Towards evening he rang the side-door bell at Hippolyte’s, hoping to

get some news of her. The dark-skinned valet whisked off his coat,

dried his dripping hair and neck, and preceded him into the Turkish

room behind the shop. It was Hippolyte’s hour of rest before the

night’s activity; he was lying on a divan, a picturesque figure, in a

loose red silk robe. He waved Martin a welcome with his small white

hand, the diamond, set in platinum on his finger, flashing rose color

in the soft electric glow of the pervading red.

“_Sapristi_, Monsieur Steele. I was thinking of you.”

Martin dropped down in a deep chair, stretched out his legs. The aroma

of coffee and a whiff of perfumed opium lent a sense of warmth to his

chilled body.

“Of me? Are you in trouble again?”

His pipe-dream-visions changed into the cold reality of a check book;

he had often helped the man out of his financial difficulties, he

earned enormous sums, but the overhead expenses were fabulous.

“The money is nothing; it comes in and goes out like the tide. I am at

the end, the compass changes. We must in Life watch for the Warning.

We must train our ear to detect the direction of the wind.”

“You are superstitious?”

“We all are, if we knew its true meaning. Superstition is an intense

sense of the Invisible.”

Martin drank the strong Turkish coffee, puffing at his chibouk. The man

was a “hairdresser,” but that didn’t matter; Martin had no sense of

class.

“My time in this business will soon be over. I was the only one for

years when it was an ‘elite’ profession. Now it is vulgarized like

everything else. There is a clever Russian woman who is taking all my

customers; do you know why? The husbands are jealous.”

Martin laughed--he understood that; he would never allow this

fascinating, purring Greek to maul _his_ wife about.

“_Mon ami_, I know what you are thinking; you are wrong. They talk

a great deal about the immorality of the American woman. It is not

so--and it is a shame that it is not so. The French woman is honest;

she have her husband, her lover; he has his wife, his mistress.

Marriage is a success in France; they do not go about divorcing

themselves. Here marriage is a failure, because every woman, young,

middle age, old, talk of love!--it is only talk!--_mon ami_, talk!

talk!--but she _do_ nothing! nothing! Why! because she is afraid; the

fear is in her blood from the old times in America, the fear of the

‘Scarlet Letter.’ Oh! she can love, _Mon Dieu_! and if by accident

there is just a little false step, she make a scene, her relatives

make a scene, the press make a scene, everybody make a scene. Oh!

your Hawthorne did not know what harm he was doing to the future

women of his country. The French authors knew better. La nouvelle

Heloise--Camille, the heroines of de Maupassant, have set the women of

France a glorious example.”

Martin smiled. The fellow was clever, insolent.

“Do you know how it will end?”

“No, my imagination doesn’t take me any farther.”

“Bah!--it is easy, she will go back to the pale face and the straight

hair. You will see the little Puritan again. They have already

forbid us the wine, the splendid opium, the tobacco, silk stockings,

cosmetics, love--the whole nation will go to bed at nine o’clock--and

their money will choke them.”

Martin laughed, but the man was very serious; he put his hand on

Martin’s shoulder.

“_Mon ami_, you have been good to me. You know the Figaro has the

soul of an artist; I am going to be good to you. I am going to tell

you something you do not know; Mrs. Garrison will sail Saturday for

England, without her husband.”

15

The Garrison “shanties,” near the river, were kept in as good condition

as possible, but time and rats gnawed at their foundations. On one of

these the passer could read, with some difficulty, the faded letters of

an old sign, “Martin Steele and Son, Established 1830.”

Since Mr. Steele’s death, the business had been carried on by a Mr.

Waldbridge, who knew and followed the old conservative methods of the

defunct Steeles. Young Mr. Steele was expected to take his father’s

place as head of the firm, but he stayed away, took what money he

wanted, a ridiculously small amount for a man of his means, leaving the

surplus in the business. Waldbridge had written several times asking

him to come down and look over the books. Finally, he appeared. He was

a mystery to Mr. Waldbridge; all the young business men of the day were

eager speculators. He had expected new ideas, a business revolution;

but no such things happened. He would sit about, watch closely the

proceedings, but made no suggestions. His visits grew less and less

frequent.

“What does he do with himself?” thought Mr. Waldbridge. “He doesn’t

gamble. He’s never seen at the races or baseball games. His name has

never been connected with women. What kind of a man is he?”

Martin sat opposite him in the private office, flung his soft hat

on the floor, crossed his long legs; his hair was disarranged, his

face a yellow pallor; his clothes hung loosely, he was very thin. His

“appearance” struck Mr. Waldbridge as very un-American--he himself

being an Erie Road commuter with all the proud consciousness of a one

hundred per cent Nationalism.

He spoke cautiously of the hard times and unsatisfactory business

conditions. They had advanced money on large stocks of merchandise;

there was nothing to do but to hold on. If they forced the sale, it

would mean enormous losses.

“Yes, I know,” interrupted Martin impatiently. “We couldn’t go on

gorging money at that rate; we’d have to vomit it up sometime. No

stomach could hold it; that’s what we’re doing now. Some people die

suddenly from it; we’ll have a lingering end.”

Waldbridge laughed uneasily, really a very unpleasant young man.

“I hope we will weather it. I’ve been discounting--and--”

Martin interrupted again--discounting meant nothing to him--although he

was flying some moral “kites” on his own account.

“Do whatever you like; I’m out of it.”

Waldbridge rose to his feet.

“What do you mean?”

“You can take my father’s name down.”

“If you liquidate the business now, it will mean disaster.”

“I have no interest in it. I am leaving New York.”

Then Waldbridge broke down. It was terrible, a long-established,

respected firm--wreckage--pure wreckage; that word seemed to have a

fatal significance in Martin’s life.

“Can I count on, say, ten thousand a year for ten years?”

Julie was luxuriously inclined, because her heart had been empty. He

would take her away from cities; they would live somewhere quietly in

the country.

Waldbridge smiled. “You can always have that and more if you want it.”

Then Martin did a wonderful thing, so wonderful it left Waldbridge

speechless, staring at him. Was the man mad? There was a taint of

insanity in the family.

Martin read his thoughts.

“I’m thirty-two years old, and I know what I am doing. I want you to

turn this business into a company; every man in it, from the lowest to

the highest, must have his share. You, of course, will be the head of

the firm. Get a good lawyer and do it legally. You’ll have your work,

every mother’s son of you, to get the old hulk out of the mud; if you

do, you’re entitled to the spoils.”

“And the capital?” gasped Waldbridge.

“I told you what I want, the rest I’ll leave in business; you can’t go

on without it, can you?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the use of talking about it.”

He held out his hand; Waldbridge grasped it, trying to stammer out his

gratitude, but Martin was gone. He dashed out of the place, threw

himself into a taxi.

“Uptown.”

The New York chauffeur is accustomed to indefinite addresses. He looked

back at the man with his hat pulled over his eyes, crouching in a

corner. “A bloke who had lost his wad.” Then he wondered if it was a

defaulter or a gunman--some of them looked like perfect gentlemen. He

drove uptown, entered the Park. There he stopped. He was hungry; that

guy in the corner could sleep all day.

“Where to?”

Martin, pitched forward by the sudden jolt, glared at him.

“The Waldorf.”

He sprang up the stairs three at a time, too nervous to wait for the

elevator, looked around the room, which was in disorder; his man

couldn’t keep it tidy. Martin flung everything about.

He would take nothing with him but a dress suit case. He caught sight

in the corner of an old box covered with deerskin, tied together with

a thick rope; he had taken it from the garret after his grandfather’s

death, but had never opened it. He untwisted the knots, one after the

other. It was a hard job. It hurt his fingers. He took out a pair of

mountain boots, goat’s leather, with large nails in the soles. Martin

looked down at his feet; they would fit him. He pulled out an old

woollen shirt, a pair of corduroy trousers, a felt hat with a green

feather, a bright colored vest, and red handkerchiefs. There was a

small chamois bag with strange coins, Swiss money--Martin examined them

curiously; a pack of old letters, a photograph of a young boy and girl,

a cow, and a high mountain at the back. That mountain fascinated him;

he looked at it long, intensely. The raw boy and girl in Swiss dress

were his grandparents. Martin thought of his mother. On the back of the

card there was something printed which he made out with difficulty:

“Val Sinestra.” He had never heard the name. He put everything back in

the trunk and roped it; the idea came suddenly: he would take it with

him, to Switzerland.

16

After Julie left, Floyd spent his evenings at the club; there were many

strange to him. The membership had increased; it was still a mark of

class to be seen lounging at the club-window in the afternoon.

He missed Martin. He was different from the others. When he raved

against the world, he said things in bad taste, but often the bitter

truth. With a sudden impulse, he wrote a few lines, asking him to lunch

at the club the following day. He’d be furious when he heard Julie had

sailed. He’d say, “You might have given me a chance to send her a few

flowers.” Floyd smiled; yes, he liked Martin; more than that, he loved

him; he was interwoven with the memories of his childhood, his youth.

He wished that episode had not happened when Julie was ill, but she

was unconscious of it. She had never in all that time mentioned his

name. It was all in his own evil mind. He mentally asked pardon of

Martin. The next morning at breakfast he had a feeling of agreeable

expectancy.

The boy was crying upstairs. Bridget couldn’t quiet him.

“What’s the matter up there?”

The child fretted for his mother. He had caught a cold, and had been

kept in the house for some days. He was standing with his boat in his

hands, sobbing piteously. Floyd pacified him by running the water into

the bath which was sunken in the center of a tiled room. The boy handed

his father the boat.

Floyd turned it over in his hand.

“A costly toy. Mamma is good to you.”

“Mamma didn’t give it to me.”

“Yes she did--Mamma gives you everything.”

“She didn’t,” insisted the boy. “My Uncle Martin bought it for me.”

“Your Uncle Martin?”

“Yes. He came every day to the Park, and then he put a note in the

cabin, telling Mamma to come, and she came.”

“Where is the cabin?”

“You can’t find it, nobody but me.”

The boy in great glee pressed the spring.

“There’s no letter there!”

“Oh! no! I gave it to Mamma; she read it and tore it up.”

Floyd pushed the boy away. He was making a spy of his innocent child.

Why didn’t Julie tell him?

“Did Mamma meet Uncle Martin in the Park every day?”

“No, not every day; she’d stay away sometimes because Uncle Martin

scolded her and she’d cry. He loved me and petted me and said he was

going to steal me away.”

“But you wouldn’t leave me, would you, Joseph?”

The boy meditated, and then told the truth.

“Perhaps I would, Papa, if Mamma came along; but I don’t think she’d

come because Uncle Martin scolded her too much. I was mad at him and

said ‘Uncle Martin, you’ll have to beg Mother’s pardon; I always do

when I’m bad.’ Then Uncle Martin laughed and gave me such a long kiss

and said, ‘There, take that to Mamma and it will be all right.’”

Floyd sat motionless with the boy in his arms. The little fellow’s eyes

drooped, he slid down, pillowed his head on the big fur animal; those

glassy eyes brought Floyd back to Mrs. Gonzola--why did she always

watch Julie? He had never asked any questions about the unexpected call

on the telephone. He had been deliriously happy; there was no room in

his thoughts for the past.

He bent over the child, noting the beautiful powerful body; neither

he nor Julie had great physical strength. The boy would be a giant.

Why did Mrs. Gonzola press such a quick marriage? Why did she keep him

away so much during their short engagement? Why did she want Julie

to get “used” to the idea? As a child Julie liked Martin better;

they’d disappear and he’d wander about looking for them, then go home

disappointed. In his mad desire to get her, he had really done Martin

an injustice; he should have waited. He didn’t do the square thing,

because--he knew Martin would have won out! He bent lower over the

boy--trying to find some clue in that innocent face! The blood rushed

to his head--he must have it out with Martin--he couldn’t go on with

evil suspicions of his wife, his friend. Martin was no liar! He always

told the brutal truth, even if it were against himself.

The night brought sanity, consolation. Julie was foolish, but not

criminal. Her religion wouldn’t let her do anything wrong. She went to

Confession the day before her marriage; then he wondered--what did she

really believe? She was by creed a Catholic, but she taught her boy his

prayers in Hebrew.

He went early to the club and waited for Martin, who was late as usual.

He looked at his watch, and idly took up the morning paper.

His eye caught a headline. “The _Aquitania_ sailing with a

distinguished crowd on board.”

