doves have been teasing me to give them an outing. There is the
certainty of a smile or even a kiss from the black-browed Nanna to
recompense my good-nature, and a possible secret hanging in the wind.
Finally, the off chance that the Shining One is not so hopelessly out of
fashion as we have been led to think. In this backsliding age he should
appreciate the honor of my attendance in person, to say nothing of the
venison and the wine." Kurt, the Knacker, laughed silently under his
curtain of black beard, and then stumped over to a bench in the gateway,
sheltered from the wind and open to the sun. There he sat him down and
proceeded to enjoy the pleasures of social converse with the warders on
guard, an occupation pleasingly diversified by an occasional black-jack
of ale and innumerable pipefuls of Kinnectikut shag. A highly respected
man among his fellow-citizens was Kurt, the Knacker.
* * * * *
It was the hour of the weekly sacrifice, and Prosper, the priest, stood
before the altar of the Shining One, performing the uncouth and ofttimes
wholly meaningless ritual of his office. Constans, in his capacity of
acolyte, stood on the right of the altar. He felt out of place and
somewhat ridiculous; he was conscious that he performed his
genuflections and posturing awkwardly, and there were all these women
watching him. Especially the two in the front row, accompanied by the
limping scoundrel to whom he had yesterday lent his arm on the Palace
Road. The one who seemed the elder of the two scanned him with bold,
black eyes, unaffectedly amused by his clumsiness; the other, whose face
was hidden by a veil, looked at him but once or twice, yet Constans felt
sure that she, too, was laughing at him. His position was becoming an
intolerable one. Would the farce never come to an end?
Now the service was over, and one by one the worshippers withdrew. Last
of all the two women, escorted by the man who called himself Kurt, the
Knacker. They passed within arm's-length of Constans, but he made as
though to turn his head away; youth is proverbially sensitive to
ridicule. He noticed, however, that the pilgrimage had not been of
marked benefit to the lame man, for he limped as badly as ever. Then
their eyes met, and Constans felt somewhat uncomfortable at being
favored with a particularly sour smile of recognition. Still he need not
concern himself. It was evident that these people were not true
worshippers; it was mere curiosity that had brought them before the
gates of the Shining One, and now that they had seen the show they were
doubtless satisfied. Let them depart whence they came; it was but a
passing incident.
The snow that covered the ground a week before had nearly disappeared
under the influence of a three-days' warm rain. This morning had given
promise of even more springlike weather, but as the day wore on it had
grown cloudy and the air had turned chill. It had begun to snow again
shortly before the hour of service, and so fast had the flakes come down
that the fall was already over an inch in depth. Constans, turning the
corner into the side-street to get a more extended view of the eastern
sky, suddenly halted to contemplate a curious appearing mark in the pure
white expanse--the imprint of a woman's foot.
It was an exquisitely moulded thing; even the slender arch of the instep
had been preserved in unbroken line and curve, and yet Constans wondered
vaguely why it should seem so beautiful to him. He put out his own foot
and compared the two, laughed, half understood, and was silent.
He went on a little farther, following the successive footprints as they
led down the street. Once his heavy boot half obliterated one of the
delicately marked prints; he backed quickly away, as though his
clumsiness had been an actual offence. Then he knit his brows over the
absurdity of the affair and stopped to consider.
Sophistry suggested that it might be the missing girl, Esmay, and
certainly she who had walked here was the veiled woman of the temple
worshippers; there were the footprints, broader and heavier in
appearance, of her companion, and the halting progress of the
black-chapped ruffian, who had accompanied them, was also plainly
visible. Constans followed the trail at a smart pace, for it was snowing
harder than ever, and it would not take long to obliterate the marks.
But three blocks farther on the three sets of footprints suddenly turned
at right angles to the sidewalk and disappeared.
A mystery whose solution should have been apparent at once from the
wheel-tracks parallel with the curb, but for a minute or two Constans
did not realize their true nature. The ordinary vehicle in use among
the House People was a springless cart, whose wheels were simply
sections of an elm-tree butt, and these primitive constructions creaked
horribly upon their axles, unless liberally greased, and left a track
six inches or more in width. It is not surprising, then, that Constans
was momentarily puzzled by the narrow, delicately lined marks that
betokened the passage of a real carriage. For while Doom contained many
examples of the ancient coach-builder's skill, they were not in general
use. The old Dom Gillian occasionally employed a carriage in taking the
air--at least, so Ulick had told him, but Constans had never seen it.
