I can no longer remain in safety at Arcadia House. When it does I will
let you know by displaying a white signal in the western window of the
cupola. Then you will come?"
"I will come," he answered, albeit a little slowly and heavily as one
who seeks to find himself.
Esmay opened the door and looked out. It was almost dark, and after
listening a moment she seemed satisfied.
"You have a ladder? Very well, you need not be afraid of the dogs, for
when you see the signal I will arrange that they are kept in leash. And
now you had better go; they are surely unchained by this time, and any
moment may bring them ranging about. Good-bye, and remember your
promise."
They walked along together until they came to the plantation of
spruce-trees. Constans could see that his ladder was still in place on
the wall; his path of retreat was open. He put out his hand, and her
slim, cool palm rested for a moment in his. She nodded, smiled, and left
him, going directly towards the house.
Moved by an inexplicable impulse, Constans followed for a short
distance, keeping under the shelter of the trees. Then suddenly to him,
straining his eyes through the dusk, there appeared a second figure,
that of a woman, clothed wholly in white, hovering close upon the
retreating steps of the girl.
Constans felt his knees loosen under him, the ancient superstitions
being still strong in his blood for all of his studies and new-found
philosophy.
"It is her sister Nanna," he muttered to himself, and knew that he lied
in saying it. The old wives' tales, at which he had shuddered in
boyhood, came crowding back upon him--grisly legends of vampire shapes
and of the phantoms, invariably feminine in form, who were said to
inhabit ruined places. A panic terror seized him as he watched the
apparition gliding so swiftly and noiselessly upon the unconscious girl.
Yet he continued to run forward, stumbling and slipping on the
treacherous foothold of melting snow.
Esmay had reached a side door of the main building; quite naturally she
entered and closed the door behind her, while the white-robed figure,
after hesitating a moment, walked to a far corner of the house and
disappeared. Out of the indefinite distance came the deep-throated bay
of a hound. Constans turned and fled for his life.
Safely astride the wall coping he looked back. All was quiet in the
garden, and at that instant a light shone out at an upper window of the
house.
"She is safe," he told himself, and that was enough to know.
As he walked slowly westward, the thought of Ulick came again to him.
Had he really promised the girl that he would tell Ulick nothing?
Ridiculous as it may appear, he could not remember.
XVI
AS IN A LOOKING-GLASS
Arcadia House, while it certainly stood in need of the repairer's hand,
was by no means uninhabitable, a fact which spoke well for the honesty
of its old-time builders. Its oak beams, fastened together with
tree-nails instead of iron spikes, were still sound, and its brick
walls, unusually massive in construction, were without a crack. Most
important of all, the roof, shingled with the best cypress, remained
water-tight, and so protected the interior from the ruinous effects of
moisture. In outward appearance, however, Arcadia House had sadly
degenerated. The stucco that originally covered the outer walls had
fallen away here and there, leaving unsightly patches to vex the eye,
and in many of the windows the glazing had been destroyed either wholly
or in part.
Some years before Quinton Edge had taken possession of this abandoned
Eden. The summers in the city were usually warm, and the Doomsmen were
in the habit of seeking the upper stories of the tall buildings for
relief, just as in the twentieth century people went to the mountains
for the heated term. Quinton Edge, having accidentally discovered
Arcadia House recognized its advantages as a summer residence, and he
had his own reasons for desiring the privacy that its secluded
situation afforded. He was satisfied with putting three or four of the
rooms into livable condition, and as for the rest it was only necessary
to repair the wall surrounding the grounds and stock the storehouses
with fuel and provisions to make of Arcadia House the proverbial castle.
That it _was_ his castle was his own affair, and he had taken care that
only the fewest possible number should be in the secret. Old Kurt and a
couple of negro slave women made up the ordinary domestic staff of the
establishment, and until the advent of Esmay and Nanna, some three
months before, Arcadia House had received no visitors. And he would be a
foolish man who called upon Quinton Edge without an invitation.
Esmay, after parting from Constans, paused a moment at the side entrance
of the house. She wanted to look back, but a stronger instinct forbade
it; she opened the door and passed into the hall.