What! the ship already back and sailing again? It was the usual summer

rush; he knew most of the names. One riveted his gaze. He read it

once, twice, three times; the paper dropped from his hand. He saw that

name wherever he looked. Martin Steele had sailed on the _Aquitania_.

It was ten days before the next steamer crowded with pleasure-seekers

sailed for England. At the last moment Floyd came on board, too late

to have his name in the passenger list. The only cabin left was on the

lowest deck inside. He went down, locked the door, unpacked his valise.

Most of its space was taken up by a silver-mounted leather box--one

would say an elegant toilette case. He opened it, took out a brace of

shining pistols, examined each one carefully, and put it back in the

box. He had no definite plan, but when a man catches a thief in his

house he shoots him....

17

Martin arrived in London and put up at the Savoy; he noticed the crowds

of fine young fellows and beautifully dressed women.

“Is there anything unusual going on tonight?”

“Yes,” said the polite young clerk, “a dinner and dance, in honor of

Mrs. Garrison, an American lady.”

Julie had been received by the Ambassador in London with great

cordiality, on account of his old friendship for Jimmie Garrison. Mary

wrote to Mr. Garrison:

You have all reason to be well satisfied with your wife. We have done

the right thing. She is enjoying herself. She looks like a young

girl; the element which disturbed her has disappeared. I find her so

much more normal.

The letter never reached Floyd.

Martin stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed on Julie, who was

surrounded by eager applicants, waiting their turn to dance with the

“silver-haired beauty.” He took in the soft white neck, the dimpled

arms, the small classic head, and that something in the curve of her

mouth and yielding smile--a triumphant sensuality. She swept past him.

He could have touched her; he stood motionless.

Mary was up early the next morning. She stood looking at Julie, in

a deep sleep, her hair falling loose, enveloping her in a veil of

unreality; then she shut the door softly and went into the salon.

Waiting for her simple breakfast, she watched the passing busses and

pedestrians in the street below. All large cities are the same, but

different, like people; each individuality giving another form to the

Image or material symbol. London has a distinct personality; nobility

of character is unmistakably stamped upon it.

The door opened; she turned and saw Martin. There was a momentary fear;

then she was her quiet self again. Martin apologized for startling her.

They measured each other; he saw an enemy.

“Why are you so antagonistic to me?”

“I’m never antagonistic without reason?”

“What reason have I given you?”

She looked keenly at him. He was well groomed--a clean-shaven, intense

face, fascinating for some women; he repelled Mary. He has courage to

show his mouth, she thought.

“I have been sent here by Mrs. Garrison’s doctor; she has had a serious

illness, you know that.”

“Yes.”

“She may at any time fall back into the same condition. I don’t want

her to know you are here.”

“Why?”

There was a gleam of humor in his eyes; it angered her. Why should she

play policy with him?

“Because your presence may excite her. You are Mr. Garrison’s friend.

I hope you will take my advice and not try to see her until she has

finished her cure.”

“What cure?”

“She has been sent to a place in Switzerland called Val Sinestra, to

drink arsenic water; you see I am keeping nothing from you.”

“Very kind, I could easily find out. Val Sinestra?” The name was

familiar.

She stood with her hand on the door-knob waiting for him to go.

“Val Sinestra. I will write her.”

“I have orders to withhold any communications which may excite her.”

“Orders from her husband?”

“No, from her doctor.”

Her eyes shot fire at him....

He went back to his room, took out of his bag the bundle of old

letters. Yes, that was the name, “Val Sinestra”; it was Destiny.

There were two sides to Martin: a fiercely brutal realism, and a

mysticism, instinctively concealed. As a boy, he would lie night after

night, his eyes wide open; visions came and faded. It was always the

same struggle with an unseen horror. He would awaken from a restless

sleep, his face damp with tears. Those days he was very silent; his

stepmother called them his sullen fits. As he grew older the visions

vanished, but he had hours of deep abstraction, when reality slipped

away from him.

He sat in his room, the banal colored post-card of the two young

peasants in his hand. There was a sudden consciousness of Liberation;

the other self flew out and away through walls, over seas, over

mountain peaks, soaring, soaring. He sat there for hours motionless.

That evening the hotel clerk handed Miss Mary a note. It contained one

line scrawled on half a sheet of paper.

“Am leaving for Paris.”

She was very glad, she wondered how far it had gone between those two.

The responsibility was heavy.

18

At thirty-two Martin put his foot for the first time upon the soil

of his ancestors. He roamed through Zurich; mounted its narrow

cobble-stoned alley-ways, stood before an overhanging house reading

the inscription. “This house is three hundred years old.” The lives of

Zwingli, Pestalozzi became familiar. He read ravenously the history of

the town. He stood on the border of its blue lake, encircled with snow

mountains, “A Turquoise on a white bosom.” Something stirred in him,

an inward convulsion, like the sudden eruption of an extinct crater;

he broke into choking tearless sobs. Martin, unknown to himself, had

the Swiss temperament--a people without the gift of self-expression,

a deeply religious peasant race, silent before the mystic beauty of

their mountains. Patriotism, that misunderstood word, with its medieval

clashing of swords, its uniforms, its medals, has no relation to the

Swiss adoration of the soil. He worships his valleys, his lakes, his

waterfalls; they are living to him; he has a rage for the mountains;

he leaves his country to seek wealth, but he rarely stays in the

stranger’s land; nostalgia drives him home; he must get back to the

heights or die. Martin understood later why his grandfather went mad,

why his father was wordless, why his mother died young.

He tried his Swiss on the _portier_ of the Bauer au lac Hotel, a man

of all-round information, a veritable encyclopædia of Switzerland, who

could answer in the many languages of the cosmopolitan crowd, on its

way to and from the mountains. Martin spoke a few words to him in his

grandfather’s “lingo,” then said, “What am I speaking, anyhow?”

“Your dialect is Romontsch or Romance. Your people came from the

Grisons.”

Then he explained how in the Middle Ages the Barons and Bishops had

oppressed the people, and how they formed Leagues and fought for their

freedom. The Grisons took their name from the “Gray League,” a heroic

band of peasants.

Martin left Zurich by the early train the next morning; he sat

the entire day gazing out of the window unconscious of the other

passengers. A great moving picture shot before him--green valleys,

velvet hills, beautiful grazing animals, brooks changing into

waterfalls, cataracts dashing down dark ravines, mountains growing

higher, higher. At Tarasp he stayed over night to connect with the

stage-coach at daybreak, and spent the evening sitting outside with

the guides, who told him of the Val Sinestra, where the bandits used

to live in caves, deep down in the ravines, and smuggled wine over the

border. Then they spoke in lowered tones of the danger of mountain

climbing--of death--of miracles they had seen above in the mist, with

their own eyes.

With the rising of the sun, seated beside the coach driver, Martin

pierced the mountain passes; they stopped at a quaint hamlet.

“We turn here,” said the old man. Then he wished “Godspeed,” cracked

his whip, and went on. The coach pitched from side to side, on a

perilously narrow road, but the horses were sure-footed, and the

driver, past seventy, had gone the same way for fifty years.

Martin drew deep breaths of the fragrant air; he looked about him.

The houses were a mixture of old Swiss and Italian architecture--the

protruding windows and little balconies were covered with bright

flowers; in the distance he caught sight of a picturesque church and

cemetery. He entered an inn with a swinging sign; a rooster flapping

its wings. The spotless floors sprinkled with sand, the small counter

with shelves of bottles, the peasant girl in the costume of the

Canton--it was all so familiar. She brought him a glass of wine and a

pretzel, smiling at his jargon. He remarked on the absence of men.

“They are ‘up there’ with the cows for the summer.” She pointed to

the green hills, gradually becoming steeper. “In those little huts

on the top they make the cheese which they send all over the world.

In the winter the sun doesn’t come up very high; it is like a blue

twilight here. The storms howl, the snow falls for weeks. When the

peasant closes his eyes, the avalanche haunts him; if he awakens in

the morning he is grateful to God.” The girl went on chattering in her

soft “Romance.” “The doctor goes down to Croire in the winter, but our

pastor stays with us. We have service here when the snow is too deep to

walk to the chapel.” Then she put down the glass she was polishing, and

went joyously to the door to meet a tall man, a gigantic peasant, with

masses of thick gray hair falling to his shoulder. He was long past

seventy, but showed no signs of age. His voice rang out stentorian,

clear. He was warm, wiping the perspiration from his face with a large

red handkerchief. He looked at Martin with keen penetrating eyes. Then

said, “Good morning.”

“Oh, you speak English.”

“Yes, we have many English visitors. Our children are taught it in the

schools.” He looked again, seemingly puzzled.

“What is your name?”

“Martin Steele. My people come from over here.”

“Steele.” He shook his head. “I know none of that name.”

Martin took from his pocket the bundle of old letters. One glance at

them and the pastor’s arms were around him.

“I wrote those letters to your grandfather. I am his brother. You are

not an American, you are a Swiss. Your name is not Steele, it is

Staehli--Martin Staehli. The eldest of our family, for generations

back, was always Martin.”

Martin felt a throb of joy; the blood of this fine old man with the

head of a Roman ran in his veins. He had known only Aunt Priscilla,

whom he wanted to burn.

“Come, I am going to take you home with me.”

Martin looked back at the Swiss “Madel.” In her red skirt and velvet

bodice--an image of national womanhood.

They walked together down the hill, through the fields, past the little

chapel and cemetery where they stopped. On the headstones he read again

and again the name, “Martin Staehli.” He would bring his grandfather,

his parents and lay them where they belonged, and he would lie there

beside them.

The pastor looked up at the great mountain, already casting a shadow

over the valley; even in summer the day was short. The night came early

and lingered.

“We are not all here. My son was the best guide in the Canton. He was

lost in a snow-drift up there.”

At the châlet with its black beams, centuries old, still strong,

unyielding, he put his hand over Martin’s head and blessed his entrance

into the home of his fathers.

Martin stood in the long hall, vaguely conscious of atmosphere. A

cuckoo sprang out of an old clock, chanting the hour; a spinning wheel

with threaded flax; new linen piled up; a living thing, that wheel,

it clothed the people. Carved chests, plaques of fruit, birds cut out

by the natives, when the country was Italian--everything in the room

bearing witness,--a living story-teller of the lives and times of the

vanished family. For the first time he _felt_ the antique. He was

swayed by a kind of psychic storm, like a rush of wind through the pass

of a mountain.

The pastor at the door called, “Angela, Angela.”

A clear voice answered; she came down the path--a girl of sixteen, with

bits of hay in her flaxen hair, a child-like look of wonder in her blue

eyes, and something more--of mystery. Martin thought of Joan of Arc in

the orchard.

On seeing Martin, she gave a quick impulsive cry. The pastor put his

arm around her.

“What frightens you, Angela? It is my brother, Martin’s son from

America.”

Angela extended her hand, but her warm radiance had vanished. “Come out

in the sun, it is cold here.”

She brought mugs of thick yellow milk, brown bread, delicious chipped

beef, then went again into the field and sat sorting out leaves from a

basket. The pastor followed Martin’s gaze which lingered on the girl;

she appealed to his artistic sense.

“Angela is a wonder child; she is not of our family. I found her one

moonlit winter night in a snow-drift--a white angel. Since she came the

village has prospered; the people are happy.”

Martin smiled: probably the child of some unfortunate village girl.

The pastor read his thoughts. “She belongs to no one; she is a

miracle-child. You don’t believe in miracles?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

A simple question, difficult to answer. He couldn’t express the

longing, which from childhood had made him restless, unhappy--a

longing for some other space, some other element. He couldn’t explain

his agitation, his unbearable joy, when he saw those scenes of which

his grandfather had babbled in incoherent broken bits. He answered

conventionally.

“I wanted to see the place where my grandfather was born.”

The pastor grew very serious. “It was not a case of idle curiosity

you were drawn here; Angela knew you were coming. I used to tell her

stories of your grandfather, Martin Staehli. He was queer; had a streak

in him of evil. He got into a brawl with a guide and killed him; he had

to leave the country.”

“I never knew that,” said Martin.

“That’s why he changed his name. I wrote to him often, but he seldom

answered. Poor Martin, he got very rich.”

Martin laughed bitterly. That almost uncontrollable instinct to destroy

was his inheritance.

“Angela said the third generation would return home. She has the gift

of prophecy and of healing. She cures the people of their ills. The

cattle run to her for her herbs; there is a magic in them. She brews

them with Prayer, with Love.”

