The Mathison estate was in the foothills of the Adirondacks. There were
farmlands, pulp-mills, forests, and streams. At the northern extremity
of the estate there was a small lake. The manor proper stood on the
south shore of this lake, four miles from the village and the railway
station. It was a lonely habitation in the winter.
The house was of limestone, beautifully weathered, and was dated 1812.
Here Mathison had been born; here he had spent his early youth. With the
father almost constantly at sea, the mother had preferred the quiet of
the woods to the noise and bluster of New York.
Hilda went into ecstasies over chairs and sofas that had become antique
in these very rooms. She saw the mother's hand everywhere, the quiet
artistry of a hand guided by a noble mind. Hilda romped about the rooms
with the eager curiosity of a child; and it might be truthfully added
that Mathison romped with her. They were so completely in love that they
saw beauty in everything, in the hard, brilliant sunsets, in the
Northern Lights, in the yellow dawns. Every day they skated or
snow-shoed; and there was always a roaring chestnut fire to greet them.
And yet there were shadows, deep and somber shadows, that fell across
the sunshine of their happiness. They never said anything about these
shadows to each other; but always during the hour that comes before
candles the shadows pressed in and down. Hilda could not shut out the
thought of Berta. Where was she, what was she doing? Berta might deny
the blood, but Hilda could not. Berta was her twin. During this twilight
hour she saw this beautiful counterpart of herself moving furtively,
flying by night, hiding by day, alone, alone; perhaps penniless and
hungry. When the thought of the wayward one became too strong Hilda
sought the piano, which she played exquisitely.
Mathison's shadow lay upon him perpetually, but more keenly when he and
Hilda sat before the fire, waiting for the lights. The man Lysgaard had
escaped. Free! Beaten and to all appearances broken, he had escaped on
the way to the Tombs. A forced pause before a fire in a chemical
establishment had opened the way for him. The crowd, the noise and
confusion, and the insatiable curiosity and over-confidence of his
captors had given him his chance. The strength of the rogue, after that
beating! They had left one man in the patrol with him, and Lysgaard had
suddenly dashed his manacled hands into the man's face and then choked
him into insensibility. He had coolly taken the operative's hat and
overcoat. The latter he had wrapped across his shoulders, holding it
together from the inside. He had then stepped into the seething crowd
and vanished completely. Search for him had been in vain. He had
probably known where to find a haven. The real menace in his being at
large lay in the fact that undoubtedly he did not know that Berta was a
twin. He would have means of finding what had become of John Mathison.
He would learn that a woman had accompanied his enemy. A trifling
description of that woman would be enough. Being a Prussian, there
would be only one idea in Lysgaard's head--Berta had run away with the
man who had beaten him. Vengeance, before they found him and dropped the
noose over his head.
There was a third shadow and they shared this mutually if
silently--Mathison's inevitable departure for English waters.
"John," she said, one afternoon, "I'm so happy that it hurts."
He laughed and swung her into his arms, which never ceased to be hungry
for her; and there was always a sharp little stab when he let her go.
The hour was fast approaching when he would have to let her go, perhaps
forever....
"Glorious up here, isn't it?"
"But why do you bar the windows and doors so carefully at night? There
can't be any burglars in this wilderness, at least not in the winter."
"You never can tell. Sometimes there are mighty high winds around these
diggings. You heard how the windows rattled last night." Mathison
reached for his cup of tea. So she had noticed?
"How your mother must have loved this place!"
"What makes you think that?"
"Why, it fairly breathes of love; the beauty of all the furnishings and
the way they are arranged. What fun it must have been--and you toddling
around after her! Come; I want to show you something." She led over to a
corner, and there in a heap were rows of battered leaden soldiers,
twisted leaden swords, and forts of wood. "War, battle," went on Hilda,
soberly; "even as little children. What has happened to the souls of
men, that from generation to generation the male child's toys must be
these? Must women always suffer to see these things about? I found them
in the garret."
"Instinct, little old lady. From the day one man has had to protect
himself and his woman, bloodily. We are still doing it, on a more
terrible scale than ever. Odd, I haven't laid eyes on these in twenty
years."
"How often your mother must have watched you there on the floor before
the fire, playing at war, and your father facing death at sea. But oh,
lover, lover!" She caught him fiercely to her. "In so short a time! I
haven't said anything, for I did not want to mar your happiness. But it
is hurting so! Dear God, bring him back to me!"
"Honey, I'll come back. There isn't a shell or a U-boat in the world
with my name on it. I know it. I hate to have you return to the stage,
and yet it will be the best thing. You'll be busy. Idleness never bucks
up a person's courage."
"Hark!" She stepped back from him swiftly. "I hear sleigh-bells." She
stiffened. Sleigh-bells and yellow envelopes, for she knew that Mathison
had left orders at the station to send out telegrams immediately they
were received. There was no telephone.
