kathleen, excited, inclined
to accept him at his face value as a favored frequenter of the
Beaumoris’s house, and finding herself not a little under the spell
of his charm of manner and sympathy of taste, enjoyed retaining him.
Until the time Mrs. and Miss Blair left the Beaumoris’s house he
was in close attendance at their side. And when they parted he had
obtained Mrs. Blair’s rather dazzled permission to call upon them
the next day.
Thorndyke, meaning to put these ladies in their carriage, was
recalled on the portal by the imperious Miss Beaumoris, who had, she
said, to consult him about a protégé of hers she desired to launch at
his musicale on Wednesday.
“Until to-morrow, then,” said Rupert Thorndyke, regretfully turning
back.
“Mother, he is absolutely beautiful!” said Kathleen, with a girl’s
ecstasy, as they went down to stand on the sodden carpet waiting for
their cab to come up. “I think he must be some prince in disguise, or
something! Such a noble air, such aristocratic features! And better
than all, mummy dearest, he has confided to me that he gives music
parties at his rooms, and we’re asked to the next one, on Wednesday.”
“I suppose it is all right,” said Molly. “Or, of course, the
Beaumorises would not be having him.”
“They can’t always get him, as you saw,” said Kathleen, laughing. “I
hope it was not wicked to be as glad as I was when I saw their two
cross faces while he talked so long to me. But never mind the man,
mother. There is a joy still greater in store for me. He says if I’ll
play for him on Wednesday, I may handle his Stradivarius!”
The cab that had brought Miss Blair to the scene of her triumphs was
not forthcoming. The hoarse calls for it up and down the line were
unavailing.
“It’s but a step to the street-car, mother, if we run for it,” cried
Kathleen, gayly, peering into the half-darkness at the open side of
the awning.
“I will take you home, if you don’t mind,” said a voice out of the
crowd, and Colin edged his way toward them!
Colin was cold and out of humor. But he had lingered on, and this was
his reward.
“How delightful to see you!” exclaimed his lady-love, heartily, and
was indorsed by her mamma. “So strange you should be passing just at
this minute! It will be ever so much nicer having you, of course. Now
let us run, and jam ourselves into the next car.”
Mrs. Blair being seated with the violin-case on her lap, the two
young people stood side by side in the crowded aisle of a Madison
Avenue car going downtown. Colin heard from his eager comrade the
full account of her exhilarating afternoon. It made him sad, even
while his generous heart rejoiced in her rejoicing, to see that she
was already embarked with sails filled and pennons flying upon the
broad sea that would separate them. And he wondered she said nothing
about the person whose name excited his keenest curiosity.
Perhaps Kathleen felt guilty of having hailed rather too gladly Mr.
Rupert Thorndyke’s distinguished homage. But even Madame Anatolia had
told her that his verdict was of importance in the musical world.
“We all bow to him,” had said the good-natured donna; “and he is
badly spoiled, of course. Don’t let your feelings get involved, like
that poor, ugly Miss Beaumoris. Thorndyke is a mystery--and, I’m
afraid, _volage_!”
Kathleen had laughed! She had no fear for herself.
* * * * *
“And you are to keep on with this kind of thing?” now said Colin,
discontentedly.
“Of course!” exclaimed she. “Two ladies have already booked my humble
services; although one of them _did_ say, in excuse for herself, that
anything Mrs. Beaumoris started is sure to run on for a while.”
“I shall never hear you perform,” he went on. “So I’ll try to forget
it. If I had my way, I’d carry you off to a cloud-castle and keep you
shut in from all these insolent people.”
“But you can’t, Master Colin, so be satisfied,” said she, coloring a
little at the fervor he could not exclude from his tones. “And as to
hearing me, you shall have an opportunity without delay. Let us see
if you are so eager to accept it.”
“I will go wherever you bid me,” he replied, more and more under the
charm of her close vicinity.
“Promise.”
“I promise.”
“How one’s eloquence is jolted out of one by this!” she said, as they
swung around the curve into the tunnel. “Well, here is your chance.
Next week we are invited to a very exclusive musicale. Levitsky’s
to be there, and Anatolia--and I’m to play (think of it, Colin!) on
a Stradivarius! Wait, don’t interrupt me. We were asked to bring my
father, or brother, as our escort, and neither papa, nor Morry can
get off, I know. Papa has a club meeting, and Morry’s slaving, day
and night, to finish ----’s illustrations. So, if you’ll take us to
the party, we’ll be only too much obliged.”