It was a broad, low-ceilinged apartment, and served as a common
living-room to the master of Arcadia House and his guests. A few embers
burned on the hearth, and a solitary candle set in a wall-sconce strove
with its feeble glimmer against the full tide of silver moonshine that
poured in through the uncurtained windows facing on the river. Quinton
Edge himself was sitting at the corner of the fireplace smoking a
red-clay pipe with a reed stem. He rose as Esmay entered, detaining her
with a gesture as she would have passed him.
"One moment, if you will."
The girl stopped and waited for him to continue. He considered a moment,
looking her over coolly. And indeed she made an attractive picture as
she stood there, the firelight glinting redly in her tawny eyes and her
cheeks incarnadined with excitement. Quinton Edge told himself that he
had made no mistake. Then he spoke:
"You have waited most patiently for me to announce my intentions. Let me
see; it is nearly three months since you came to Arcadia House?"
The girl made no reply. Alert and keeping herself well in hand, she
would force him to the first move. And Quinton Edge realized that he
would have to make it.
"It won't be any news to you that there are several people who would be
glad to be informed of your whereabouts. There's Boris, for one, and
young Ulick--we spoke of them some time ago."
"But to no purpose, sir; you remember that."
"Perfectly. Still, in three months a woman may change her mind many
times."
"But only for her own satisfaction."
"Then it is hopeless to expect a decision from you?"
"Evidently."
"In that case it may become necessary for me to act for you."
"Oh!"
The exclamation told its own story, and the girl in her vexation bit the
lip that had betrayed her. Quinton Edge smiled.
"Don't distress yourself," he said, smoothly. "I am only giving you the
warning that courtesy entitles you to receive."
Esmay reflected. Whatever his intentions concerning her, she could not
be the worse off for knowing them. So she went on, steadily:
"Since you have already decided upon my future, argument would be
useless. But perhaps I may assume that you have acted with some small
regard for my interests."
"Not the least in the world," returned Quinton Edge, and Esmay smiled
involuntarily at frankness so unblushing. Whereupon and curiously
enough, Quinton Edge became suddenly of a great gravity, the flippancy
of his accustomed manner falling from him as a cloak drops unnoticed
from a man's shoulders. He rose to his feet, strode to a window, and
stood there for perhaps a minute looking out upon the moonlit waters of
the Lesser river. When he turned again to the girl there were lines of
hardness about his mouth that she had never noticed before. Yet, in
speaking, his voice was soft, almost hesitating.
"Why should I tell you of these things, and then again why not? We are
both children of the Doomsmen, and the matter concerns us nearly. Not
equally, of course, but listen and draw your own conclusions."
"There are clouds in the political sky, and our little ship of state is
in danger of going upon the rocks, coincident with the death of Dom
Gillian, its old-time helmsman. And that contingency in the natural
course of events cannot be long delayed.
"Now there are two nominal heirs--Boris and Ulick. Each deems himself
the chosen successor to his great-grandfather, and each is incompetent
to play the part. In the past the reins of power have been held by the
man who stands between them. I am that third man."
"As everybody knows now."
"No; and for the simple reason that there are few to care who rules so
long as the figure-head remains a presentable one. But let me continue.
"Dom Gillian will formally nominate one of his grandsons as his heir. It
makes no difference whether Boris or Ulick succeeds--the outcome must be
the same. Both have personal followings, and that of the disappointed
one will form a minority insignificant in numerical strength, but
capable of being kneaded by strong hands into a compact mass."
"A revolution, then?"
"By no means. I accept the situation as it is and simply turn it to my
own advantage--as third man. This makes it necessary that the
disappointed one should become my absolute property. Now I hold the
price that he will demand for the surrender of his rights and
freedom--nothing less than yourself."
"I shall not affect to be surprised," said the girl, coolly. "But are
you quite sure that I am valued at so high a figure? It would be
mortifying for you to go into the market and find that your currency had
depreciated on your hands."
"I am not afraid," he answered. "The passion with Boris and Ulick alike
is genuine enough, albeit of somewhat different sort. As you care for
neither, it should be a matter of indifference whose property you
become."