"The village grocer, maybe," suggested Mathison, himself receiving a
shock at the sound of the bells.
"No; he always drives out before noon."
Hilda ran to the window to peer out, but it was too dark for her to see
anything distinctly.
As for Mathison, he shifted his automatic to the right side-pocket of
his jacket. Merely precautionary; for the man he was expecting would not
approach the front door with such boldness. Yet the man was infernally
clever in some ways. He was likely to do the unexpected. Of course,
there was always a chance that Lysgaard might try to put to sea and put
over his hour of vengeance until later. There was an odd trait in
Mathison's character. He was always suspicious when events ran along too
smoothly. His very happiness was almost a warning. He had often thought
of having a Secret Service man come up and watch the four trains that
passed daily; but, being a man of red blood, he hated the idea. If
Lysgaard succeeded in getting through the cordon, he would try to find
John Mathison. Backed as he was by a powerful secret organization, and
no doubt having John Mathison's _dossier_ in his pocket or in his
memory, he would not have much difficulty in locating the dove-cote.
"Why, it's a woman!" cried Hilda.
"A woman? All right. You stay here and I'll go to the door."
He reached the door just as the bell rang. The visitor entered without a
word and raised a thick veil.
"Well, brother-in-law!" mockingly.
"Berta?" came a startled voice from the doorway leading to the
living-room.
"Yes, dear sister, Berta--the ghost who wants to return to her tomb and
can't find the way. I smell tea. I'd like a cup."
Berta passed into the living-room and stopped before the burning logs,
stretching out her hands. The sable coat, once so magnificent, was
matted and torn, the hat bedraggled, the shoes water-soaked and cracked;
but the fire in Berta's eyes and the beauty of her face were still
undimmed. What a woman! thought Mathison, thrilled in spite of his vague
terror.
Hilda, however, saw only the hunted woman, the desperation, the cold,
the hunger. A sign, and she would have opened her arms. But Berta was
still The Yellow Typhoon, harassed but unconquered. She tossed her hat
and coat upon a chair and helped herself to a cup of tea. There was evil
mischief in her smile. After she had drunk the tea, she selected a
cigarette and lighted it.
"Ah, that is good! I haven't had a decent cigarette in four days. The
driver thought I was you, Hilda. What a Godforsaken hole! But it was not
so hard to find. In your _dossier_--I read it while we were entering New
York--it was recorded that you were born here, that it was the only
home you had. Where would two sentimental fools like you two come for
their honeymoon? The North is in the blood of both of you. A ghost,
Hilda; and with a wave of your hand--my evanishment. I want a passport
to Denmark. It will not be wise to refuse me. I haven't tried to see the
mother. We are dead to each other; let it be so. But there are other
ways by which I can twist your heart, my beautiful Norma."
"Don't mind about me, John. You cannot hurt me, Berta."
"I can try. Arrest me and see what will come of it. You two have sent to
his death the only man I ever cared for."
"He was a murderer!" cried Hilda.
"No; it was war. What he did was in the interest of Germany, and that
absolves him."
"You are not a Prussian; you are a Dane."
"My sympathies are with Prussia; and that is enough for me. I am the
daughter of a noble. I did not come here to discuss the war. I came to
demand help."
Mathison sighed with relief. The woman did not know that her man was at
large. He played a card in the dark.
"I purpose to give you up to the authorities at once," he said, coldly.
Berta laughed. "Try it. Do you think me such a fool as to come unarmed?"
"And how might you be armed?"
"Ask my sister."
"She is right, John. This would kill my mother. But if we secure a
passport, what is your bond?"
"The word of Berta Nordstrom. I never broke that when once I gave it.
Back there in New York you spoke of the tomb. All I want is to return to
it. Let me get to Denmark, and I shall never bother either of you
again."
Mathison began pacing, his hands behind his back, his chin down. Berta
eyed him with cynical amusement, letting the cigarette smoke drift up
her nostrils. By and by she tossed the cigarette into the fire.
"If I make threats, it is because I have to. I am tired. Wait!" She made
a passionate gesture. "This is no sign of weakness. I shall hate you
both as long as I live. You have forced me to walk alone. I don't want
to go on fighting any more. I want peace and quiet. I shall find it
where I was born. Get me a passport and I shall vanish. I have plenty
of money. Much of it is in the banks in Copenhagen. I had always planned
to return there some day. I can establish proofs of my identity and my
right to the inheritance our mother denied us. Until the passport
arrives I must abide here, however distasteful it may be to you. Do you
believe it will be pleasant for me? Your food will be wormwood, your
water lees, and your bed will burn me. Odd that I should wish to go on,
that I should care to live. I sha'n't disturb your cooing. Your maid,
who doubtless knows by this time that there are two of us, can bring me
food. I was a fool not to have told him that there were two of us; and
he may go to his death believing that I betrayed him. But I have written
a letter to Manila explaining. Hate you? With every drop of blood in me!
