little while since, the sun had burned a pathway down the world. All
in an hour, one small trifling space of time, this wonderful, magical
thing had happened. He loved her. There had been hunger for her in
his voice, in his blue eyes. Presently she was going to make him feel
very sorry that he had not taken her in his arms, then and there.
"Oh, beautiful world!"
"Elsa, what in mercy's name possesses you?"
"I am mad, Martha, mad as a March hare, whatever that is!" She loved.
"People will think so, if they happen to come along and see that waist.
Please come instantly and let me finish hooking it. You act like you
did when you were ten. You never would stand still."
"Yes, and I remember how you used to yank my pig-tails. I haven't
really forgiven you yet."
"I believe it's going home that's the matter with you. Well, I for one
shall be glad to leave this horrid country. Chinamen everywhere, in
your room, at your table, under your feet. And in the streets,
Chinamen and Malays and Hindus, and I don't know what other outlandish
races and tribes. . . . Why, what's this?" cried Martha, bending to
the floor.
Elsa ran back to the room. She gave a little gasp when she saw what it
was that Martha was holding out for her inspection. It was
Warrington's letter of credit. She had totally forgotten its
existence. Across the face of the thick Manila envelope (more or less
covered with numerals that had been scribbled there by Warrington in an
attempt to compute the interest at six per cent.) which contained the
letters of credit and identification was written in a clerical hand the
owner's name. Martha could not help seeing it. Elsa explained frankly
what it was and how it had come into her possession. Martha was
horrified.
"Elsa, they might have entered your room; and your jewels lying about
everywhere! How could you be so careless?"
"But they didn't. I'll return this to Mr. Warrington in the morning;
perhaps to-night, if I see him at dinner."
"He was in the next room, and we never knew it!" The final hook
snapped into place. "Well, Wednesday our boat leaves;" as if this put
a period to all further discussion anent Mr. Parrot & Co. Nothing very
serious could happen between that time and now.
"Wednesday night." Elsa began to sing again, but not so joyously. The
petty things of every-day life were lifting their heads once more, and
of necessity she must recognize them.
She sat at the consul-general's table, informally. There was gay
inconsequential chatter, an exchange of recollections and comparisons
of cities and countries they had visited at separate times; but neither
she nor he mentioned the chief subject of their thoughts. She
refrained because of a strange yet natural shyness of a woman who has
found herself; and he, because from his angle of vision it was best
that Warrington should pass out of her life as suddenly and
mysteriously as he had entered it. Had he spoken frankly he would have
saved Elsa many a bitter heartache, many a weary day.
Warrington was absent, and so were his enemies. If there was any truth
in reincarnation, Elsa was confident that in the splendid days of Rome
she had beaten her pink palms in applause of the gladiators. Pagan;
she was all of that; for she knew that she could have looked upon
Mallow's face with more than ordinary interest. Never more would her
cheeks burn at the recollection of the man's look.
She was twenty-five; she had waited longer than most women; the mistake
of haste would never be hers. Nor did she close her eyes to the
future. She knew exactly what the world was, and how it would act.
She was not making any sacrifices. She was not one of those women,
lightly balanced, who must have excitement in order to exist; she
depended upon herself for her amusements. With the man she loved she
would have shared a hut in the wilderness and been happy. One of the
things that had drawn her to Arthur had been his quiet love of the
open, his interest in flowers and forests and streams. Society, that
division of classes, she had accepted, but to it she had never bowed
down. How very well she could do without it! She would go with him
and help him build his bridges, help him to fight torrents and
hurricanes, and to forget. That he had bidden her farewell was
nothing. She would seek him. In her pursuit of happiness she was not
going to permit false modesty to intervene. In her room, later, she
wrote two letters. The one to Arthur covered several pages; the other
consisted of a single line. She went down to the office, mailed
Arthur's letter and left the note in Warrington's key-box. It was not
an intentionally cruel letter she had written to the man in America;
but if she had striven toward that effect she could not have achieved
it more successfully. She cried out against the way he had treated his
brother, the false pride that had hidden all knowledge of him from her.
Where were the charity and mercy of which he had so often preached?
Pages of burning reproaches which seared the soul of the man who read
them. She did not confide the state of her heart. It was not
necessary. The arraignment of the one and the defense of the other
were sufficiently illuminating.
Soundly the happy sleep. She did not hear the removal of Warrington's
luggage at midnight, for it was stealthily done. Neither did she hear
the fretful mutter of the bird as his master disturbed his slumbers.
Nothing warned her that he intended to spend the night on board; that,
having paid his bill early in the evening, her note might have lain in
the key-box until the crack of doom, so far as he was likely to know of
its existence. No angel of pity whispered to her, Awake! No
dream-magic people tell about drew for her the picture of the man she
loved, pacing up and down the cramped deck of the packet-boat, fighting
a battle compared to which that of the afternoon was play. Elsa slept
on, dreamless.
When she awoke in the morning she ran to the mirror: all this fresh
beauty she was going to give to him, without condition, without
reservation, absolutely: as Aspasia might have rendered her charms to
Pericles. She dressed quickly, singing lowly. Fate makes us the
happiest when she is about to crush us.