Martin shook off a peculiar feeling; it was all superstitious nonsense,

an insult to a man’s intelligence. He rose to go.

“You will stay here with us?”

“I’m sorry, but I must meet some friends. Where is the Val Sinestra

Hotel?”

“A little distance from here, on the other side of the hill beyond the

hay-field.”

Martin looked up at the straight stony walls of the big mountain.

“I’m going to climb that mountain,” he said.

The pastor smiled. “Perhaps, when you have had long practice; a man

must train himself to climb.”

The pastor watched him as he went with quick uneven steps, stumbling

here and there; he had no equilibrium. He’d never climb that mountain.

Angela was also watching Martin. The pastor put his hand on her

shoulder; she started.

“He terrifies me; I am afraid of him.” She threw herself sobbing into

the old man’s arms.

19

The pale women were coming up from the Springs, where they drank the

arsenic water with a prayer for red corpuscles, strength, beauty. The

Spring of Youth was in a cleft in the mountain--a dark mysterious

fountain of gushing water unlit by the sun.

Martin paced his room in the hotel. She was there, arrived two weeks

before; the cure was nearly over. The madness came back now; he had

been free of it for a few hours. It was like the relapse of a fever,

violent--vicious--raging. He had waited too long for her with stupid

patience, and more stupid scruples. He heard Julie’s voice downstairs;

he went to the window. She was standing on the terrace talking to Miss

Mary, who was leaving. She kissed Julie, jumped into the hotel omnibus,

and drove off. Julie stood a moment waving her hand, then turned and

entered the house. He heard her voice outside in the corridor speaking

to the maid. The next door opened; her room adjoined his.

The Sun-God sinking slowly behind the mountain scattered an orgy of

color. Julie stepped out on her balcony. There was a low railing

between them. He jumped over.

“Julie!”

She started with sudden fear, fled into the room. He followed, tried

to say something, stood speechless looking at her. She was wonderful.

The force of the rich blood surging under the white skin swept him like

a cyclone. There was a new intensity of life in her, quick flashes of

passion in her eyes. She gave a low cry, threw her arms out trembling

with uncontrollable joy.

“You! You!” She kissed him again and again. How she kissed him! then

drew him outside.

“Come! come! The sun is setting; it was too wonderful, I couldn’t bear

it alone.” His eyes held hers.

“I saw Miss Mary driving away.”

“Yes, she has gone to Tarasp to visit an old patient; she will be away

until tomorrow afternoon.”

A shadow fell; it was twilight.

“You must go now.”

He tried to hold her; she slipped out of his arms, shutting the long

windows after her. He went back to his room. Those fleeting moments

made him eager, desperate. The night was coming on; they were alone

together at the end of the world.

Miss Mary sitting in the train was troubled. She opened a telegram

and read it again, “Meet me at Tarasp. Say nothing to my wife. Floyd

Garrison.”

20

The little parlor of the hotel was filled with guests, assembled there,

as was the custom, waiting for the dining-room doors to be opened.

Martin, standing in the hall, a living symbol of electric force,

created a sensation. He drew nearer and took in the crowd of pale

women, young, nervous, with mysterious ills they could not, or would

not, explain to their doctor, who, for the lack of a suitable name,

called the sickness “anæmia.” He looked them over with an experienced

man’s compelling eyes. Some were very good-looking, would have been

beautiful under favorable conditions, but they were pale, with white

lips and drawn features, like plants in a dark cellar pining for the

sun. He became amusedly conscious of being the only man; he finally

espied in the garden a rheumatic old fellow, like the decayed trunk

of a tree. He felt a battery of admiring glances leveled at him. He

smiled, went to the foot of the staircase, waited for Julie.

They went in to dinner together. The table in a deep window at the far

end of the room was decorated tonight with an abundance of flowers.

Martin played with his food; he was too excited to eat, but he was

in wonderful spirits. Julie had never seen him like that; she had a

feeling of triumphant elation. He was handsome; the other women were

envying her.

He laughingly remarked about the Eden with one Adam and many

temptresses.

“They are all so white, as if frozen in ice; the Sun-God should come

and melt them.” He squeezed her hand under the table. “I am sorry for

the ‘good’ women. They sacrifice themselves for an illusion--chastity.”

She answered quickly. “The woman doesn’t think so. It is her religion.

It may mean nothing to you, but for her it is a spiritual compensation.”

“Oh, that’s Catholic,” laughed Martin. She shivered, drew her cape

around her.

Then he said, “Look how beautiful! The twilight is wonderful up here,

light mixing with darkness like two souls. How the valley stretches

out. Do you hear the rushing of waters? They are saying, ‘Give me

your body, I will heal you.’ Look! The mountain has a halo of red; it

catches at my throat and chokes me....”

He was poetic, inspired. He raised his glass. “The wine goes through

my veins like warm blood. If I were a doctor, I’d prescribe it for the

ladies.”

“Oh, oh,” laughed Julie, “forbidden fruit!”

“And you?” There was a laughing question in his eyes.

“I’m cured.” She drained the glass.

After dinner they walked up and down the terrace in front of the hotel,

like old friends who had not met for some time and had much to say to

each other. Gradually, the buzzing inside subsided, the pale creatures

evaporated, lights were put out; one glimmered in each corridor.

He drew Julie into a small summer house covered with vines, at the end

of the garden. The head waitress brought in wine. He thanked her--the

Swiss know the hotel business. He slipped his arm under Julie’s cape.

She resisted, but he held her close. She could hear his heart beating

violently. Then it seemed as if it stood quite still, but it commenced

soon to hammer again against hers.

“I must go in,” she whispered. “They close the house early.” She put

her arms around his neck, raised her face to his.

“How dark it is.”

“Yes. It’s always so before the moon comes up.” Then she slipped away.

He caught her back.

“Will you give me a signal?” It was a moment of suspense.

“Yes.”

He looked up at her room; there was a candle burning in the window.

“When you put out that light, I’ll come.”

He reluctantly let her go. She went up the stairs; he saw her at her

window. There was a white spirit also watching--the moon, that “Orbèd

Maiden,” chaste as the sleeping women within. Only those two were

living; with them it was Flood-Tide.

The light in Julie’s window went out. It was dark now, the moon ashamed

had turned away her face. He started to go; his feet were lead; his

body weighed them down. What ailed him? He shook himself like an angry

beast.

“Martin, don’t go.”

The voice was low, but very clear; did it come from without or within?

He didn’t know.

“Martin, don’t commit this crime; don’t rob your friend. If you love

the woman, do not destroy her; it is one throb more, one desire

fulfilled--and then--the Price....”

At daybreak, the gardener, crawling about, found the stranger in the

summer house, his head on the table, buried in his arms. He looked at

the empty bottles. The wine of the Canton was strong; he shook the

sleeping man, once, twice. Martin started up; where was he?...

The hotel was empty. The guests were at the Springs. A bath of mineral

effervescent water refreshed him, but that strange feeling came again

like a dream which returns in fitful flashes, fragments of color

impossible to blend. He paced the room; his eyes fell upon the deerskin

trunk he had brought with him. He opened it, took out the corduroy

trousers, boots, shirt--examined them critically. His valet had

pronounced them “only fit for the ash can,” but that didn’t influence

Martin. He had them cleaned, folded, and put back into the box. He drew

on the soft leather boots; they fitted him. The woollen shirt was

light and warm. Looking at himself in the glass, he saw a man of the

mountains--real, living. If a man buys a costume like that, it is only

a masquerade; this was his inheritance.

The omnibus came back from the Springs; he went down and helped Julie

out, seeking in her face the reproach he deserved. She smiled at him;

how sweet of her! The fact was, when Julie reached her room the usual

revulsion of feeling set in. She undressed quickly, dropping her

clothing in a heap on the floor, blew out the candle. There was a dark

form below--waiting--she stood breathless, her hand on the knob of the

door. Then--she turned the key, crept to the window, pushed the bolt.

She was securely locked in--she slipped into bed.

This morning she looked very girlish in a sport suit; the short skirt

grazing the tops of very high tan leather boots. A soft hat, pulled

down over one eye, gave her rosy face a touch of diablerie. She was all

animation, joking about his Alpine costume, casting roguish glances at

him; but he felt the undercurrent of emotion. He adored her.

“We are going out for a day in the woods.”

“You don’t ask, will I go.”

“No--but you will, won’t you?”

There was pathos in his voice, longing; she couldn’t resist him.

“Yes, but I must rest after the bath and dress lightly. The morning

here is cold; at noon it gets very warm.”

He bent down and whispered, “Wear white like a bride.”

During the interval of waiting, Martin studied a map of the Canton,

tracing lines from one Dorf to another, short walking tours through the

woods; there were plenty of little inns where they could rest. He paced

the terrace impatiently.

She came, all in white. A filmy scarf wound around her head, “à la

turque,” accentuated the Oriental in her. She laughingly drew the long

floating streamers across her face; her eyes shot fire through their

soft transparency.

A little wagon drove up; the peasant boy cracked his whip and they

started off. The road was smooth, sunlit. They stopped at the

Springs, where Julie made him drink the unsavory water “to clear his

complexion.” They were in high spirits, laughing at simple things,

like two children. When they reached the chasm, the road became steep,

narrow, with dark overhanging trees. Martin drew Julie close to him;

a mysterious something hovered about them, intangible in its beauty,

penetrating, wonderful.

The driveway ended there. The descent into the ravine must be finished

on foot. The lad took a basket from the wagon and set it on the ground;

then he cracked his whip and drove off.

21

At the Savoy, Floyd heard many flattering things about his beautiful

wife. He was silent, kept turning over the pages of the hotel register,

finally found the name he was looking for--“Martin Steele, New York.”

Then he wired Miss Mary and left at once for Switzerland, made quick

connections, arriving at Tarasp toward evening. The stage-coach from

Val Sinestra was expected. He paced up and down before the hotel, his

thoughts stinging like a swarm of bees.

He had married well, he was a happy man--in the world’s vocabulary.

Happy? A man who marries Beauty lives on a powder mine. The something

which compels adoration makes a woman unfit for matrimony. A man can’t

always be on his knees; that’s very well at night--but he becomes a

ridiculous figure in the daylight.

The coach shambled up the road. Mary was the only passenger; she nodded

and smiled at him. He helped her out.

“Were you surprised to get my telegram?”

“Yes.”

“You understood?”

Mary waited. She wasn’t sure how much he knew.

He spoke again excitedly.

“Why did Dr. McClaren send my wife to Europe without me?”

“Mrs. Garrison wanted it; there was no peace for her with that man so

near.”

He was watching her keenly. Did he think she was in collusion with his

wife against him? Her face burned; she looked straight at him.

“Mr. Garrison, it was an experiment and very successful. She is cured.”

He was ashamed. She and the doctor knew his dishonor, and then--the

world. His voice was hot--angry.

“He followed her to London; they were together at the Savoy.”

“No!”

“He was there.”

Then she told him of her encounter with Martin, and how he went away

without seeing Julie.

He had done them a terrible injustice? He was piteously grateful, held

her hands, made a foolish attempt to kiss them. She grew very pale,

and said, “Oh! Mr. Garrison!” He dropped them, very much embarrassed,

looked at his watch. It was already ten o’clock; the evening had passed

quickly, in spite of his misery.

“You are tired. I have been inconsiderate.”

“Oh no, but if you don’t mind, I’ll go to my room now.”

He stood at the foot of the stairs looking after her; she smiled back

at him. She was glad she had been able to bring him a hopeful message.

They started off the next morning, in a comfortable open carriage.

Mary told him funny stories about the “blood-poor” women and their

arsenic intoxication, showed him pretty twists in the splendid road

built by the Romans. They stopped at a little inn for a bite of cheese

and a glass of beer. He planned a trip to Lugano and over the lake to

Italy; he was in good spirits; the sense of relief acted like a strong

stimulant.

Mary was very loyal to Julie.

“Mr. Garrison, I can assure you everything is all right. I have written

to Rome at Mrs. Garrison’s request. After her cure she has plans to go

with you to visit Father Cabello.”

Floyd was very penitent.

“I am glad to know that. Father Cabello has a strong influence over

my wife. She has been too worldly; I hope he will bring her back to

religion.”

On arriving at the hotel, Mary went at once to Julie’s room; it was in

great disorder--everything scattered about, as if she had dressed very

hurriedly. Floyd downstairs was questioning the woman manager.