But get me the passport, and I promise to leave you both in peace."
"Very well," said Mathison, facing her; "you shall have it. But for
Hilda, I should not stir a hand. You are an alien enemy. You are
dangerous and merciless. You have no mercy for your sister, who tried to
save you; and the word 'mother' means nothing to you. You ruined--or
tried to--the dearest friend I had. And the man of your choice murdered
him in cold blood. There is a black score against you. But because I
love your sister beyond ordinary man's love, I am going to let you go."
"Because you are afraid of me," tranquilly.
"Frankly because I am afraid of you."
"I hate you. If I had the time and opportunity I would do you all the
evil I could. You defeated me. But for all that, you are a man; and I
know men. Hilda, will you know how to keep him?"
"Yes!"
"After all, you are not my sister for nothing. Show me to my room. Have
your maid bring me up something to eat. I am starved. It was such a
place to find. Cooing doves, in a bleak cage like this!"
The chamber assigned to her was directly over the living-room. After
dinner that night they heard her walking, walking, walking. The
Snow-leopard, thought Mathison; and because she was the twin of the
noble woman whose hand was locked in his he would have to cheat his
government, commit his first dishonorable deed! For he would have to
lie and cheat to secure a passport for Berta Nordstrom.
"John!"
"No. I shouldn't go to her, honey. Honestly, I can't help it, but I do
not trust her. I'm afraid of her. The blood no longer links you. Forget
that part of it. She's forgotten it."
"Will there be trouble in getting her a passport?"
"The trouble is nothing. I've got to lie and cheat."
"We were so happy! My sister, my own flesh and blood! I just can't
understand it!"
"No more can I. But the fact remains that she is still The Yellow
Typhoon. And God send she leaves no wreckage here when she passes. But
what a woman!"
"That is it. If we could only save her, make her see!"
Mathison stared at the ceiling and shook his head. The light thud of
shoes continued. He walked over to the stand at the side of the
fireplace and eyed Malachi, who was dozing.
"What a jogging I've given the poor little beggar! Malachi?"
The little green bird opened one eye belligerently, and the feathers at
the back of his neck ruffled.
"John, why should she tramp like that?"
"Go to her, honey, if you wish."
But Hilda's knock on the door was not answered.
Berta remained in her room all the following day. The maid reported to
her mistress that the unwelcome guest spoke no words, not even a "thank
you." She no longer walked the floor, however.
About eight o'clock that night she came unexpectedly into the
living-room. Mathison was putting on a fresh log. Hilda was in the
music-room, playing Rachmaninoff's surging "Prelude."
"I was cold," said Berta, unemotionally.
Mathison drew up a chair for her, rather clumsily. She sent him a wry
little smile as she sat down, spreading her fingers. After a while she
raised her head attentively. She was listening to the music. She held
this attitude for several minutes, then propped her elbows on her knees
and rested her chin in her palms. Hilda played on, Chopin, Grieg,
Rubinstein. Stonily Berta stared into the fire.
"She plays well ... in the dark, too."
"She does all things well," said the lover. "You are fond of something,
then?"
"Music? Yes. I am fond of many things; but I except human beings. You
are trying to solve the riddle? Don't waste your time. I'm a riddle to
myself. But for Hilda I should have beaten you. Do you know, if
Hallowell had been weak I should have gone out to your villa. I wonder
what would have happened?"
"He would have been alive this day," answered Mathison, grimly; "for we
both of us would have vacated the premises. Typhoon. They named you
well. And yet!"
"Ah, and yet?" Berta looked up.
"Why not become a friend instead of an enemy? You say you want peace and
quiet after all this stormy life. Why not melt a little? I know my wife.
She would take you in her arms with half a chance."
"Thanks. Oh, I am not ironic. I mean it. But it is impossible. I cannot
change my nature. There is too much behind me. I chose the road I came
by. Regret? Remorse? No. To you I am bad; to myself, I am only free....
Tell her to play that Russian thing again.... No; I must go my chosen
way. I am like your parrakeet. Sometimes I can be forced to do things,
but always I am untamable. Get me that passport and I will vanish. I
have never known what it is to be sorry. The faculty isn't in me. I am
an outcast. I prefer it. But I am not a hypocrite. I did not come here
to whine; I came to demand. But I'll soften that. Get me out of this
country, which I despise, and I'll thank you. I was not implicated in
the killing of your friend. Besides, it was war."