Usually she had her breakfast served in the room, but this morning she
was determined to go downstairs. She was excited; she brimmed with
exuberance; she wanted Romance to begin at once.
"Good-morning," she greeted the consul-general, who was breakfasting
alone.
"Well, you're an early bird!" he replied. "Elsa, you are certainly
beautiful."
"Honestly?" with real eagerness.
"Honestly. And how you have gone all these years without marrying a
grand duke, is something I can't figure out."
"Perhaps I have been waiting for the man. There was no real hurry."
"Lucky chap, when you find him. By the way, our romantic Parrot & Co.
have gone."
"Gone?" Elsa stared at him.
"Yes. Sailed for Saigon at dawn."
"Saigon," she repeated.
"And I am rather glad to see him go. I was afraid he might interest
you too much. You'll deny it, but you'll never outgrow the fairy-story
age."
"Saigon."
"Good heavens, Elsa, what is the matter?"
"No, no! Don't touch me. I'm not the fainting kind. Did you know
last night that he was going?"
"Yes."
"I shall never forgive you."
"Why, Elsa . . ."
"Never, never! You knew and did not tell me. Do you know who Paul
Ellison is? He is the brother of the man at home. You knew he was
stealing away and did not tell me."
She could not have made the truth any plainer to him. He sat back in
his chair, stunned, voiceless.
"I am going to my room," she said. "Do not follow. Please act as if
nothing had happened."
He saw her walk bravely the length of the dining-room, out into the
office. What a misfortune! Argument was out of the question. Elsa
was not a child, to be reasoned with. She was a woman, and she had
come to a woman's understanding of her heart. To place before her the
true angles of the case, the heartless banishment from the world she
knew, the regret which would be hers later, no matter how much she
loved the man . . . He pushed back his chair, leaving his coffee
untasted.
He possessed the deep understanding of the kindly heart, and his one
thought was Elsa's future happiness. As men go, Warrington was an
honorable man; honorable enough to run away rather than risk the danger
of staying where Elsa was. He was no longer an outlaw; he could go and
come as he would. But there was that misstep, not printed in shifting
sand but upon the granite of recollection. Single, he could go back to
his world and pick up the threads again, but not with a wife at his
side. Oh, yes; they would be happy at first. Then Elsa would begin to
miss the things she had so gloriously thrown away. The rift in the
lute; the canker in the rose. They were equally well-born, well-bred;
politeness would usurp affection's hold. Could he save her from the
day when she would learn Romance had come from within? No. All he
could do was to help her find the man.
He sent five cablegrams to Saigon, to the consulate, to the principal
hotels: the most difficult composition he had ever attacked. But
because he had forgotten to send the sixth to meet the packet-boat,
against the possibility of Warrington changing his mind and not
landing, his labor was thrown to the winds.
Meantime Elsa stopped at the office-desk. "I left a note for Mr.
Warrington who has gone to Saigon. I see it in his key-box. Will you
please return it to me?"
The clerk did not hesitate an instant. He gravely returned the note to
her, marveling at her paleness. Elsa crushed the note in her hand and
moved toward the stairs, wondering if she could reach her room before
she broke down utterly. He had gone. He had gone without knowing that
all he wanted in life was his for the taking. In her room she opened
the note and through blurred vision read what she had so happily
inscribed the night before. "Paul--I love you. Come to me. Elsa."
She had written it, unashamed.
She flung herself upon the bed, and there Martha found her.
"Elsa, child, what is it?" Martha cried, kneeling beside the bed.
"Child, what has happened?"
Elsa sat up, seized Martha by the shoulders and stared into the
faithful eyes.
"Do you want to know?"
"Elsa!"
"Well, I love this man Warrington and he loves me. But he has gone.
Can't you see? Don't you understand? Have you been as blind as I? He
is Paul Ellison, Arthur's brother, his twin brother. And they
obliterated him. It is Arthur who is the ghost, Martha, the phantom.
Ah, I have caused you a good deal of worry, and I am going to cause you
yet more. I am going to Saigon; up and down the world, east and west,
until I find him. Shall I go alone, or will you go with me?"
Then Martha did what ever after endeared her to the heart of the
stricken girl: she mothered her. "Elsa, my baby! Of course I shall go
with you, always. For you could not love any man if he was not worthy."
Then followed the strangest quest doubtless ever made by a woman. From
Singapore to Saigon, up to Bangkok, down to Singapore again; to
Batavia, over to Hongkong, Shanghai, Pekin, Manila, Hongkong again,
then Yokohama. Patient and hopeful, Elsa followed the bewildering
trail. She left behind her many puzzled hotel managers and booking
agents: for it was not usual for a beautiful young woman to go about
the world, inquiring for a blond man with a parrot. Sometimes she was
only a day late. Many cablegrams she sent, but upon her arrival in
each port she found that these had not been called for. Over these
heart-breaking disappointments she uttered no complaint. The world was
big and wide; be it never so big and wide, Elsa knew that some day she
would find him.