The blood burned redly under the girl's brown skin. "No one but a woman
could know how unforgivable is that insult," she said. Then, with a
suddenly conceived appeal to the man himself:
"But why a bargain at all? You have the strength, the courage, the
brains--why chaffer when you have but to strike once to win all? You
stand between Boris and Ulick; crush them both in a single embrace and
take their birthright of power."
"Bah!" said the Doomsman, contemptuously. "Do you think that the mere
possession of the wolf-skin is the object of the hunt? It is the game
that amuses me and not the final distribution of the stakes. The game, I
say, and it happens to suit my humor to play it in this particular way.
You are simply a piece on the board, and I may win with you or lose with
you, or conclude to throw you back in the box without playing you at
all--just as it pleases me."
"The means are at least nobler than the end," retorted the girl. "A
lofty ambition, truly, to stand behind a screen and pull the strings of
a puppet, who in turn lords it over a handful of rick burners and cattle
reivers. Even my uncle Hugolin, Councillor Primus of Croye, cuts a
better figure when, clad in his state robe of silver-fox fur, he
presides over his parliament of shopkeepers."
"Granted," returned Quinton Edge, "but one and all dance together when I
choose to pipe. Is it such a contemptible thing to rule a small world,
if, indeed, it be the world? I take all that there is to be taken. Could
Alexander or Caesar do more?"
"I am beginning to comprehend," she said, slowly. "An ambition that
confessedly overleaps all bounds is at least not an ignoble one."
He turned and searched her eyes.
"You will play the game with me?"
"No."
"Yet a moment ago you were considering it--the possibility, I mean."
"For the moment--yes. After three months of Arcadia House dulness
almost any amusement would seem worth while. But, frankly speaking, it
is the nature of the risk that appalls me. I cannot afford to lose my
stake nor even to adventure it."
"To speak plainly?"
"Well, then, you contribute to the common capital but one thing--your
brains. Later on, if the play goes against us, you may have to throw on
the table your liberty, and, in the last extremity, your life. But that
is the utmost limit of your losses. I, on the contrary, must contribute
myself to the hazard, and no man understands what that means to a
woman."
"How long is it since the woman has understood?" he asked, mockingly,
but Esmay was silent.
"Well, then, if I cannot have you with me I want you actively against
me--the more balls in the air, the better sport for the juggler. And at
least we understand each other."
"There is just the one question--perhaps an obvious one."
"Yes."
"Boris or Ulick? For of course you know which of them is to be the old
Dom's heir."
"I do."
"I am to be informed of my purchaser's name--after the bargaining is
over? And only then?"
"Since you choose to put it in that way--yes."
Neither chose to break the silence that fell between them, and Esmay,
catching up her skirt, turned to go.
"Good-night," she said, but Quinton Edge did not answer. Apparently he
had forgotten her very existence; he sat with feet out-stretched to the
fire, his eyes fixed upon the curl of blue smoke that hung above his
pipe bowl.
Esmay went up to the room on the second floor which she shared with her
sister. Nanna was already in bed and asleep, but she started up as Esmay
entered, like a dog that has been listening in its dreams for its
master's footsteps. "Are you coming to bed?" she asked, drowsily, and
fell back among the pillows without even waiting for the answer.
Esmay, unconscious of the cold, remained seated at the window looking
out upon the river, her mind busy with the ultimatum which had just been
presented to it. That it was an ultimatum, she could not doubt; Quinton
Edge had been in deadly earnest in confronting her with her fate--a
double-faced one, as she thought, with a little shiver. She could not
avoid seeing it, no matter which way she turned.
A waning moon in a clouding sky. Even as she looked the two faces seemed
to start out from the uncertain shadows--Boris, the Butcher--involuntarily,
she shrank back from the window--never that!
Ulick? Yes, she had been fond of Ulick; they had been comrades and
friends for so long as she could remember. But Ulick in this new
light--ah, that was different again. Strangely enough she found herself
contemplating this last possibility even more fearfully than she had the
first. If the "Butcher" but laid a finger upon her, surely her arm was
strong enough to drive the dagger home. But if it were Ulick, what could
she do but turn the weapon against her own breast.