“Madame had gone with Monsieur Steele; they had taken luncheon with

them. Did Madame expect Monsieur Garrison?”

“No. I wanted to surprise her. Do you know where they went?”

“Yes. The boy who drove them is here.”

“I would like to find them, if possible.”

The woman went to order the wagon.

Mary was pale, agitated.

“Mr. Garrison, when I left your wife, Mr. Steele was not here.”

He didn’t answer; he frightened her.

“What are you going to do?”

“Find her and bring her back.”

“A storm is brewing,” said the woman. “They come up quickly and are

terrible while they last.”

The wagon drove up; he jumped in. Mary stood watching him till he was

out of sight. The clouds gathered; the wind slunk into its den.

Floyd pushed back his hat, wiped the perspiration from his forehead; it

was stifling.

22

The lovers stood together on a grassy plateau, the sun poured bright

beams of light; below was a dense mist.

“How wonderful,” said Martin. “Nature has kept a sunny spot for us;

we’ll stay here awhile.” He drew his “lodin” cape around him, stretched

himself out on the grass, looking up at the golden clouds surrounding

the sun, looking below at the rapidly rising veil of gray; it was

glorious.

Julie took bread, fowl, wine out of the basket; they ate with their

fingers and drank the wine out of the bottle. The sun glimmered red

through the dark clouds. They were silent; then he spoke, quietly at

first, becoming gradually very much excited.

“Why did you throw me over so heartlessly, after you promised me

to prepare your mother? I knew it was useless; I had made all my

arrangements--I had a cabin engaged on a French steamer--”

Julie tried to justify herself, then began to cry hysterically; she

had never broken faith with him. He couldn’t imagine what she’d been

through all her life. The pressure of those two terrible religions:

her grandfather dragging her one way, her mother threatening her with

eternal punishment.

He tried to soothe her.

“Don’t cry, Julie, I’ll make it up to you. You will be happy for the

first time in your life.”

“But Floyd--he’s been so good--you always came between us, pushing him

away.”

She slipped out of his arms. It was Floyd now coming between them, it

wasn’t so easy to push _him_ away. They had been friends so long. Floyd

was the innocent victim. Martin’s eyes roved restlessly--and that gray

mist--rising!--rising!

She waited for him to speak; then she went to him like a child,

piteous, pathetic.

“Martin, don’t be angry with me--I love you--but the winter here is

cold; the snow is like a winding sheet--I couldn’t bear it!”

She was wavering again; it brought him back, fiery, impatient--

“We will go to Lugano, Italy, Spain; you will get your divorce, I will

marry you.”

“No! No!--there is no divorce in the Church--I am afraid of Father

Cabello.”

Those fear thoughts--how they tore at her!

He took her in his arms, kissed her until the color came back to her

face, the warmth to her body. She was his absolutely; he could make her

do what he wanted--but--he mustn’t leave her.

Then she gave a sudden cry. It was like an animal in pain.

“What now? What now?”

“My boy! You won’t let them take him away, you must promise me that.”

“Julie, look at me.”

She raised her heavy lids and met his searching glance; their souls

questioned mutely, answered mutely. He drew her closer.

“You shall have your boy. I promise you. Are you satisfied now?”

“Yes--”

She was tired, beaten to exhaustion by the force of rushing psychic

waves, breaking against her weak will. Her head throbbed; she tore off

her scarf; her hair dropped in a thick coil, down her back, like a

writhing white snake; he wound it around his neck.

“This was my punishment.”

“No! No! Our love was not a crime. You fought too hard against it.

Nature put her hand on your head and turned your hair white; it was

her revenge.”

Julie listened, fascinated; he was irresistible like that, his voice

vibrating. Every nerve in her body responded. He stroked her forehead

softly, the pain ceased. How happy she was! how happy.

“You are a woman of the Orient; you are starving for love; it is your

life--you cannot fight it; it is too strong for you--for me, come!

come!”...

These children of passion went down into the mist.

He carried her along in his strong embrace, lifting her over the

stones, her feet scarcely touching the ground; there was a wonderful

sense of lightness, as if she had thrown off a heavy load. The fog was

cold; it dampened her face, her hair. They reached the bottom of the

ravine; the clouds around them moved, disclosing a little wooden house,

which had been hidden in the mist. Now it stood out clearly--a bit of

beautiful old architecture. Julie shrank away.

“It is a chapel; see, over the door, the cross. Take me home! take me

home!”

He laughed mockingly.

“Nonsense, you must get over your religious superstition. The chapel

will shelter us from the storm. Come, let us go in.”

“No! No!--not there!”

She fled, he followed her; the mist dropped like a curtain between

them, growing thicker, thicker.

“Julie, where are you?”

He heard her voice close to him.

“Here.”

He took her in his arms, wrapped his cape about her; she clung to him.

He was deliriously happy; he held her in a frenzy of possession.

“Julie, my love! my love!”

The mist rose slowly, the red rays of the setting sun penetrated into

the ravine, they were enveloped in flames. He could see her face now

distinctly as she lay in his arms.

The mist vanished like magic, and--there--there!--he saw--no! no!--it

couldn’t be!

Floyd’s voice rang out through the pass, struck the mountainside, and

came back.

“Julie!!”

Martin held her with a fierce joy. He would stand now in the open for

what he was. Julie was crying pitifully. He was very tender. He soothed

her like a child.

“Hush! Hush! It is better; there will be no more lies.”

Floyd’s first impulse was to drag her from Martin’s arms, but he stood

motionless listening to her sobs. Then she tore herself away, with an

appealing cry. “Floyd! Forgive me! Forgive me!”

That set both the men on fire. Martin gave an angry growl.

Again Floyd’s voice rang out.

“Julie, you are my wife. You must come with me!”

A moment’s silence, the trees motionless, the clouds sullen, waiting;

then the voice of Nature, so long suppressed, broke out in Julie.

“No! No! I belong to Martin! I will not leave him! I cannot!”

Martin stood a little above her, he put out his hand to draw her up,

she smiled at him. God! her joy!

Floyd raised his pistol, fired; Martin’s arm fell to his side. Now

burning with a murderous rage, he sprang forward at closer range.

“This time through the heart!”

With a cry of horror, Julie wrested the pistol from his hand. It

fell some distance away, went off, reverberating through the valley,

arousing the people. The pastor heard it in the little chapel, where he

had gone at the approach of the storm. He came holding up his lantern,

seeking the cause. A fierce gust of wind blew through the ravine,

whirling, in a dervish-like dance of fiendish fury.

Then the demon in Martin went out to meet the tearing forces of nature.

“Fool! Fool! You cannot hold her! She was never yours! never! She is

mine by Nature’s unalterable law!”

Floyd’s agonized tones rose above the wind.

“Julie! Julie! I want to save you from a terrible fate! look at him!

Can’t you see! He is mad! mad!”

That word struck Martin a fatal blow. He put his hand to his head;

there was a look in his eyes like a stricken beast pleading for mercy.

Floyd never forgot it.

“No! No!--not that--”

He turned and fled, stumbling over rocks, through bushes, a terrible

horror pursuing him, stretching out its giant claws to entangle him

Mad! Yes, he was mad! It was his inheritance! The storm raged, crashes

of thunder, flashes of lightning; an enormous tree sprang into the air,

its great quivering limbs cleft in twain. The pines wailed, muttered,

waved their long arms; he staggered on, fighting the elements without,

within. He was conscious of climbing; his strength grew; fear made him

superhuman. He heard a voice behind him calling. Mad! Mad! He went on

crashing through obstacles, going up! up--there was no measurement of

time, of distance. He stood on the first peak of the great mountain. It

rose before him, a straight wall of stone; a deep chasm yawned between.

He threw out his arms with agonizing longing.

“Up there! Up to the top!”

There was no trace of mist. The air was cold, the sky studded with

brilliant planets; their light searched his soul. He saw clearly the

jungle within him, the tearing beasts of passion, the wreckage, the

futility, the dark future! He raised his head to that glory once more;

then with a cry of despair he went over the precipice.

23

The pastor followed Martin to the foot of the mountain. He could go

no further; the ground was slippery, dangerous. He retraced his steps

with a heavy heart. He was filled with righteous anger. One of his name

had dishonored a woman; he must make restitution. He found Julie in a

frenzy of fear, calling again and again, “Martin! Martin!” She stood

like a white spirit, erect in the storm. The lightning rent the clouds;

then the floods came down.

They carried her to the shelter of the chapel. The little building,

centuries old, was originally a storehouse for contraband, a refuge for

bandits who hid themselves from the gendarmes, among the wine barrels,

in the caves beneath. When the Church took it, they brought a beautiful

altar from Italy, and artists who painted religious figures on the

walls. The wine caves were partitioned into cells, where pious monks

prayed and rubbed their rheumatic limbs. Finally, this holy place, a

victim of skeptical times, was used as a theatre, where allegorical

plays dealing with the political and religious history of the country

were performed.

When Julie became conscious of the dimly lit altar, with its faded

velvet and gold lace, its figure of the Virgin in painted wood, she

stood transfixed; she saw herself on the day of her confirmation, her

mother putting around her neck a gold chain and cross, she heard her

own voice repeating the Confession of Faith, the organ pealing the Hymn

of Praise, the lights, the Presence! With a cry of anguish she fell on

her knees.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, have pity!”

Then a deep, tender voice filled the chapel--the voice of Father

Cabello.

24

Father Cabello was a mystic. Brought up within the walls of a

monastery, dedicated to Heaven from his birth, he saw the will of God

in every event of his kaleidoscopic existence. He had travelled much,

studied much, with the one ever-dominating ambition, which slowly but

inevitably came to its fulfillment. The Gonzola family, with money and

influence, had in those two generations been a great Catholic influence

in America. Father Cabello was the power behind it. He had sustained

Mrs. Gonzola, that devout, pious woman, in her awful struggles with

Joseph Abravanel. He loved Julie, held himself responsible for her

soul. He would save her, as he had saved her mother.

He had been ill in Rome, stricken down with fever, caught in the

unsanitary quarters, trying to improve the deplorable condition of

the people; he went down under a hopeless task. Many a night, seated

at his luxurious table, with its rich appointments, its costly wines,

a terrible thought would come again and again: Was the poverty of

its children a curse laid upon the Holy City, for the generations of

intolerance--its auto-da-fé, its crusades? He tried to drive those

haunting spirits away; he was not the Judge, only an insignificant

part of an indestructible Institution, a symbol, the moulded image of

an Iron Will. Delirium consumed him. He was for weeks near death; then

came very slowly back to life. Lying on his flowered terrace, the great

panorama of Rome before him, he thought of Julie. She had written to

him often after he left America, but her letters grew less frequent.

Before his sickness he had received a short note from Mary, telling of

Julie’s second collapse and her trip to Switzerland: the arsenic waters

at the Val Sinestra had helped her wonderfully; the cure would end July

twenty-second. There was apparently nothing to cause uneasiness in the

letter.

Father Cabello was ostensibly of Jesuit origin, but he possessed a much

older secret inheritance from the time when his ancestors were noble

Spanish-Maranos, deeply versed in deception and the Talmud. He scented

the trail of disaster. Why had not Julie written to him herself? Why

had she travelled to Europe without her husband, her child? Why? Why?

The doctors advised him to go on a visit to America, where the climate

would drive the malaria out of his system. He refused; his strength

was not equal to so long a journey. Then they advised Disentis in

Switzerland--one of the few strong-holds left to the Church. He was

haunted with the thought of Julie. He would go to the Val Sinestra and

see for himself.

Disentis--its crumbling piles of stone, monasteries of the seventh

century, its stillness, its health-giving air, the wonderful healing

waters, gushing from the earth into natural rock basins, hollowed out

by Nature’s hand, the frugal fare, the rising at the first glimpse of

dawn, the pervading sweetness of the bells, prayer, which had a new

sanctity, as if nearer the Divine Fount--there he gained new spiritual

inspiration, new physical strength--there during the summer months

the Benedictine Friars welcome their brothers from all corners of the

world. Father Cabello clasped hands with monks of many orders. The

Trappists appealed strongly to his affection--bare-footed, humble,

rich in knowledge; he never tired listening to their many colored

experiences. He was eagerly questioned about America, “the land of

unbounded possibilities.” He had a store of humorous stories, which

were greeted with low chuckles and spasmodic movements of the diaphragm.