“I will, of course. But tell me--it is a matter of the deepest
interest--who is to furnish your Stradivarius?”
“It belongs to the gentleman who is to give the party, and Madame
Anatolia says his rooms and collection of musical instruments are
‘things to be seen.’ He is one of the favorites of fortune, and is
coming to call on us in form to-morrow--and his name is--Rupert
Thorndyke!”
“I thought so,” said Colin, turning pale with excitement, and perhaps
a little jealousy.
“What, you, too, know about the wonderful Mr. Thorndyke? Oh! but,
of course, I remember, you met him at supper at our house when he
brought me those white orchids, and you gave mamma some lilies.
Don’t you think his face is like one of the angels in the photograph
over papa’s chair in the library? Now, don’t laugh--it is, exactly.
Mr. Thorndyke isn’t in the least my idea of a man of fashion. He is
almost artless--and his eyes are _so_ blue. Colin, what in the world
is the matter with you?”
“I do know something of your Mr. Rupert Thorndyke,” said the young
man, his face darkening. “But I shan’t tell you yet. It is borne in
upon me that a better occasion will come. And if you really accept
my escort, I shall accompany you with pleasure to this gentleman’s
party. A poor outsider, more or less, cannot spoil his harmonious
entertainment.”
* * * * *
Kathleen, wondering at all this, reached home, the ladies bidding
Colin good-by upon their doorstep. That evening, when Malvolio
dropped in to see Terence Blair, the news of Kathleen’s advance up
the ladder of fame was communicated to him.
“Sure and Kathleen’s the boldest little girl,” commented Granny.
“It’s my belief she’d have no fear to be called on to play before the
President himself.”
“I know little about Rupert Thorndyke,” said Terence; “but there’s
no doubt he will have only the best talent in his sling. But you,
Malvolio, who know everything--”
“Excepting the reason for Catullus Clarke,” interpolated the art
critic.
“--should be able to define for us the place of our new patron in the
arts.”
Malvolio shrugged, tossing his snaky locks to one side of his high,
white forehead.
“Rupert Thorndyke’s secret will never be fathomed until they dissect
him,” he said; “and then in the core of his heart will be found the
one word ‘Self.’ He is a monumental egoist, in the guise of a seraph.
He is brilliant and treacherous, unstable as water, holding no
convictions long enough to make anything he says or does of lasting
value. I am certain that he is half-educated, half-baked in all
respects. I believe most of his ‘experiences’ of life to be clever
adaptations from things other people have done, or told, or printed.
But he is vastly good company, and I’d be deuced glad if he were
coming to dine with me to-morrow. As to his status, he is apparently
well off--has one foot in Bohemia, the other in society--and comes
from nobody knows where. Lastly, we are informed that he might marry
the oldest Miss Beaumoris, and does not aspire to do so!”
The blushes dyed Kathleen’s cheeks at the confirmation of Colin’s
warning.
“Then you think, Mr. Malvolio, our girl had better not be seen at his
party?” said Mrs. Blair, anxiously.
“My _dear_ madame! On the contrary. I should like amazingly to be
seen there myself. It is sure to be a rare treat to eye and ear.
The women will be of the highest world only. The men judiciously
combined. But I have always had an idea that Thorndyke will some day
come a cropper. I feel like that fellow that followed the menagerie
around in order to be there the day the lion-tamer should get eaten
by the lions. The day the accident occurred was the one he was kept
away. I have a conviction I shan’t see Thorndyke’s discomfiture--but
I could wish that, to round out my theory of him, the fates might
accord to me this privilege.”
Kathleen, who would not have admitted to her mother even, the thrill
of excitement she had been in since receiving the first fruits of
Thorndyke’s homage, went to bed that night, feeling chastened in her
pride. With her last waking thoughts of the irresistible Thorndyke,
blended the image of loyal Colin, whom, after consultation with
their maid-servant, she now knew to have been waiting outside Mrs.
Beaumoris’s awning for her in the falling snow.