Plan and counterplan, and the argument invariably came back to where it
began--she must call upon Constans for the aid which he had promised to
place at her disposal. Hardly two hours had passed since they had made
the compact, and now she was come to ask for its fulfilment. What would
he think of her? How interpret a precipitancy so foreign to the cool
assurance of her bearing in the garden? She frowned; the instinct that
urges a woman to any folly short of the supreme blunder of unveiling
herself to masculine eyes took possession of her. But only for a moment,
for again the imminence of the peril in which she stood broke over her
like a wave. There was but one thing to do; the signal must be set this
very night. The returning expedition from the south might even now be
encamped at the High Bridge, and if Constans could help her at all it
must be at once.
Without waiting to parley further with herself, Esmay went to the door
opening into the hall and looked out. The hour must be close upon
midnight; the house was quiet and dark.
A piece of white cloth had been the signal agreed upon, and a fluttering
handkerchief should answer the purpose well enough without being too
conspicuous to alien eyes. Nanna still slept, and Esmay, slipping into
the hallway, stood listening for a moment. Then she went on boldly; the
moon was still high, and she would not need a light.
It had been arranged that the signal should be displayed from the
southwestern window of the cupola crowning the main roof. But the stairs
to the third story and attic were in a wing; to reach them she must
traverse a long corridor which led past the apartments occupied by
Quinton Edge. Esmay noticed a gleam of yellow light upon the threshold
of his half-closed door as she passed it on winged feet, but there was
nothing extraordinary in that--it often burned there throughout the
entire night. But he was talking to somebody; she could hear distinctly
the opposition of the two voices. Who could it be? for none of the
servants ever entered these rooms, and she had never known of any
stranger being invited thither. She stopped and listened for a moment or
two. But she could make out nothing distinctly, and then she flushed
hotly to think that she had been tempted to eavesdropping. Let her be
satisfied in knowing that Quinton Edge was in his room and busily
engaged; at least, he would not disturb her.
The upper stories of the house had not been occupied for many years, and
it took all the girl's courage to carry her through the shadow-haunted
garret and up the ladder leading to the cupola proper. But she
accomplished the task of putting the signal-cloth in position, and,
still shaking with cold and excitement, began to retrace her steps.
At the entrance to Quinton Edge's room she stopped again, not out of
curiosity, but as though yielding to the pressure of an invisible hand.
The door still stood ajar, but there was no sound of voices. Again it
was the invisible hand that seemed to draw the door away, permitting the
girl to look within. An empty room, save for the figure that sat at the
table, his head buried in his hands, the whole attitude one of intense
weariness and dejection. Even as she stood there he looked up, and she
saw his face mirrored in the glass that hung suspended from the opposite
wall. It was Quinton Edge's face, indisputably; but could she ever have
imagined that such capacity of pain lay behind the mask she knew so
well? The dark eyes seemed to seize and hold her fast; then she realized
that they saw nothing beyond their own mirrored reflection. Again the
head sank forward into the hollowed hands, and only the slow heave of
the shoulders made certain that it was a living man who sat there in the
silence.
Noiselessly closing the door, Esmay regained her room and, all clothed
as she was, crept into bed. Nanna stirred sleepily and put out a
protecting arm. How blessed the comfort of that strong, warm clasp!
XVII
THE AWAKENING
Constans climbed to his observatory on the roof of the "Flat-iron" as
usual that next morning. It was a fine, bright day and so clear that he
could see for miles without the use of his glass. And there was
something to see--far away to the north he discovered a thin thread of
smoke that must mark the spot of a newly extinguished camp-fire. At last
the raiders were back from the Southland; they would be within the city
boundaries by this time and should arrive at the Citadel Square by noon
at the latest.
Glancing down into the fortress he saw that already tidings of the
return must have been received. Torch signals had probably been sent
during the night from the High Bridge announcing the fact of the
arrival, and now all was bustle and excitement.