For all that the check was but a momentary one; his wits had been
sharpened by use, and now they helped him to the truth. He ran on at top
speed.
A course of a mile or more and he was entering a poorer part of the city
a little north of east and close to the shore of the Lesser river. It
was a region of tenement dwellings, a huddle of nondescript buildings,
flanked by huge factories and sprawling coal and lumber yards--an
unpromising region, surely, in which to look for Master Quinton Edge's
particular retreat. And yet it would have marked the subtlety of the man
to have set his secret here, where it would have been at once so easily
seen and overlooked. Every labyrinth has its clew, but the fugitive
walks safely in a crowd.
The wheel-tracks turned sharply to the right, going straight down a side
street to the river-front. On the left were the ruins of one of the
ancient plants for the manufacture of illuminating gas. The yard was
but a wilderness of rusty iron tanks and fallen bricks; surely there
was nothing here to interest.
On the right, however, there was an enclosed area that comprised the
greater part of the block. It was separated from the highway by a brick
wall ten feet in height, and the general level of the ground was
considerably higher than that of the street. Constans could see trees
growing and the ruins of a pergola and trellises for fruit; it actually
looked like a garden, and through the naked branches of the trees there
gleamed the white stuccoed walls of a dwelling-house, with a flat roof,
surmounted by a cupola. The estate, for it possessed certain pretensions
to that title, looked as though it had been transported from some more
favored region and set down all in a piece among these hideous iron
tanks and dingy, cliff-like factories.
Constans quickened his pace; his imagination was on fire. Yes, there was
a gateway, and surely the carriage had passed through but a few minutes
before. Constans halted at the barrier and studied it attentively. It
was snowing hard now, and he ran but small risk of being observed from
the house.
The doors of the driveway were of heavy planking studded with
innumerable bands and rivets, and they were suspended between massive
brick piers. A structure of light open iron-work spanned the gateway and
supported a central lantern, with a coat of arms immediately below it.
The device upon the shield was three roundels in chief and the crest, an
arm holding a hammer.
In the left wing of the gate proper a small door had been cut for
pedestrian use. It had been painted a dark green, the knocker and
door-plate being of brass. Constans by dint of rubbing away some of the
verdigris succeeded in making out the inscription. It read:
ARCADIA HOUSE
RICHARD VAN DUYNE
1803
Actuated by a daring impulse he lifted the knocker and let it fall. The
rat-tat sounded hollowly, but there was no response. Constans looked
longingly at the wall, but without some special appliance, such as a
notched pole or grappling-hooks, it was unscalable. There were no signs
of life to be seen in or about the house. Not a light in any of the
windows or curl of smoke from a chimney-pot. The wheel-tracks leading
through the gateway had already become obliterated by the rapidly
falling snow; the silence was profound. The whole adventure seemed to be
vanishing into thin air; the wheel-tracks having led him into this land
of folly had disappeared after the accustomed fashion of those mocking
spirits whose delight is in leading the unwary traveller astray.
Involuntarily, Constans glanced over his shoulder; he almost expected to
see some shadowy bulk stealing up behind him preparing to make its
spring.
Yet as he retraced his steps to the temple of the Shining One he
resolved that he would pay another visit to Arcadia House. "To-morrow,"
thought Constans, "I may find some one to answer the door."
XV
A MAN AND A MAID
In spite of that brave "to-morrow," it was several days before Constans
found opportunity to revisit Arcadia House. A misstep upon an icy
flag-stone had resulted in a sprained ankle, and for that there was no
remedy but patience.
Yet the time was not wasted. Here was a fascinating problem to be
solved, and, yielding to importunity, Prosper was finally induced to
talk freely of the sacred mysteries of the Shining One. He was even
persuaded to put the machinery in operation, outside the canonical
hours, in order that Constans might test the theories derived from his
books. One experiment interested them greatly.