Walking with the Father Superior one day, in the surrounding woods,

that benign forest which protects the children of God from the

avalanche, Father Cabello asked about Val Sinestra and how he could get

there.

“Easily from here; my carriage is at your disposal--a drive at leisure

through the mountains, a most beautiful and interesting trip. Near

the Val Sinestra, there is an ancient bit of architecture, a deserted

chapel; it is now the property of a poor community headed by a great

man, Pastor Staehli; the Church should buy it back.”

“I will see to it,” said Father Cabello.

The next day he started out; there was no trace of anger in the blue

sky, but the driver pointed to a small watery cloud low on the horizon.

“We are going to have a storm; would it not be better to wait until it

is over?” said the Superior.

Father Cabello hesitated, then he answered:

“I want to be at Val Sinestra before the twenty-second. I am being

pushed by a strong impulse, which has some mysterious significance--a

call for help from one I love.”

“Then go, in God’s name.”

That drive through the mountains was a sacrament. Father Cabello bowed

before a great God, clothed in a sacerdotal vestment of Nature.

“There is the chapel,” said the driver. It was distinctly visible in

the valley below.

Suddenly a shot rang out.

“What was that?”

The driver shook his head. It seemed to the excited imagination of the

priest like a discharge signalling a great battle; then the fury of the

Invisible broke, the man whipped up his horses, and dashed down the

incline toward the chapel....

It is wonderful in the mountains after such an outbreak of electric

force; the Prince of Light marches majestically in the Heavens

showering gifts of prismatic gold; a Master Chemist, he will create

again from the storm wreckage; the stricken trees will sink into the

bosom of the earth and moulder there, generating in Nature’s crucible

new germs of Life, and the little dark pine-children will be born.

25

Floyd paced restlessly outside the chapel, listening to Julie’s sobs

and the voice of the priest, tender, persuasive, stern, threatening.

Once before he had pleaded with Joseph Abravanel; now a second time

he is pleading with his wife! His wife? No! No! Lies! Lies! She was

never his; she belonged to Martin by the unalterable law of Nature.

They would go on saying that. He would always see them with their arms

around each other. He had been cheated! cheated!

A sharp bolt of light pierced the dark valley, shone on the battered

cross above the chapel, glanced off, lit up the silver trimmings of the

pistol on the ground. He picked it up. The voices in the chapel rose

and fell.

“You must go back to your husband.”

“I will not. I belong to Martin; I will never leave him. I cannot.” Her

voice was sharp with agony. Floyd shuddered; why should she be tortured

like that? Why? If he were dead they could live. He _was_ dead, burnt

to cinders. The tongues of flame in his father’s workshop had crept

into his body, consumed it; there was nothing left but the shell--easy

enough to put an end to that clay image!--“Shoot its head off!”

The pastor wrested the pistol from the hand of the distraught man, led

him through a trail to the châlet, and left him with Angela. He was

quiet now; he lay back in a chair with closed eyes. She sat and watched

him, passing her cool hand over his hot forehead; the lamp shed a soft

glow over the pale face, the well-shaped head, the regular features.

A splendid human species, those Americans--a youthful race, a type

ennobled by climate, good food, and labor that develops character. She

thought of the cretins of her own beautiful land, of the degenerating

races of Europe. This man was like Dresden china, fine, very fine; but

there were deep lines that made the face look old; the chisel of Life

had cut deeply into him. She bent over him.

“Come with me.”

He looked blankly into her soft radiant eyes. Who was she?

She took him up the narrow stairs into a small room with bare white

walls, a little cot, a bunch of Alpine roses on a table by the window.

“Will you try to sleep?”

“No! No!”

She led him to the balcony, a nest under the overhanging roof.

“Sit here; you will sleep.”

She put him in a reclining chair and left him.

The moon shone on his flushed face; the valley was filled with soft

shadows; the mountain raised a luminous head. The air penetrated his

agonized body. An hour passed; a white figure stood beside him.

“Come in! The night air in the mountains is too strong for strangers.”

He saw her through a mist, his eyes dim with overpowering sleep. He

fell on the cot--she covered him with a warm blanket....

The pastor called the guides together; they came with their ropes and

axes. He spoke tersely; they were used to action, not words.

“A man had gone up the mountain in the storm.”

Then he gave a low whistle. There was a panting, a breaking through

the bushes. A dog threw himself upon the pastor, who bent over him,

stroking his thick coat with a magnetic touch. He gave him Martin’s

mantle, the dog tore at it, dropped it. The pastor whispered, “Find

him.” With a low whine the animal plunged into the thicket, the guides

followed, their strong throats propelling sounds that echoed to the

unscaled heights.

26

The hotel was in an uproar. The pale women, excited by the storm,

could not be kept in their rooms; they crowded the corridors, uttering

plaintive cries. The quick flashes of lightning revealed little groups

huddled together; one poor thing quite lost her control. She betrayed

her terror in a strangely interesting manner: rushed to the long door

opening onto the balcony, baring her white bosom to the storm. She was

wonderful as she stood there, her face rapturous, like a woman lifting

herself to the embrace of her lover.

The storm passed. The pale women fluttered in the sun, holding up

their bloodless hands to its warmth, chattering, laughing over their

“thrilling” experience.

Mary was terribly worried about her friends. The carriage had not come

back. The proprietress thought the party had been driven through the

short cut to the pastor’s châlet.

“But the shot!” said Mary. The woman looked grave. It was not hunting

time.

When the carriage drove up with Julie and Father Cabello, Mary knew

something terrible had happened. She grew very pale, but she had

been trained to ask no questions. Julie was quiet, with wide-open

horror-filled eyes. Father Cabello took Mary’s hand and spoke gravely.

“There has been an accident. Mr. Steele has been lost in the storm;

they are looking for him.” She caught her breath.

“Mr. Garrison?”

The priest pierced her with his understanding eyes.

“Mr. Garrison is safe; he and his wife will leave here by the early

train tomorrow. Will you see to everything?”

“Yes,” said Mary.

Then his voice hardened.

“No matter what happens, they must go; nothing can prevent that.”

Julie let herself be undressed and fell into a lethargy. Mary tried

several times to awaken her; she would open her eyes and fall again

into that trance which was not sleep.

The pastor came over to the hotel to see Father Cabello. They talked

long into the night, of Floyd, Julie, of the fight against Martin. The

pastor repeated again:

“He is one of ours; he has done wrong. He must make restitution.”

Father Cabello was troubled. Julie had shown unexpected strength. He

must find a way to bring her back to the Church, to submission.

The next morning, early, Mary was surprised to find Julie up and

dressed. The hotel was closing that day. The trunks had to be locked

and taken down. Julie watched her moving about.

“If I could get out of this room--it is horrible.”

A hotel room before the departure of its occupant, with its torn

newspapers, remnants of food, bedclothes thrown in a heap--there is

nothing more desolate, more inexpressibly forlorn.

They went down to an empty room on the ground floor, misnamed the

“children’s playroom.” The pale women were unmarried or childless.

Julie moved continually from one window to another; when she saw Father

Cabello and Floyd coming up the walk, she shrank into a corner, a

terrified hunted thing.

Father Cabello found Floyd very quiet; whatever may have been his

feelings, he had them under perfect control. He answered the priest’s

questions in as few words as possible, and listened without comment to

his sophistical justification of Julie.

“Perhaps your wife was not all to blame.”

“Perhaps not.”

“You know Julie’s nature--she is easily influenced.”

“Yes, I know.”

“The man must have persecuted her.”

“Perhaps he did.”

“I don’t wish to blame _you_, but knowing what has happened and the

desperate character of the man, was it right to let your wife travel

alone?”

“Perhaps it was not right. But it didn’t occur to me.”

When they entered the room, Floyd stood quietly at the door. The priest

went to Julie and took her hand.

“Julie, you must ask your husband to forgive you.”

The answer came again:

“I will not. I belong to Martin; I will never leave him!”

The priest’s wrath was terrible. He stormed, threatened, pleaded--she

must go with her husband; there must be no scandal. She must go home to

her child.

Floyd was white to the lips--Mary couldn’t bear it. She rushed out of

the room....

The pastor came up the terrace; Father Cabello went out to meet him and

brought him in. He spoke quietly, with deep feeling.

“The guides who were seeking Martin Steele have come down from the

mountain.”

“Have they found him?”

“Yes. He is dead.”

There was a silence. It was Floyd this time who cried with a rush of

repentant agony:

“Martin! I killed him! I am a murderer!”

“No! he himself was responsible. He met the fate of the rash. A man

must know the precipices and how to avoid them before he tries to

climb.”

Again came the cry from Floyd:

“I shot to kill! I shot to kill!”

“The guides followed his traces up the mountain; there were signs

that told a human thing had passed. He must have gone over at the

first plateau. They went down as far as they dared. There were broken

branches; the violence of the fall tore up a young tree with its roots.

Come with me, I will show you where he struck the trail. There was

madness upon him, his senses wandered, the inevitable happened.”

They stood in the quiet woods and looked up at the wall of stone where

Martin had said, “I will climb that mountain.”

The pastor put his arm around Floyd.

“My son, you have been through more than your share of trouble; don’t

burden yourself with morbid self accusations. He was your friend; he

betrayed you. He made the only reparation--death. Try to think kindly

of him. Under natural conditions he would have been a brave son of the

soil. He was robbed of his birthright....”

Julie shed no tears. The old fear was upon her; the Punishment had come

again in the shape of Death, and _he_ had paid. The priest worked upon

this superstitious dread; it was the only way to subdue her. “God had

punished her for her crime against her husband. He would punish her

further; she must go home, she must go back to her religion, God had

struck Martin with the whip of retribution. He would bring it down upon

her shoulders if she did not repent. A great calamity would happen to

her child.”

She was cowed, humble, on her knees before him begging for mercy. He

confessed her, and gave her absolution.

Mr. and Mrs. Garrison left by the afternoon train; they were a pitiable

sight, these two unhappy children wondering why the world was so dark,

the pain so hard to bear. The priest spoke the last words.

“My children, you are going home. You will be happy again, if you do

not nourish your misfortune. God has given us the magic of memory, and

a still greater blessing, the gift of forgetting.”

They bowed their heads to his blessing. The train left the station,

wending its way in and out of the tunnels.

“When I watch those undulations,” said the pastor to Father Cabello, “I

think of a serpent crawling into the great centers of vice, carrying

with him the modern Adams, the curious Eves, who will eat copiously of

the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge.”

The priest smiled. The simile appealed to his mind trained in Biblical

metaphors.

“I have no fears for our young couple; the New World moulds its people.

The practical life of which they are an integral part will make their

road clear to them. I have lived long in America. It is a land of

proof, not belief; of practical results and a kind of idealism which

is expressed in action. There is no time for dreams; inspiration feeds

only on quick realization. A land of no secrets, where publicity

methods are applied alike to business, science, literature, religion.

That which cannot be exploited is called ‘high-brow’--but there is a

saving humor in it all. America is a great country.”

The pastor answered with just a touch of good-natured satire.

“If there are no secrets, how is it that the Church has prospered

there?”

The priest smiled enigmatically.

“The Church adapts itself....

“I am going back to Rome, with a mind at rest. We have held together

the thread of two lives which threatened to snap, nay, three lives:

there is a boy whose career must be watched closely. Other forces are

at work--race impulses; they must be eradicated.”

“Is that possible?”

“Yes, but difficult. I shall bring the boy to Rome; there, all other

influences will be neutralized.”

The pastor offered his hospitality for the night, which was gratefully

accepted. It had been a turbulent time ending happily. The priest was

in a frame of mind harmonizing with the beauty of approaching twilight.

They sat outside the châlet. The pastor filled long glasses with the

wine of the Canton, which expands the Soul. They sat there, looking

into the Val Sinestra, until the sun scattered rubies and the moon

threw down a silver veil.

They talked of the future of religion and the wave of unbelief sweeping

over the world.

“When I meet a man like you,” said the priest, “I regret the loss to

the Church. Protestantism was at best a frail child; it cannot survive

without support. Why should it not come back? We would kill the fatted

calf to celebrate the return of our Prodigal Son.”

The pastor saved the situation with a fine sense of humor.

“My friend, we are not father and son: we are brothers, prodigal

children of the great original God of the Hebrews.”

The priest’s eyes gleamed.

“Then why not a family reunion? It has been my life’s dream--all sects

united in the spacious bosom of the true Faith.”