Mathison shook his head. A pagan; that was it. He stooped to stir a log
and got a glimpse of her eyes. They were dry and hard. A passport, or
was she up to some deadly mischief? However quickly he might obtain a
passport, he knew it would not arrive until after he himself had put to
sea. Berta free and Hilda alone? He leaned against the mantel, wondering
what the end would be.
There were French doors on the south side of the living-room. To the
north were the original deep-set windows with broad seats and heavy
shutters. Mathison locked up only when about to retire for the night.
His back was toward the south, so he missed the forewarning of the
menace. The brass knob of one of the doors was turning with infinite
slowness, a small fraction of an inch at a time. If there was any sound,
it was smothered by the magnificent chords of Rachmaninoff's melancholy
inspiration.
Suddenly Berta stood up, covered a yawn, and started toward the
staircase. She had reached the middle of the room, when a rush of cold
air caused Mathison to turn. He saw Lysgaard, his blue eyes burning with
madness, his cheeks hollow and white with fury. There followed two
shots, but Mathison's was a second too late. Berta's hands flew
automatically to her breast; wide-eyed she stared at Lysgaard for a
space, then an expression of deep weariness settled upon her face. She
swayed, her knees doubled, and she sank in a huddle upon the rug.
Lysgaard leaned against the wall, gripping his bloody hand.
"She had to die!... She betrayed me!" His voice was like that of a spent
runner. "_You!_ She came to _you_! I meant to kill you, too!... _Gott!_"
For Hilda was standing in the doorway to the music-room, clutching the
portières, hanging literally to them, in fact, struck by that hypnosis
with which sudden tragedy always benumbs us. She saw the crumpled figure
on the floor; her husband, tense of body, his weapon ready, his face
hard and merciless; the blond man, sagged against the wall, staring with
pathetic bewilderment not at the woman he had shot, but at _her_. With a
supreme effort Hilda threw off the spell, ran to her sister and knelt.
Berta, the little one whom she had always tried to shield, for whom she
had accepted many a buffet, shouldered the charge of many a misdeed!
[Illustration: Hilda was standing in the doorway, struck by that
hypnosis with which sudden tragedy always benumbs us.]
"Berta, Berta!"
One corner of Berta's lips moved upward--a touch of the old irony. "My
passport ... has come!... The mad fool!... As much as I could love any
one!... Hilda, the ghost ... returns to the ... tomb!" The beautiful
head sank grotesquely against Hilda's shoulder. The Yellow Typhoon had
slipped down the Far Horizon.
"_Two!_" whispered Lysgaard, thickly. "Two!... _Gott!_" He staggered
across the room. "Two!... And she never told me!" he babbled in German.
He dropped to his knees, thrusting Hilda aside; put his sound arm under
the warm, limp body of the woman he had called his own. "Berta, Berta,
little one, I did not know! Ah, God, why didn't you tell me? I thought
you had betrayed me, left me for this Yankee swine!... _Two!_"
Mathison sprang to Hilda, raised her in his arms, and pressed her face
against his shoulder. A miracle had happened. Berta's presence here had
saved Hilda. That was the chief thought in Mathison's mind. Closely he
pressed the loved one to him, so that she might not see the second
tragedy, should Lysgaard turn upon him. But even as he made the movement
he saw a strange action take place. Berta's body slid slowly from
Lysgaard's arm. The man's shoulders pinched themselves together
convulsively and his head went back with a spasmodic jerk. Then he fell
across Berta's body. Mathison thought he had fainted, but later he
learned that the bullet that had shattered the hand had ricocheted and
plowed completely through the body. But for his tremendous vitality
Lysgaard would never have reached Berta.
"Mat! Mat!" shrieked Malachi, across the tragic silence.
A month later--on a Friday afternoon--Sam Rubin stopped his limousine
before a handsome apartment building and got out briskly. Under his arm
was a portfolio. He rushed toward the entrance and popped into the
elevator. As he was a privileged character, the maid Sarah admitted him
at once and indicated that her mistress was in the living-room.
Rubin stepped jauntily along the corridor, but he stopped at the door.
By one window he saw the star's mother. She was knitting, but her glance
was directed toward her daughter.
"Sailorman," said Hilda.
"Sailorman," repeated Malachi, soberly, if huskily.
"Husband, lover!"
But Malachi rocked belligerently and fell to grumbling.
"I can't make him say that, mother."
"He has more serious things on his mind," interrupted Rubin, entering.
Hilda whirled. "Sam Rubin, what have you got under your arm?"
"A bully new play for you; fit you like a glove."
"I'm so glad! Work, work, work; something new and fresh that I can
throw myself into!"
"Well, I've got it right here. What's the news?"
"He's with the convoy." Hilda caught her manager by the sleeve and drew
him over to one of the front windows. "The star in the window--mine!"
"You're the finest woman in all this world!" said Rubin, soberly.
Hilda put her hand under the little silken banner and raised it to her
lips.
THE END