Constans took a "live" wire and allowed its free end to hang in close
proximity to a leaden water-pipe. Then he placed a piece of oily rag
near by and saw it answer his expectation by bursting into flame. He
looked triumphantly around at Prosper, to whom he had previously
explained the nature of the experiment.
"Would the fire descend wherever the wire led?" demanded the priest.
"Yes," answered Constans, confidently. "Under the same conditions, of
course--a broken circuit and inflammable material close at hand."
The old man frowned. "It is wonderful," he said, grudgingly, "but it
proves nothing. Is your viewless, formless electricity anything more or
anything less than my god? What am I to believe? Is it the spirit of the
lightning-cloud that thrills in this little wire, or have you learned
how to bottle fire and thunder, even as a House-dweller who fills his
goat-skins with apple-wine? Is the Shining One at once so great and so
small that we can be both his servants and his lords?"
Constans would not be drawn into an argument, being as little versed in
theological subtleties as was the old priest in scientific terminology.
But he noticed that Prosper was studying the subject after his own
fashion. Nearly every night now he would start up the machinery and
spend hours in watching the revolutions of the giant dynamo. It was not
unusual for Constans to fall to sleep, lulled by the monotonous humming
of the vibratory motor and awake to find the machinery still in motion.
It was within this week that the _Black Swan_ returned to port. On the
fourth day after the accident to his ankle Constans managed to hobble to
one of his posts of observation, and he discovered immediately that the
galley was lying at her accustomed pier. It was vexatious! to have
Quinton Edge return at this precise time. Annoying! that this fair field
should be closed before he had had a chance to explore it. Well, it was
fortune, and he must accept it; he was all the more eager now to make a
second call at Arcadia House.
It was a dull, thawy afternoon when Constans found himself standing
again before the closed door that bore the name of the inhospitable Mr.
Richard van Duyne. He had brought with him a rope ladder, provided with
grappling-hooks, and the mere scaling of the barrier should not present
any great difficulty. It would be well, however, to reconnoitre a little
further before he attempted it.
Following the wall down to the river, he saw that it was continued to
the very edge of the water, where it joined a solidly constructed
sea-wall. There were the remains of a wooden pier running out from the
end of the street proper, and Constans adventured upon its worm-eaten
timbers, intent on obtaining a more extended view of this singular
domain of Arcadia House.
A large and somewhat imposing structure it was, albeit of a curiously
composite order of architecture.
Originally, it must have been a villa of the true Dutch type built of
stuccoed brick, with many-gabled roof and small-paned, deeply embrasured
windows. A subsequent proprietor had enlarged its ground-plan, added an
upper story, and changed the roof to one of flat pitch crowned by a
hideous cupola. Still a third meddler had tried to make it over into a
colonial homestead by painting the stucco white and joining on an
enormous columned porch. The final result could hardly have been
otherwise than an artistic monstrosity, yet the old house had acquired
that certain unanalyzable dignity which time confers, and the gentle
fingers of the years had softened down insistent angles and smoothed out
unlovely curves. It was a house with a soul, for men had lived and died,
rejoiced and suffered within its walls.
A house--and such a house!--set in its own garden amid the incongruous
surroundings of tenement buildings and malodorous gas-works. How to
account for it, what theory could be invented to reconcile facts so
discordant? In reality, the explanation was simple enough; as between
the house and its environment, the former had all the rights of prior
possession. In the early days of the settlement of the city the banks of
the Lesser river had been a favorite place of residence for well-to-do
burghers and merchants. But foot by foot the muddy tide of trade and
utilitarianism had risen about these green water-side Edens; one by one
their quiet-loving owners had been forced farther afield.
Yet now and then the standard of rebellion had been raised; here and
there might be found a Dutchman as stiff-necked as the fate that he
defied. His father and his father's father had lived here upon the
Lesser river, and nothing short of a cataclysm of nature should avail to
budge him. The commissioners might cut up his cabbage-patch into
building sites and reduce his garden to the limits of a city block, but
they could not touch his beloved Arcadia House, with its white-porticoed
piazza that gave upon the swirl and toss of the river--a delectable spot
on a hot June morning. Let them lower their accursed streets to their
thrice-accursed grade; it would but leave him high and dry in his
green-embowered island, secure of contamination to his fruit trees from
unspeakable gas and sewer pipes. A ten-foot brick wall, with its top set
with broken bottles, would defend his quinces and apricots from the
incursion of the street Arabs, and wind and sky were as free as ever.