The pastor nodded in silent approval. Then Luther would come into

his own. At this same moment, far away in the East, the muezzin was

chanting from the minarets, calling the people to prayer. “There is

but one God, and Mohammed is his Prophet,” and at this same time,

millions of humans, prostrate before Buddha, were praying to attain the

perfection of the Soul--Nirvana; and the “chosen people” once again

in Jerusalem were praising the “only” God, who had led them out of

exile into the land of their fathers. The priest and the pastor would

soon solve their problem--they were both approaching with silent rapid

steps, the solution of the Great Mystery.

The next morning Father Cabello thanked the pastor again for his good

offices. He was a practical man, and in the light of day, dreams

evaporate. He did not speak of buying the chapel; he wanted to go in

peace.

27

Angela sat at the wheel, her quick skilful fingers spinning the yellow

thread. The girl, with her unerring instinct of the unseen, felt the

air weighing heavily. The atmosphere of the house was charged with

sadness; unhappy spirits had passed through, leaving something of their

sorrow, their passions. The anguish of Floyd still lingering in her

little room kept her awake at night. The dead man was always before

her--his uneven gait, the passionate face, the glittering eyes. A great

longing went out from her to that rebellious soul, beating so long

against bars, a prisoner in his own body....

The pastor had gone over to the hotel for Martin’s one valise and the

little deerskin box. He spoke to the woman of the house; she remembered

her father telling of a Staehli who went “across seas” and never came

back. The crooked gardener, shuffling about, chimed in.

“Yes, I knew Martin Staehli. He had a quarrel with a guide about a

woman, and shot him dead. He was hot blooded.”

“The man lost on the mountain was his grandson,” said the pastor.

“Strange things happen in a lifetime,” mumbled the gardener. “Now who

would believe, to look at me, that I was once the champion wrestler of

the village!”...

The next morning at sunrise the pastor knocked at Angela’s door.

“Angela, we are going ‘up there’ today.”

During the summer, when they were pasturing the cattle, she and the

pastor spent many a happy time with the peasant boys and girls who had

gone up in June, clinging gradually from one plateau to another until

they reached the top, where they would stay until the weather drove

them down.

Angela sprang joyfully out of bed and went to fetch her basket; on

the way up she would look for herbs. It was wonderful how she spied

the rare plants hid away under the rocks and at the bottom of brooks.

They went slowly, at first, Angela timing her steps to the pastor’s,

who grasped his stick, gaining strength as he climbed. Not far behind,

a guide followed, carrying the belongings of the unfortunate man. In

Switzerland every waterfall, river, flower, bush, and tree has its

legendary Spirit. Miracle stories come down by word of mouth. The old

grandmother sitting outside the châlet at night, a pipe between her

toothless gums, her needle running a race with her tongue, tells the

children of the wonders of the mountains:

“In the old days, when a mountaineer had been lost on the heights, the

peasants would go from peak to peak calling his name. Where the echo

repeated they stopped, and would throw down articles of clothing and

a large cheese from the milk of the missing man’s herd, to keep his

spirit from cold and starvation. They tell of a peasant who was lost.

They let down his dog on a rope. The faithful animal, whining in low

dog tones, eagerly scented the way. When they drew up the rope it was

bitten through. The dog had found the body of his master and would not

leave him. Whenever there is a thick mist the peasant is seen, his dog

beside him, on the edge of the chasm, pointing with a warning finger to

the precipice.”...

The merry band of dairy workers welcomed the pastor with shrill cries

and clarion notes from Alpine horns. It was a modest community; each

one owned his little herd. There were many huts, where the milk is set

in earthen bowls, yielding cream, butter, cheese, their only wealth.

The pastor drew a herdsman aside and spoke to him in low tones. A

stillness fell on the merry band. The man led them across the field

to a deep pool fed by mountain torrents; at a narrow end was a rough

rustic bridge, which they crossed in single file, and came into a thick

pine grove. Farther on, the clearing was carpeted with roses, anemones,

violets. They walked carefully, not to crush them; then they climbed up

a steep rock to a cow-hut on the top.

Angela gave a low cry. A man lay on a bed of hay, his arm in a rough

splinter, his face the wax of death. She dropped down beside him,

listened to his heart, tried to raise his closed lids.

“He is dead.”

“I think not,” answered the peasant. “I have seen many such cases of

suspended animation, from the shock of a heavy fall.”

Then he told them how Martin had been saved from going to the bottom of

the precipice by being caught in a crevice of the rocks. He was found

tightly wedged in, covered by the stones that had rolled down. The dog

had scented the place where he lay. It would be a miracle if he lived.

The pastor patted the head of the animal, who would now and again put

his paw very gently on the man’s chest, as if seeking for heart-beats.

Then he’d lick the white face, wag his tail, and stretch himself out

again.

“I won’t give up hope,” said the pastor, “until the dog howls and

slinks away.”

Angela was moving about. She made a wood fire on the rock outside,

filled a large iron pot with water, and stirred in her herbs with which

she would bathe his bruised body. They emitted a pungent, agreeable

perfume. The pastor watched her as she stood, a bright figure against

the dark pine background: “a blessed child.”

Angela passed the night in a hut with the dairy maids. She was

intensely awake, concentrating her entire spiritual power. She ceased

to be a human thing; she became a Thought, a disembodied Will. She

arose from the bed where the peasant girls were sleeping, three

together, their arms entwined, their hair sweeping the ground, their

white arms and bosoms like ivory in the night light--a great picture

of future mothers, bearing in their bodies the next generation. She

stepped out into the air, listened to the walking of the waters,

the talking of the trees; she heard panting. Something warm pressed

against her. The dog jumped on her, whining. What was the message? Was

it death? She followed the excited animal over the stones, over the

pool, into the hut. The man was lying as she had left him, but there

was something in his face that made her heart leap. She took the limp

form in her arms. The breath of her young body, the life that was in

the sap of the trees, the minerals of the springs, the healing balsam

of the air, all the natural force in her, and more, the dynamic power

of the spirit, went out to him. Her hands, tingling with electricity,

moved tensely over his chest, his limbs; the dog watched, helping with

his mute soul. Suddenly the curtains over the heavy eyes quivered,

opened, then dropped again; her fingers on his pulse felt slow

intermittent throbs. She had dragged him from the depths--he hovered

for weeks between Life and the Beyond, coming back slowly, but the mind

remained inert. The summer was unusually mild; they put him outside

on a soft bed of boughs, where he lay day and night in silence with

the dog beside him, his eyes following Angela as she moved about. She

taught him to walk again, guiding his steps carefully.

The pastor came weekly to see him, spoke to him, but he didn’t answer.

Angela grew anxious.

“Does he think?”

“I believe not,” said the pastor. “It is a kind of aphasia, which time

will cure.”

Angela wondered if he could distinguish sounds--the chirping of the

birds, the bark of the dog, the music of the herd. The peasants would

tell in lowered voices of a shadow of a man standing under the pines,

so still, the chamois would come closer, closer, looking at him with

their soft, beseeching eyes; then they’d scamper away....

August!--It was bleak. The man sat on the trunk of a tree; he was

without the thrill of life.

The pastor spoke to him.

“Do you want anything?”

“No.”

“Do you know me?”

A flash passed over the face.

“Yes.”

The pastor’s voice grew stern.

“You will go down tomorrow with the herdsmen. You are the peasant

Staehli: they are your people; you are one of them. You have been all

your life in exile; now you are on your natural soil. The voice of race

will awaken in you--you will find yourself.”

The man listened, agonized with the intensity of concentration; the

words cut like sharp stones into him.

“You understand, you are the peasant Staehli.”

The answer came back mechanically:

“I am the peasant Staehli.”

The next day, Staehli the peasant went down with the herds from plateau

to plateau, lingering while the weather favored. Late in the summer

they reached the valley.

28

Winter in that little hidden-away corner of the world, snow without

beginning, without end, scarcity of food, dread of the avalanche. The

peasant is a fatalist, accepting the inevitable with silence, with awe.

“God is good; He sends summer as a rich reward.”

The pastor shared the hard lot of his parish. The Devil was always

there in the shape of “schnaaps,” driving the simple souls to madness,

making cretins of their children. The pastor fought the “Evil One” with

holy ire like his great ancestor Martin Luther. Every night he would

take his lantern and tramp over to the Inn, sit with “his children,”

drink with them moderately, see the liquor locked up, put the key

in his pocket, and go his way. Many a morning he found the cupboard

tampered with, pretending not to see the lock had been repaired. Now

Martin went with him, sitting silent, answering laconically.

The pastor gave him much physical labor--washed out roads to remake,

wood to cut and draw. There was a landslide; a part of the village was

under snow. Martin worked with pick and shovel to dig out the people,

carrying the women and children in his arms, his strength growing as

the hardiest collapsed. When it was too cold for the old man, Martin

went alone to the Inn to lock up.

One night, walking home, the sky like velvet studded with clustered

diamonds, the mysterious blue light on the snow, the silence, the

penetrating beauty, threw a spell over him. He wandered till the unseen

sun shot up faint rays, turning the white world into faded rose; then

memory stirred in him. Angela saw him tracing with a piece of charcoal

on a board. She put slips of paper and pencil in his way; he scribbled

on them, threw them down, forgot them. They were confused lines

crossing, recrossing, impressionist shapes of mountains, and always

the faint outlines of a woman’s head. She put them carefully in a box

he would remember some day. She saw quick flashes in his eyes, sparks

blazing up, dying out.

He sat outside the châlet, hammering nails into the soles of the

mountain boots he had made for himself. The Staehlis had always learnt

a trade--they were shoemakers, tanners, blacksmiths, herders, sons of

toil and of the soil. The pastor stood watching him.

“The snow has melted in the valley, the sky is clear. We will wander

forth--to the south first, and back on foot when the trees blossom.”

They started off in the early morning. An old peasant, leaning somewhat

heavily on his solid staff of hickory wood, a young peasant, silent,

unsmiling. Angela put paper and crayon in his knapsack.

“Bring me pictures; they tell more than words.”

* * * * *

They tramped through valleys, over hills, jumping on hay-wagons,

climbing into stage-coaches, riding the sure-footed mountain pony. The

pastor watched Martin. There were blood streaks in his eyes; his face

was like a wax mask.

They came to lovely Lugano, the Fatima in Switzerland’s harem of

beauties, warm, passionate--the soft Italian patois, Italian air,

Italian skies.

“Over there across the lake is Milan, Rome, the Raphael frescoes.”

Martin’s eyes gleamed; then he shook his head. The pastor sighed--would

he ever wake up?

Geneva--intellectual, proud of its men of genius. They walked through

Rousseau’s Island of Exile.

“He was greatly gifted,” said the pastor, “but the victim of his own

sensuality.”

“We are all that,” said Martin. Then the veil of melancholy dropped

again.

“When we are conscious of it, the cure is there. Rousseau was the mind

of his generation; he might have been its soul, but he never found

himself.”

Einsiedeln--with its monasteries a thousand years old, its few sad

Benedictine hermits poring over their ancient manuscripts, restoring

the eaten-away remnants, kept with pious reverence hidden in old

chests. Einsiedeln--its pilgrims, its Life Eternal, hypnotized, under

the spell of religion.

Arosa--the bleak mountains, the hopeless sick wrapped in blankets on

open balconies. Martin shivered.

“Let us go.”

Zurich again, with its historical surroundings. The pastor told the

story of Charlemagne who, finding a toad sitting in the nest of a

beautiful serpent, drove it out and killed it with one blow of his

heavy stick. “There was a banquet at the Palace that night; the guards

were terrified at the sight of a white spotted snake who crawled into

the hall, wound herself up on the legs of a chair, and dropped a

priceless jewel into the goblet of wine which the monarch held to his

lips, giving him the magic gift of compelling the love of all who set

eyes on him.”

“A toad in her nest,” repeated Martin....

Two months in the cities, then the country beautiful--the trees heavy

with white blossoms, bearing embryonic fruit. Toward evening the air

grew heavy with the day’s perfume; the night was warm in the valley.

Martin moved about restlessly.

“I cannot sleep; let us go into the woods.”

They walked through dark trails, lit faintly by stars shining through

the trees; then he broke a long silence, speaking of himself for the

first time, slowly, timidly.

“The air goes through me; it is sweeping away that terrible fear. If I

could be free of the horror that tears at me, the horror of--madness.”

The pastor spoke eagerly.