It was a colorful and inspiriting scene--soldiers engaged in polishing
their accoutrements or clouting up hitherto neglected rents in cloak or
tunic; musicians tuning their simple instruments; negro slaves grooming
horses; women busy over saucepans that bubbled upon extemporized
furnaces of piled-up bricks; children and dogs on all sides, chattering,
squealing, under everybody's feet, alternately and impartially cuffed
and caressed. An air of joyous expectancy lightened every face, for now
the long months of waiting and of anxiety were past; the outriders of
Doom had returned from the Southland with goodly store of corn and wine
and of fat beeves for future feasting. It was, indeed, chilled and aged
blood that did not run the faster on this day of days.
Outside of the White Tower stood a groom, holding the bridle of a horse
whose housings were of the most gorgeous description, a blaze of crimson
cloth and gold thread. The owner's spear, with its pennon of embroidered
silk, stood close at hand, its iron-shod shaft wedged tightly into a
convenient crack in the pavement. Upon the banneret, Constans, with his
glass, made out the symbol used by Quinton Edge, a raven in mid-air
bearing a skull in his beak. Evidently he was to command the guard of
honor who would escort the returned warriors down the Palace Road, and
the hour must be close at hand. A few moments later and Quinton Edge
himself appeared, issuing forth from the White Tower. A splendidly
gorgeous figure he presented, for over his close-fitting suit of claret
cloth he wore a surcoat of white velvet ornamented with gold lace and
buttons of amethyst. His hat of soft felt was decorated with a white
ostrich-plume, exquisitely curled and secured by a jewelled clasp, and
in his left hand he carried an ivory truncheon tipped with gold, the
emblem, doubtless, of his high position in the councils of the Doomsmen.
Apparently he was in good-humor this morning; he chatted animatedly with
those nearest to him, and once or twice he even laughed aloud.
A trumpet sounded, and, without much pretence at military smartness, the
escorting party scrambled into their saddles and the cavalcade moved
forward through the north gate and up the Palace Road. By noon at the
latest they should return, and preparations immediately began for the
feast that was to be given in honor of the long-absent warriors now
happily restored to the society of their families and friends. A score
or more of wine-casks were rolled out from the public stores and made
ready for broaching. In the centre of the square the board flooring had
been removed from a huge circular pit that measured twenty feet across
by six or eight in depth; it was lined and bottomed with flat
paving-stones. A fire of hard-wood had been burning in it for hours, the
preliminary to a gigantic barbecue of fat oxen. Upon the open space in
front of the guard-huts, slaves were erecting long trestle-tables to
serve as the banqueting-board. The day had turned so warm that there
would be no discomfort in dining out-of-doors, for all that the date was
March 22d and the last snow-fall still lay a foot or more in depth in
the side streets. The square itself had been thoroughly cleaned, or it
would have been a veritable sea of slush. Astonishing! but as the sun's
rays became more and more inclined to the vertical, it became apparent
that the day would not only be warm but actually hot.
Constans had grown tired of making his observations at long range; he
resolved to descend and mingle boldly with the people in the square. He
had only Quinton Edge to fear, and it should be easy to keep out of his
way. Moreover, this was a golden chance for him to pick up some intimate
information about the defences of the Citadel Square.
Carefully adjusting the details of his ecclesiastical costume, Constans
prepared to descend. His last act was to cast a perfunctory glance in
the direction of Arcadia House, and it seemed that his eye caught the
flutter of something white. He raised the binoculars--it was true, the
signal was there, a handkerchief tied to the lattice-blind of the cupola
window.
Constans frowned and reflected. It was only last night that the girl had
asserted her entire ability to look after herself--it was like a woman
to be so soon of another mind. And there was Ulick--Ulick who would have
shed the last drop in his veins to serve her. Yet she would have none of
him, and she had deliberately tied Constans's hands in exacting the
promise that he should not reveal her whereabouts to the man who of all
things desired to serve her. There could be no reasoning with this
wilful young person; she would have her way in spite of all the
masculine logic in the world, and he realized the fact with a growing
resentment.
Yet there was his promise and it must be kept. He would go again to
Arcadia House sometime during the afternoon or evening, for the matter
was not one of absolute urgency. In the latter case two signals would
have been displayed, and there was but the one. So, dismissing the
matter from mind for the present, he made his way to the street and
joined with the crowd that was continually passing in and out of the
north gate.