Molly Blair, too, following a long talk with her husband, that freed
her fond heart of its weight of pride in and anxiety for Kathleen,
went to sleep happy. With so many loving souls around her, Terence
had said, Kathleen would be well guarded, and such a fine nature as
their girl’s was not to be spoiled in an hour or a year by flattery.
And Molly’s last thoughts that night were of pity for poor Lottie
Beaumoris. The afternoon of sitting out the concert, listening to the
chatter of Lottie’s friends, had thrown broad light upon a career the
newspapers had made to seem so dazzling. Lottie, weighed down with
petty cares, a target for petty malice, was in her fine home not so
well off as Molly in her little threadbare house, full to the eaves
with ardent workers, living for each other and for the best that was
in them. Kathleen’s début had taught her mother this!
* * * * *
Carefully assuming his recently acquired evening clothes, and taking
heed, we may be sure, of the hints dropped by Kathleen on the
occasion of his former appearance in this conventional attire, Mr.
Colin Mackintosh stood prepared for what to him was to be a great
occasion.
Before setting out to the Blairs’ house he went to his neighbor’s
door and knocked. He knew that he should find Mr. Thorndyke sitting
doubled up over his newspaper, under the gas-jet; but to-night the
old man’s face looked more pinched and wan than usual, his breath
came shorter, the newspaper lay unread across his knees.
“I’m afraid you’re ill,” said Colin, kindly.
Hardly a day had passed since their first talk that he had not
extended to the friendless old fellow some word or look of sympathy;
and Thorndyke, although Colin did not know it, had conceived for him
in turn an almost paternal tenderness. In the utter loneliness of
his life the instrument-maker yearned for something to link him with
the world of everyday affection. Colin’s active step upon the stairs
had come to be music to his ear--Colin’s greeting a solace eagerly
awaited.
“Not ill, my dear boy; only a little down to-night. I begin to feel
the climb up these long flights. And so you are going off into some
gay scene, where people will be chatting and laughing? I don’t envy
you, for it’s getting on to ten o’clock, and after that hour I can
hardly keep awake in these days. There’s a long paragraph--nearly
half a column--in the paper about an affair that is to occur in my
nephew’s rooms to-night. I think I could tell you everybody that’s
expected there. There’s a young violinist--a Miss Blair--who has
made a hit recently--and some famous professionals. Mr. Mackintosh,
I ought to tell you, too, that since I let out that secret that’s
corroding me I have felt much ashamed. There was only this excuse for
it--a very little drink affects me, and I had already had a glass of
beer on my way home. The claret finished me. It did not confuse my
brain, but just loosed my tongue. What I told you was true, but it
should have gone with me to my grave.”
“You need never fear my making use of it unfairly,” said Colin,
pityingly. The meek submission of the man was sadder than his
outburst of wrath had been.
“I know I can trust you. I wish it were in my power to do something
for you, Mr. Mackintosh. If I die soon, you will have given me the
last gleams of pleasure in a disappointed life. I wish I could help
you in return.”
“You can to-night,” said Colin; “if you do not mind lending me, for
a purpose of my own, the fine scarabeus you showed me. It shall be
returned to you without fail to-morrow.”
“Willingly, dear boy, willingly,” said the old man, fumbling in his
waistcoat pocket and bringing out the sacred beetle wrapped in a bit
of tissue paper. “When I die I should like you to have this to keep,
and any other little thing I have. There are a few good books, and--”
“My dear friend, you depress me,” said Colin, taking the scarabeus,
and shaking hands with the lender.
“Do I? It never occurs to me to think of my death as _sad_,” said
Thorndyke, simply.
“Suppose,” said Colin, abruptly, “you had to wish for the thing that
would please you most--what would it be?”
“A sight of my Stradivarius!” exclaimed the instrument-maker, his
dull eye kindling with fond hope. “Mr. Mackintosh, something in
your face--it can’t be you have heard--no, I’m a madman to dream of
it--but it almost looked for a minute as if you have good news.”
“I may be wrong, and I may be disappointed,” said Mackintosh, with
an air of quiet conviction, nevertheless. “But I have an idea I’m on
the track of your lost treasure. If I succeed in tracing it, I shall
be more than glad. If I fail, you will be no worse off than before.
Good night. Sleep well, and awake in better heart for the morrow.
But before I go,--upon second thoughts,--I wish you would give me a
written order for your Stradivarius.”