“Fight it, Martin, drive it out. It is an illusion, an evil thought

that does not exist. Martin, your soul is in prison, beating its wings

against the bars of your own obstinacy; let it soar.”

“I cannot. I am choked with wild impulses, driving me to distraction. I

am mad! I tell you, mad!”

“Martin! there is a madness which destroys, and a madness that reveals;

such madness has been the salvation of the world. Come, sit down with

me, here in this forest, where once lived and suffered our great

ancestor, our patron Saint, Mad Martin.”

“Mad Martin?”

Then he told in picturesque English, lapsing unconsciously into his own

musical Romansch, the legend of Mad Martin.

“He was one of a lawless band, the youngest bandit of them all--a

beautiful youth with the grace of a wild stag, without fear or sense of

right, prowling about with his carbine, robbing, killing, consorting

with lewd women. One night, a night like this in the woods where

holiness dwelt, something stirred within him--a voice clear, beautiful,

said wonderful things which gave his soul wings.”

“Yes! that happens sometimes, a voice from within,” said Martin.

“He left the band, made his way to the church and begged to be taken

in. He was rarely gifted; the monks saw in him the white fervor of the

saint. The Lord had changed the murderous rage of the robber into the

divine madness of the fanatic. He went to Einsiedeln and there, it

was said, heard the voice of God, who commanded him to become a monk.

As the story goes, the Lord, to try his piety, put in his way a last

temptation. He was walking in the woods, reading his prayers, when he

suddenly came upon a beautiful vicious thing who had loved him in his

bandit days; she put her arms around him, her mouth to his. He forgot

Heaven. He tried to tear himself away. Her kisses held him. She lured

him to her cabin and in the intoxication of passion, he took no count

of time.”

“Her kisses held him,” repeated Martin.

“She made a plan that would bind him to her forever; she plied him

with wine until his senses fled, stripped him naked, crowned him with

a wreath of red poppies, left him dancing and singing ribald songs, a

young Bacchus in the woods; then she called the priests to witness his

degradation. They believed her not; the young Divine was deep in the

under cells, fasting, praying, purifying his body, preparing for his

ordination. She mocked at them.

“‘Fools! He is no priest, he is Mad Martin. He cannot change; his blood

still riots in him, calling for wine, for women. If I lie, burn me at

the stake!’

“Mad Martin in the woods heard the angry voices of the people, the

mocking gibes of the woman, and realized his degradation. He fled to

the cabin, locked himself in, fell on his knees, and prayed for help.

The chanting of priests, the cries of the people grew louder--their

axes were breaking down the door. The poor sinner raised his arms to

Heaven, with a cry, in which his battered, stricken soul took joyful

flight. When the enraged people burst into the cabin, they found it

empty. They searched the cells of the monastery; there was no trace of

him. The Father Superior, a holy man of years, was calm.

“‘Wait, he will not fail us.’

“The day of consecration came; among the young priests stood a tall

figure in white, ready to take his vows. He was pale and faint from

fasting, but his voice was like a bell sounding from the distance. As

he left the altar there was a bright light on his face. The people

followed him on their knees. He put out his hands, blessed them, and

the cripples threw away their crutches and the sick were well. Then he

blessed Einsiedeln and made it a holy place for pilgrims in the ages

to come. He blessed the village under the mountain, where he was born,

sinned, and atoned, and prophesied its future peace, prosperity. Then

he disappeared before their eyes, but he has been kept alive in our

hearts and memory. Every three years, the people of our village give in

the little chapel ‘The Miracle of Saint Martin.’”

There was a long silence. Martin sat, his face buried in his hands. The

pastor spoke again.

“Martin! Free yourself of this horror; let Hope in. Life is knocking at

your door with gifts of fulfillment!”

Martin struggled with the torrent of feeling rushing through him; then

the dry eyes grew moist, the tears came. The fever of hate, the passion

of Love, the terrible impulse of self destruction, a devil tempting

in the night, the thought of life with reason gone--all the dangers

of an overwrought mind were washed away in those tears. He dropped

down, broken, helpless, on the new sweet hay in a little hut near by;

the cool air swept over him. A bird’s plaintive call startled the

silence--an unforgettable night of spiritual revelation, Peace....

It was dawn when he awoke. He looked about for the Pastor, found him

lying in a corner, his mantle wrapped about him. Martin looked long at

the noble snow-crowned head, then stole softly out, came upon a clear

pool hidden in the trees--we meet them unexpectedly in Switzerland,

startling us with their limpid loveliness.

There was a flash of Glory!--the Sun! He felt a sense of elation, of

new birth. The sky turned purple, pink, gold; the color ecstasy crept

into his blood. Color! the life of the world! Color clamored in his

brain for expression, for air; he was obsessed with the madness that

reveals, the divine madness of the artist.

The pastor stood beside him. The sun was climbing. Martin pointed to a

ball of fire down deep in the lake.

“I’m going to bring it up,” he said. He slipped off his clothes and

dived in, floating, twisting himself like a dolphin, spouting water in

the air; then he ran along the green borders, his body gleaming in the

sun. The pastor thought of the legend of the Water Gods.

They went slowly on foot toward home, stopping at the little Dorfs,

where the peasants greeted them with acclamations. “A fine lad! a

Staehli, every inch of him.” Martin returned their gripping handshakes,

tossed down their schnaaps, gave them points on the disinfection of

barns and the care of cows, danced with the maids on the green, kissed

them; they pelted him with flowers.

At the door of the châlet, Angela stood waiting. He put a portfolio

in her hands, bits of color he had caught on the way. Her eyes were

fixed on his face. This was not the Martin she had known: it was like

the same face reflected in clear water, etherealized by the refraction

of light. She heard him in the fields, his strong voice filling

the distance with melody. She looked up at the great mountain. An

unfortunate man called Martin Steele lay there, dead.

29

The Garrisons came back to their home on Park Avenue. With Mary’s

help and his own will, Floyd learnt to diagnose Julie’s actions as

“psychic impulses.” She herself couldn’t do wrong; she fought against

a “subconscious tendency.” From her girlhood it had always been “like

that”; this was the bridge over which he could pass to reconciliation.

He had every reason to be satisfied with his wife. She was in

correspondence with Father Cabello, whose influence revealed itself in

her piety. She became very devout, Heavenly love drove out the earthly

in her. She attended daily mass; the big-eyed woman with her beautiful

boy were well-known at the Cathedral. Floyd noticed after coming

home from service a rapt expression on her face; she went about with

upturned eyes like St. Cecilia. He had a vision of a black-robed nun.

He spoke to Dr. McClaren.

“I am afraid my wife is developing a religious complex.”

“I think not,” answered the doctor. “I imagine before it gets so far,

that insatiable emotional craving of hers will find a new stimulus.”

There was something wrong with Floyd. His intense desire to forget

the “unpleasant” episode in Switzerland had overstrained his nerves.

They reacted in a strange manner. He’d leave his home in the morning

with the intention of going to see the Colonel, and would find himself

wandering aimlessly in quite a different direction. He’d walk for hours

through parts of the city unknown to him; he saw strange faces, strange

places, another world. He lounged about where the ships came in. The

immigrants had an irresistible fascination. He watched them, listened

to their unintelligible jargon. A dark-eyed Madonna with a shawl on her

head, a child at her breast, was not strange to him. He knew her: she

was Julie’s sister. A bearded old man, carrying on his bent shoulders

the tragedy of his race, looked at him with the eyes of Joseph

Abravanel. A straight tall peasant with bundles, bewildered by the

city, was Martin’s grandfather. It was a kind of mental phantasmagoria

of those who had worked a sinister influence in his life. He couldn’t

get rid of them; he saw their Past, their Present, their Future, the

struggles, the agony, the hopelessness. He was flung backward, forward

with them. Must he go on living with them all his life? A horror seized

him.

“Taxi, sir, take you anywhere--”

A tall chauffeur with dark goggles took him by the arm and lifted him

into the cab.

“Where to, sir?”

Floyd bent forward, he knew that voice.

“Tom Dillon!”

“Mr. Garrison. You won’t say anything.”

Floyd grasped his hand with quick sympathy and drew him into the car.

Tom choked at first, but gradually recovering himself, told his story.

“I married Maudy, because I couldn’t get her any other way. Oh, she

was a kisser. She’d go as far as the fence, but she wouldn’t jump it.

We were coming home from a dance up the road. I tried it on. ‘Tom,’

she said, ‘if you want me, you’ll have to marry me.’ I married her. I

didn’t take it seriously. I thought this way: It’s as broad as it’s

long. When I get enough, there’s Reno. She flung the dough like Hell;

I couldn’t see any value for it, only a heap of rags. Anyhow, a man can

get liquor and women--”

“Yes, I know.”

Tom shifted uneasily in his seat.

“When you don’t earn, money melts. My credit kept me going for a time.

Then I had to tell her. I was sure she’d leave me. I’m only good to

hand out. She told me that lots of times.”

“She left you?”

Tom’s eyes snapped; he was radiant with pride.

“She didn’t. She had an auction sale. All her friends were there; they

wouldn’t miss it. She sold everything, even her engagement ring, and

paid every cent I owed. By God! she did.” There was a choked sob. “I

had to do something to get even, didn’t I?”

“Yes, Tom.” Floyd was beginning to respect him.

“I went to my friends, but they wanted solid men in their business, and

I couldn’t blame ’em. I walked about like a crazy man, couldn’t get a

job. She kept enough to furnish a band-box in the Bronx. She does all

the work. You must see her. She’s as pretty as a peach, and the place

is as neat as wax.”

“But how did you come to this, Tom?”

“She sent me to sell the car; that hurt me. I went and sat around the

garage with the boys. I was down and out; they had money to burn.

They said, ‘Sell? nothing doing--a car like yours is capital.’ Well, I

didn’t sell; I commenced going out nights. I was ashamed to be seen,

but I got over that. Then I risked it in the daytime; now I flaunt my

shame. I tell you! it’s a rotten world--when I had money it was a stunt

to do my own repairs. When I took the crowd out joy riding, I was a

good sport, but to ‘hack’ for a living is common. I’m done with that

swell bunch. Maudy says they’re beneath us.”

Then he sat looking at Floyd, his eyes begging.

“Tom, you’ve solved your problem, I’m proud of you.”

Tom heaved a sigh of relief and got back to business.

“Now I suppose you want to get home.”

“I don’t know,” said Floyd, wearily.

Tom gave him a sharp look.

“What are you doing down here anyhow, seeing some capitalist off?”

“No, watching poor wretches come in. I’ve been through a lot, and I

haven’t quite got my bearings.”

Tom asked no questions, but he told Maudy afterwards he was sure

Garrison “had some trouble with that crazy wife of his.”

“You’d better come outside with me and get some fresh air--you don’t

mind me taking a fare if it comes my way. I’ve got another car;

there’s a guy in with me. I dope it out this way: he gets twenty-five

per cent of the takings, I get the rest and pay for the damn gas. The

car’s on instalment; when we pay it off we’ll go it equal. Fair enough,

isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

Tom had coarsened; the veneer of wealth was gone. Floyd liked him that

way.

“You’ve grown stouter, Tom; you’re the picture of health.”

Tom, slapping his chest complacently, came in collision with an

enormous truck. He let out a stream of oaths, which paralyzed the

physically inferior opponent. The poor devil cranked frantically and

got out of his way.

“It was your fault, Tom, not his.”

“Of course it was, but that alien wouldn’t dare open his mouth to a

free-born American. If he tried it on, they’d wipe him out.”

Tom spoke with a rich Irish inherited brogue, which all his college

education hadn’t eradicated.

“We were talking about me, weren’t we?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve gained thirty pounds, I eat like a hog, and I’m for Prohibition

every time. At first I worried myself to bones about Maudy. I was

afraid to tell her I was hacking. Her family’s a hundred per cent

American and she’s damn proud. When I brought home money she wouldn’t

take it--‘You’re on the crook, Tom, and I’m going to leave you.’ Then

I blurted it all out. I was frightened stiff--what do you think she

did?”

“Haven’t any idea, Tom--abused you roundly for a piker?”

“Na--she just hugged me till I didn’t have a breath left. ‘Tom,’ she

said, ‘I’ve cried many a long night. I couldn’t see _you_ making a

living. God is good; He wouldn’t let me go begging to my rich friends.

Hacking’s a fine business, but there’s something against it--those

flappers. Don’t take ’em in your car; sooner lose a fare. You’re good

looking and they’ll get you.’”