Yes, he would hold his own against these vandals of commercialism,
while one brick of Arcadia House remained upon another. So, let us
fancy, quoth Mynheer van Duyne away back in _anno Domini_ 1803, and when
he died in 1850 or thereabouts, the estate, having but a moderate value
as city property goes, was allowed to remain in _statu quo_; the heirs
had ground-rents enough and to spare without it, and Arcadia House might
be considered a proper memorial of the ancient state and dignity of the
Van Duynes. But this is getting to be pure conjecture; let us return to
Constans and the facts as he saw them.
The main house stood close to the river, there being but a strip of lawn
between the piazza and the top of the sea-wall. On the left, as Constans
faced, an enclosed vestibule led to a secondary structure, which
probably contained the domestic offices and servants' quarters. Still
farther on, and under the same continuous albeit slightly lower
roof-line, were the stables and cattle barns, the wood and other
storehouses forming the extreme left wing. In its day, Arcadia House had
been an eminently respectable and comfortable dwelling, and even now it
presented a tolerably good appearance; certainly it might be called
habitable. Constans, straining his eyes, for the afternoon was
advancing, thought he saw smoke ascending from one of the chimneys, and
this incited him to an actual invasion of the premises.
He chose the southwestern corner of the block as being farthest removed
from the range of the house windows. A lucky throw made the grapples
fast, and it took but an instant to run up the rungs. There was no one
in sight, so Constans, shifting the ladder to the inner side, made the
descent quite at his ease, and found himself in a little plantation of
spruce-trees.
The evergreens grew so thickly together that he had some difficulty in
forcing his way through them. Breaking free at last, he stepped out into
the open, and stood vis-a-vis with a girl who had been advancing, as it
were, to meet him. Constans knew instantly that this could be none other
than Mad Scarlett's daughter, and there, indeed, were the proofs--the
red-gold hair and the tawny eyes, just as Elena had described them in
her message and Ulick in his endless lover's rhapsodies.
She stood mute and wide-eyed before him, the color in her cheeks coming
and going like a flickering candle. Constans naturally concluded that
his appearance had frightened her. He retreated a step or two; he tried
to think of something to say that would reassure her. Perhaps he might
use Ulick's name by way of introduction. He ended by blurting out:
"Don't be afraid; I will go whenever you say."
Her lips formed rather than uttered the warning, "Sh!" She listened
intently for a moment or two, but there was only the distant dripping of
water to be heard, the air being extraordinarily still and windless.
"Come!" she panted, and, clutching at her skirts, led the way to a
thatched pavilion some eighty yards distant, a storehouse, perhaps, or a
building once used as a farm office. Constans tried to question, to
protest, but for the moment his will was as flax in the flame of her
resolution; he yielded and ran obediently at her side.
Arrived at the little house, the girl pushed him bodily through the
doorway and entered herself, turning quickly to slip into place the
oaken bar that secured the door from the inside. Constans swelled with
indignation at this singular treatment. He was a man grown, not a truant
child to be led away by the ear for punishment. Yet she would not abate
one jot of her first advantage, and his anger melted under the quiet
serenity of her gaze; in spite of himself he let her have the first
word.
"Did you think I was afraid for myself?" she asked, with a slow smile
that made Constans's cheeks burn. "You see, I remembered that Fangs and
Blazer are generally out by this time, a full hour before dark."
"Fangs and Blazer?"
"The dogs, I mean. They will track a man even over this half-melted
snow, and old Kurt has trained them to short work with trespassers. You
did not know that?"
"No," answered Constans, simply. "But then it would not have made any
difference."
"You mean that you are not afraid?"
He had to be honest. "I'm not sure about that, but still I should have
come."
The girl's eyes swept him approvingly.
"Of course," she said, well pleased, for a woman delights in placing her
own valuation upon the courage of which a man speaks diffidently.