After Colin left his room old Thorndyke abandoned himself to almost
childish glee. Next, for a while, he paced the floor, then, sinking
fatigued into his chair, meditated long.
It was twelve o’clock when he started up again, and taking the pencil
with which he had scrawled and signed the order Colin desired, wrote
some lines upon a paper torn from a memorandum book. Putting these
upon the table, old Rupert Thorndyke went peacefully to bed.
At the same moment Rupert Thorndyke the younger was presiding over
the entertainment at his rooms, for which fine ladies had been
for some time struggling to get cards of invitation. The host’s
vogue, grace, and tact had been at no time more conspicuous. The
affair, pronounced the best of its kind, was about to pass into the
chronicle of jaded pleasure-seekers as an eminent success. The turn
of Kathleen, who had played once upon her own violin, had now come
around again upon the programme. Mr. Malvolio--who, after all, _was_
there--had just sauntered up to whisper in her ear:
“They say he is going to let you try his Stradivarius. The rest of
the women are green with jealousy at this mark of favor. No one has
touched it heretofore.”
“If Mrs. Blair will allow her daughter to come with me into the
little room where I keep my treasure--” Thorndyke was saying to
her mother, who, with Colin behind her, stood guard over her young
violinist.
“Certainly. Go with her, Colin, please, and see that her head is not
quite turned by these honors,” said the unconscious Molly.
Colin needed no further impetus. In spite of a cloud passing over the
face of their handsome host, the stalwart fellow placed himself at
Kathleen’s side and accompanied them.
A room of small dimensions, but with solid doors, bolted as well as
locked. On the walls, in glass cases with a background of crimson
velvet, a small but exquisite assemblage of what might be called the
bric-à-brac of musical instruments. Violins were there, but Colin’s
eye sought in vain for one bearing the mark of a tiny hand with an
outstretched finger.
“What a delightful nook!” cried Kathleen. “How I wish there were time
to look over its wonders leisurely.”
“Some day--any day that you so ordain,” said the virtuoso. “I and
mine are at your command always.”
Colin, seeing Thorndyke’s face transfigured with delight in the
girl’s youth and beauty, raged inwardly. He recalled the value he had
heard him put upon all women, Kathleen in particular. Strong as a
lion to defend her, it was hard for the young fellow to now contain
himself until he had wrought out his plan to avenge the sins of this
Rupert Thorndyke against the one he had left in a shabby tenement.
He had no idea how he meant to bring about the conviction of this
man’s wrong-doing, or to seek for the restoration of the other’s
stolen property. But whatever he did, Colin meant that it should be
short, sharp, and decisive!
At last chance favored him. His heart beat hard as he followed
Kathleen and Thorndyke from object to object of the priceless array.
“I fear we should not keep all those people waiting for us longer--”
said the host finally.
“And I am palpitating with impatience to see your chief treasure,”
cried Kathleen.
“I have made a little shrine for it,” went on Thorndyke, stooping
to unlock a cupboard in the wall. A second inner door of polished
mahogany yielded to a key carried on the owner’s person. Within an
air-tight receptacle lay a violin-case, covered with rare leather
fantastically wrought in gold.
“Take and open it,” said Thorndyke, conveying this to a nest in
Kathleen’s soft bare arms. “You are the first woman that I have
entrusted with my beauty.”
“My beauty!” Old Thorndyke’s very phrase! Colin, the blood rushing
to his brain with excitement and indignation, looked on eagerly as
the instrument was taken from its case. There, in the exact spot
indicated by its rightful owner, was a tiny shadow in the wood
resembling a hand with an outstretched finger!
“The desire of my life is accomplished,” said Kathleen, lifting the
violin to her shoulder and letting the bow glide over the strings.
The sound that answered was like the wail of a reproach.
“It has been waiting all this time for you!” said Thorndyke, with
tender emphasis, regardless of their hearer. He, like Kathleen,
seemed to be under a sort of spell.
“Since when, may I ask?” interrupted Colin, quietly.
Thorndyke turned and looked at him in cold distaste.
“Since the creation of the instrument, no doubt. Certainly since it
came to me by inheritance.”
“By inheritance?” said the younger man, with deliberate doubt in his
intonation. “I think, Mr. Thorndyke, that your uncle, who bears the
same name as yourself, would give a different version of the way you
acquired this costly possession.”