Floyd laughed. Tom was the right medicine for him.

They were driving uptown--Tom’s tongue went faster than the car; he had

acquired a lot of practical information. “They’re starring the crime

wave now, all bunk--we’re no worse than we were. Wait till after the

election, the prisons will be so empty they’ll have to turn ’em into

meeting houses. What do you think of them stinking Republicans up in

Washington?”

“Tom, don’t insult my inherited political party. I’ve had them handed

down to me, and I must carry them.”

Tom opened his mouth, the brimstone flowed, the air was blue; then

suddenly he was dazzled by two shapely legs encased in flesh-colored

cobwebs, and a pair of bright eyes emitting sparks.

“Taxi, Miss?” He drew up to the curbstone, smiling at her, showing his

white teeth, sprang out, opened the door, dusted off the seat, held the

rug in his hand.

She was undecided. “I don’t want to go, yet....”

“Yes you do, but you don’t know it,” laughed Tom.

A gust of cold wind blew her against him. Tom glanced downward.

“Your legs are cold?”

“Oh! Warm as toast.”

“Your blood keeps them warm.”

She twisted her little mouth.

“No, my vanity.”

Clever girl. Tom lifted her bodily into the car; they were old friends

now. He wrapped her in the warm rug and put a match to her cigarette.

“Who’s the melancholy Dane in front?”

“Oh! He’s a guy I’m breaking in.”

They drove to Madison Avenue. She jumped out and gave him a generous

fare.

“I want to go out again tonight; call for me?”

He smiled into the pretty laughing eyes. “Awful sorry, Miss, but

there’s nothing doing. I’m married.” He heaved a big sigh.

“She was nice--wasn’t she.”

Floyd slapped him on the back. “You’re a hero, Tom. It was a great

temptation.” Tom beamed.

“They’ve taken it into their pretty heads to star the chauffeur. We’re

the cowboys of the East. We drive and slash about, and lasso them in.

Say, I’m afraid I’m going to lose my man--handsome lad, good family.

There’s a little snipe baiting for him, and she’ll hook him too.”

At the garage he found a note.

Married this morning to Ida, family approve.

Tom’s sorrow was pathetic. “They’re rich brokers. They’ll put him on

the street. He’ll never be able to earn an honest penny again. Where

shall I find another like him? The girls fell for him every time. He

was a handsome fish. You’ve got nothing to do; help me out just for

today. You can run a car. It doesn’t need so much experience, and I

can’t afford to let her stand idle.”

“I haven’t got the experience, Tom, but I can hand you the good looks,”

said Floyd, modestly.

Tom was jubilant; he’d have to keep his mind on the wheel--and a few

knocks would shake him up.

“Now I’ll give you the fruits of my experience. Before you turn

a corner, blow the horn, then stop and listen. Don’t try to pass

anything; let the other fellow smash you up--then you’ll get damages.

The wise guy says, ‘we’ve got a third eye in the back of our heads.’

Exercise yours; it’ll work after a while. When an old woman or a

cat gets in front, don’t run her down, jump off and put her on the

sidewalk. Train your ears to hear the pistol in a man’s pocket. Keep

your foot on the brake and a curb on your temper; a timely joke can

make it a dollar more. You’ll get into tough places, so does a doctor.

Your fare is your patient; save his life if you can. When it comes

to a toss up, you know who gets the preference. Never argue with a

crook; take whatever he gives. If it’s nothing, say thank you and get

away. Don’t let pretty feet lead you astray. A man’s strength depends

on his disposition, and the time of night. If you fall for it, forget

it. Do what you can’t help, but--whatever you do, don’t get found

out. It’s all contradiction; you do something now and you don’t do it

the next time. If the same thing happens twice, it’s never the same

thing. You’ve got to be not only a good chauffeur but a good actor, a

good talker, a good curser, a good fighter, a good navigator, a good

all-around regular feller, and then you don’t half fill the bill. Now

scoot.”

“Yes sir,” said Floyd, and plunged into the depths of the night city.

His first venture in the taxi business was a personal success.

“Taxi, sir, taxi, Miss, take you anywhere--where to, Miss?” The women

jumped in at once; he picked up two, going to the theatre. Would he

call for them at eleven-thirty?

“With great pleasure,” answered Floyd. He helped them out, and stood

with his hat in his hand. He forgot he was a chauffeur for a moment.

Then he drove people uptown, downtown, all over town, guiding his car

in and out of the great mass of congested traffic.

A young fellow rushed at him. “Drive for your life, my wife is dying.”

It was up in the Bronx. Floyd put on the speed. He got away from two

policemen and landed at a brick house with the blinds lowered. The man

dashed up the steps.

“Is she alive? Thank God!”

He threw Floyd a bill.

“You did well, my man, keep the change.”

Floyd felt like a public benefactor. Hacking was a noble profession.

He was hailed by two men who jumped in. He didn’t like them. He heard

the pistol; looked into the butt of it. They gave him a street number

outside the city limits.

“Drive like Hell!” He did. The men jumped out into a vacant lot. “Now

cut away, and don’t squeal.”

Floyd said “Thank you,” and shot across the town. He was held up and

questioned. No, he hadn’t seen anybody. He had no compunctions. He

wouldn’t give the guys away; that wasn’t sport. Then he took the car

back to the garage, and went home in the subway. He had thirty dollars.

He put fifteen in an envelope, addressed it to Tom, and wrote on a slip

of paper:

Dear Tom: Here is half the boodle. It was a great experience. Ready

to help out at any time.

Tom got back early to the garage, washed his khaki suit, hung it up

to dry, cleaned his car, looked over the motor. He waited for Floyd,

but he didn’t show up; he was sure the car would come back damaged.

He expected that, but he hoped Garrison wouldn’t get hurt. Then he

grew impatient. It didn’t matter to ‘_that guy_’ how long he stayed

out--_his_ wife wasn’t waiting for him. He said good night to the man

in the garage, told him to look out for a ‘green-hand,’ and showed him

where the bandages were. Then for a bit of exercise he walked up to the

Bronx, taking a drink now and then to ease his mind. It was two o’clock

when he opened the door of the little flat. The kitchen was spotless,

the blue and white oilcloth shone like marble tiles. There was a tray

on the table, with cold corned beef and three large baked potatoes; the

coffee was gurgling on the gas stove. He devoured everything in sight,

washed up the dishes, then went into the next room and stood at the

bed. Maudy was in a deep sleep, how pretty she was. She must have been

very tired or she would have heard him come in. She’d been scrubbing

that damn kitchen floor again. She couldn’t wait till Sunday morning;

that was his job. He looked at her small hands. They were rough from

the washing soda, and the nails were not manicured. He had to kiss

them, he couldn’t help it. She opened her eyes, smelt the hootch.

“Tom, you’re going it; you’ll break your neck one night, and I’ll be a

widow--take a bath.” The sleepy eyes closed, she dropped off again.

Tom put a roll of bills under her pillow, slipped out of his clothes

and fell on the sofa. He didn’t take a bath, he’d gotten over that

pastime; he had something better to do.

30

Floyd woke up the next morning, his head aching, his limbs weary. The

experience had battered his body, but shook up his mind. His share of

the “boodle” lay on the table--three five-dollar bills. He examined

them curiously, turning them over and over--the first money he had ever

earned. Was it money? No--he threw away much more than that paltry sum

every day. But this was different; he had worked for it with the “sweat

of his brow.” He felt the pressure of the masses, who were earning

their bread. This meant money to them. He remembered how the Colonel

looked at him, when he told him to sell something--they were needing

more and more. “You’re destroying capital,” said the Colonel. “You

should preserve it, it’s your only source of income.”

Capital! capital! He wondered if they had blown in all his father had

left--blown in, where?--into the air like soap bubbles, which glittered

for a moment in the sun, then burst and disappeared.

He put his hand to his head. Where could he go to pass the morning?

Julie was not visible until twelve. She was lucky; the day was only

half as long for her. Then that queer feeling came again; he went to

see Dr. McClaren.

“How’s your wife?” said the doctor.

“Very well, as far as I can see. I want to speak to you about

myself--my mind wanders--I cannot concentrate, nothing interests me; I

go back always to the past; the things I have lived through haunt me.”

“You are trying too hard to forget.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, you don’t. If we wipe out memory, we throw into the dust heap of

oblivion the best part of our life, experience.”

“But if that experience is unbearable?”

“We can make it bearable. We must work it the right way.”

“But I cannot see how! Father Cabello spoke about the ‘gift of

forgetting.’”

The doctor smiled. “I am not for such narcotics. We shouldn’t go about

hypnotizing ourselves. A man of mind should be able to deal with the

complications of his nature in an intelligent manner.”

This meant nothing to Floyd; the doctor was talking “over his head.”

“I’ll try to make it clearer to you. You have got yourself tangled up.

What you think so terrible one day will be precious to you in years to

come. How do you stand financially?”

“I don’t know, I’m not sure--badly, I think.”

The doctor knew; he had seen the Colonel.

“I want you to try to get rich.”

Floyd had a shock. He looked sharply at the doctor; there was no

glare in his eyes, but he was fingering a paper cutter--no, he wasn’t

mad--but he was a mind reader. Floyd had been thinking of money--in a

vague way, wondering that so many people whose names he had never heard

had bobbed up as millionaires.

“The pursuit of wealth may be sordid, but if we succeed, we are

compensated by a gratifying sense of self-confidence, authority, power,

not speaking of the good we can do with our ‘ill gotten’ gains. As

for the spiritual side being starved, well, we don’t think so; if we

concentrate on the world of the spirit, it will demoralize us in our

practical life, which is our end of it. We must uphold that, for the

sake of bankrupt Europe.”

“Doctor, I dreamt last night that I was enormously rich.”

“Good! make it a complex. It will drive more harmful ideas out of your

mind. Come and see me again. I am curious to know how my prescription’s

going to work....”

Floyd found the Colonel, erect, well satisfied; he had no complexes, he

wasn’t married.

“How do I stand?”

The Colonel hesitated.

“Come, out with it; I want the truth.”

“Well, you’ll have to practice strict economy to make up for your

enormous expenditure of the last few years. Do you want to sell your

house?”

“Economy? Sell the house? Julie!--impossible.”

“Nowadays a man can’t live on interest.”

Floyd snapped his fingers.

“Economy, bah! We’ll have to create new capital.” The Colonel opened

a drawer, took out a card of the Garrison estate, kept as a physician

does the history of a patient’s disease; then he placed a map on the

table. It was interlaced with red lines designating the shrinkage.

Floyd looked over it.

“The entire water-front is crossed off, I see.”

“Yes, the Martin Steele Corporation bought it for investment. By the

way, that was a great thing young Steele did.”

“What thing?”

“He left his entire business to his employees, equal shares, and the

money to keep it going. Waldbridge told me about it with tears in his

eyes, the other day, at the memorial service they gave for him.”

“Memorial service?”

“Didn’t you know? I saw Mrs. Garrison there, but she was gone before I

could get through the crowd.”

Julie there? She hadn’t told him. He thought he knew all her movements.

“It was wonderful; I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. They are

going to screen it. It was a queer mixed crowd--artists he had saved

from starvation, musicians he had sent abroad, women he had started

right--they all got up and told their stories. It was like a Christian

Science service. A man sang, a barber named Hippolyte, well-known on

Fifth Avenue, a wonderful voice. They say an opera manager has engaged

him. He sang psalms in Greek and Hebrew, wails in the minor key, just

tore at your entrails. He set them all crying. One poor cripple made a

scene; swore he saw the dead man’s spirit. Of course, that hypnotized

the others; they all saw it. There was a tall man in a corner--the

light struck him for a moment. I tell you, Garrison, I’ve got the hide

of a rhinoceros, but it made my flesh creep. Now there are two left of

those river shanties, we’ll pull them down and build one big office

building--”

Floyd didn’t hear him; he was in the church listening to the voice of

Hippolyte, the cries, the prayers for Martin--the philanthropist, the

good man. He forced himself to say something.

“I knew Martin Steele all my life, but had no idea of that side of him.”

“Nor I, but most men keep the best part of them hidden.”

“Yes,” said Floyd, tracing lines on the map. “I’ll go down with you and

look at those shanties. I want money and lots of it; every fool’s got

it. I can be as big a fool as the next one.”

The Colonel didn’t contradict him, but he doubted if Garrison would

ever be that kind of a fool.