"I am Esmay," she announced, and paused a little doubtfully.
"I know," assented Constans.
"Then you do remember? Even the bracelet with the carbuncles, and how
you would not make up because I was a girl and knew no better?"
"It was a very foolish affair from beginning to end," said Constans,
loftily, intent upon disguising his embarrassment.
[Illustration: SHE STOOD MUTE AND WIDE-EYED BEFORE HIM]
"Of course I knew you at once," she went on, meditatively. "You were so
awkward in your ridiculous priest robes that morning in the temple of
the Shining One. How Nanna and I did laugh!"
Constans winced a trifle at this, but he could not think of anything to
say. She laughed again at the remembrance--provokingly. Then she turned
on him suddenly. "Why have you come to Arcadia House?" she asked.
Constans hesitated, tried to avoid the real issue, and of course put
himself in the wrong.
"It was on Ulick's account. I had promised him----"
"Oh!" The look was doubly eloquent of the disappointment inherent in the
exclamation, and Constans thrilled under it. What delicious flattery in
this unexpected frankness! He made a step forward, but Esmay in her turn
drew back, her eyes hardened, and he stopped, abashed.
It had been a sudden remembrance of her childish threat--"a woman ...
and some day you will know what that means"--that had tempted her to the
rashness which she had so quickly regretted. For she had forgotten that
a proposition is generally provided with a corollary. If she had become
a woman he no less had grown to manhood, and that one forward step had
forced her to recognize the fact. She was silent, feeling a little
afraid and wondering at herself. Constans, in more evident discomfiture,
blundered on, obsessed by a vague sense of loyalty to his friend.
"Ulick is away--on the expedition to the southland. He was anxious that
you should be found, and I promised to do my best. He will be glad to
know."
"When is he coming back?" demanded Esmay, with an entire absence of
enthusiasm.
"This month, certainly; indeed, it may be any day now."
"You must promise me that you will not tell him where I am or even that
you have seen me."
"But--but----"
"Remember now that you have promised."
Constans felt himself called upon to speak with some severity to this
unreasonable young person.
"You are giving a great deal of trouble to your friends," he said,
reprovingly.
"My friends!" she echoed, mockingly.
"There was your mother and her message to your uncle Hugolin in Croye."
"Yes, I know," she broke in. "Then it was received--the message----?"
She stopped, unable to go on; an indefinable emotion possessed her.
"My uncle has sent you to fetch me," she whispered. "You are his
messenger."
Constans had to answer her honestly, and was sorry.
"No," he said, bluntly. "Messer Hugolin could not see his way to
anything."
Her pride came to her aid. "Oh, it does not matter," she said, and so
indifferently that Constans was deceived.
"But you cannot stay here," he insisted--"here among the Doomsmen."
"They are my father's people, and you have just told me that my uncle
Hugolin does not want me."
"And what does Quinton Edge desire of you?" he asked.
"I do not know," she answered, returning his gaze fearlessly, whereof
Constans was glad, although he could not have told her why.
"Yet you are a prisoner?"
"It seems so, and my sister Nanna as well. But we have nothing of which
to complain, and doubtless our master will acquaint us with his pleasure
in good time."
"It is always that way," said Constans, bitterly. "His will against mine
at every turn; a rock upon which I beat with naked hands."
"He is a strong man," answered Esmay, thoughtfully, "but I think I know
where his power lies. It is simply that neither his friends nor his
enemies are aware of how they stand with him."
But Constans did not even notice that she was speaking; the remembrance
of his unfulfilled purpose seized and racked him. He had hated this man,
Quinton Edge, from that first moment in which their eyes had
clashed--ever and always. At first instinctively; then with reason
enough and to spare; and yet this small world still held them both. How
long were his hands to be tied? Once and again his enemy had stood
before him and had gone his way insolently triumphant. He might be now
in the house yonder, and Constans looked at it eagerly. A master
passion, primitive and crude, possessed him.
The girl divined the hostile nature of the power which held him, and
instinctively she put forth her own strength against it.
"Listen!" she said, and plucked him by the sleeve. Constans looked at
her.