Thorndyke started violently.
“Do you mean to insult me?” he said in almost a whisper, guilt
written in his face.
Kathleen, spell-bound by Colin’s stern looks, held the violin
breathlessly.
“I mean, Mr. Thorndyke, to make absolutely no fuss in this very
unpleasant matter. But I mean also to make it perfectly plain to
you that I know all about this Stradivarius with the mark of a hand
pointing. I am informed when and how it was taken out of your uncle
Thorndyke’s trunk in his boarding-house. And if you will give it up
to him quietly, I shall not say another word to any one concerning
it.”
“An ingenious method to possess yourself of a valuable piece of
property,” sneered Thorndyke, now livid with fear and rage.
“I have this to offer in exchange,” said Colin, controlling himself
perfectly, as he took out the scarabeus and held it, together with
the old man’s written order for the violin, for the inspection of the
thief.
“My dear Colin,” exclaimed Kathleen, greatly distressed and mortified
at the scene. “You must take me back to my mother. I insist--”
“Just as soon as Mr. Thorndyke gives a definite answer to my
proposition,” said Colin, fearlessly.
Thorndyke breathed hard. His eyes flashed with a vengeful luster.
He tried to speak, and could not. Then, looking furtively about
the room, and seeming to grow smaller in the action, he took the
Stradivarius from Kathleen, put it in an old and shabby case, and
replacing the empty ornamental cover in the secret chamber, shut and
locked this receptacle with elaboration. With a supreme effort, he
recovered his usual manner.
“You will give this to my uncle, with my compliments,” he said
lightly, putting the precious violin in Colin’s hands and reclaiming
the scarabeus. “And you might say from me, that although I know the
old boy is as mad as a March hare, I don’t like to thwart his dear
old fancy. I was about indeed, to inform him, through my lawyer,
that a sum of money coming out of an old investment of his and my
father’s, has been divided, and his share placed to his credit in the
---- bank. A thousand a year only, but enough to keep him in comfort
in the lunatic asylum, where I feel sure he will bring up.”
Kathleen, although he had avoided and ignored her in the matter,
had not waited for this ending. With crimson cheeks and in great
agitation, she had slipped out to rejoin her mother. A few moments
later heard their host, standing before his guests, offer a graceful
explanation that the condition of his Stradivarius would prevent Miss
Blair from to-night awakening its hidden melodies.
Colin, clasping the recovered treasure like the anchor of hope, was
in the lobby awaiting the ladies when they presently hurried out. On
the drive home he told them in simple but eloquent language the full
history of his old neighbor and the stolen violin.
When he had finished, Molly was crying quietly. Kathleen’s eyes
flashed upon him such approval as he had never seen in them before.
“I could _love_ you for what you’ve done for that poor old man,
Colin,” she cried, with Irish impulse, and stopped, blushing. “But I
don’t understand why Thorndyke made such a poor fight.”
“It was ‘coward conscience,’” said Colin. “For if I read him right,
he would cut off his right hand to avoid exposure or fiasco before
such people as were there to-night.”
* * * * *
“I could love you,” rang joyously in Colin’s ears as he ran up his
own steps, carrying the violin. When he reached Thorndyke’s room,
late as it was, he could not resist trying to get speech with his
friend. His light tap bringing no answer, he opened the door and went
in. The light over the transom showed him the old man lying in his
bed. Leaving the Stradivarius upon the table, Colin stole away.
The next day the people of the house found the old instrument-maker
sitting in his chair, a happy smile upon his face, the violin clasped
in his arms. He had been dead some hours, and on his table lay a
penciled will, bequeathing all that he died possessed of, “without
reserve,” to his “beloved young friend, John Walter Mackintosh.”
* * * * *
Thus, in due time, and to the enormous surprise of everybody
concerned, Kathleen came into possession, not only of her coveted
Stradivarius, but of a husband, with an income small but growing and
sufficient to enable him to withdraw his wife from public appearance
as a paid performer. Upon the authority of Mr. Rupert Thorndyke, who
lives and flourishes like the green bay-tree, this is said to be a
serious loss to the world of music, but Kathleen does not mind.
Malvolio still thinks the fall of Rupert Thorndyke is to come!