In the daytime there was the quest; but, ah! the nights, the
interminable hours of inaction, the spaces of time in which she could
only lie back and think. Up and down the coasts, across islands, over
seas, the journey took her, until one day in July she found herself
upon the pillared veranda of the house in which her mother had been
born.
XX
THE TWO BROTHERS
From port to port, sometimes not stepping off the boat at all, moody,
restless and irritable, Warrington wended his way home. There was
nothing surprising in the fact that he never inquired for mail. Who
was there to write? Besides, he sought only the obscure hotels, where
he was not likely to meet any of his erstwhile fellow passengers. The
mockery and uselessness of his home-going became more and more apparent
as the days slipped by. Often he longed to fly back to the jungles, to
James, and leave matters as they were. Here and there, along the way,
he had tried a bit of luxury; but the years of economy and frugality
had robbed him of the ability to enjoy it. He was going home . . . to
what? Surely there would be no welcome for him at his journey's end.
He would return after the manner of prodigals in general, not
scriptural, to find that he was not wanted. Of his own free will he
had gone out of their lives.
He fought grimly against the thought of Elsa; but he was not strong
enough to vanquish the longings from his heart and mind. Always when
alone she was in fancy with him, now smiling amusedly into his face,
now peering down at the phosphorescence seething alongside, now
standing with her chin up-lifted, her eyes half shut, letting the
strong winds strike full in her face. Many a "good night" he sent over
the seas. An incident; that would be all.
His first day in New York left him with nothing more than a feeling of
foreboding and oppression. The expected exhilaration of returning to
the city of his birth did not materialize. So used to open spaces was
he, to distances and the circle of horizons, that he knew he no longer
belonged to the city with its Himalayan gorges and cañons, whose
torrents were human beings and whose glaciers were the hearts of these.
A great loneliness bore down on him. For months he had been drawing
familiar pictures, and to find none of these was like coming home to an
empty house. The old life was indeed gone; there were no threads to
resume. A hotel stood where his club had been; the house in which he
had spent his youth was no more. He wanted to leave the city; and the
desire was with difficulty overcome.
Early the second morning he started down-town to the offices of the
Andes Construction Company. He was extraordinarily nervous. Cold
sweat continually moistened his palms. Change, change, everywhere
change; Trinity was like an old friend. When the taxicab driver threw
off the power and indicated with a jerk of his head a granite shaft
that soared up into the blue, Warrington asked:
"What place is this?"
"The Andes Building, sir. The construction company occupies the top
floor."
"Very good," replied Warrington, paying and discharging the man.
From a reliquary of the Dutch, an affair of red-brick, four stories
high, this monolith had sprung. With a sigh Warrington entered the
cavernous door-way and stepped into an "express-elevator." When the
car arrived at the twenty-second story, Warrington was alone. He
paused before the door of the vice-president. He recalled the "old
man," thin-lipped, blue-eyed, eruptive. It was all very strange, this
request to make the restitution in person. Well he would soon learn
why.
He drew the certified check from his wallet and scrutinized it
carefully. Twelve thousand, eight hundred dollars. He replaced it,
opened the door, and walked in. A boy met him at the railing and
briskly inquired his business.
"I wish to see Mr. Elmore."
"Your card."
Card? Warrington had not possessed such a thing in years. "I have no
cards with me. But I have an appointment with Mr. Elmore. Tell him
that Mr. Ellison is here."
The boy returned promptly and signified that Mr. Elmore was at liberty.
But it was not the "old man" who looked up from a busy man's desk. It
was the son: so far, the one familiar face Warrington had seen since
his arrival. There was no hand-shaking; there was nothing in evidence
on either side to invite it.
"Ah! Sit down, Paul. Let no one disturb me for an hour," the young
vice-president advised the boy. "And close the door as you go out."
Warrington sat down; the bridge-builder whirled his chair around and
stared at his visitor, not insolently, but with kindly curiosity.
"You've filled out," was all he said. After fully satisfying his eyes,
he added: "I dare say you expected to find father. He's been gone six
years," indicating one of the two portraits over his desk.
It was not at the "old man" Warrington looked longest. "Who is the
other?" he asked.
"What? You worked four years with this company and don't recollect
that portrait?"
"Frankly, I never noticed it before." Warrington placed the certified
check on the desk. "With interest," he said.
The vice-president crackled it, ran his fingers over his smooth chin,
folded the check and extended it toward the astonished wanderer.
"We don't want that, Paul. What we wanted was to get you back. There
was no other way. Your brother made up the loss the day after
you . . . went away. There was no scandal. Only a few of us in the
office knew. Never got to the newspapers."
It was impossible for Warrington to digest this astounding information
at once. His mind could only repeat the phrases: no scandal, only a
few of us in the office knew, never got to the newspapers. For ten
years he had hidden himself in wildernesses, avoided hotels, read no
American newspapers, never called for mail. Oh, monumental fool!
"And I could have come home almost at once!" he said aloud, addressing
the crumpled check in his hand rather than the man in the swivel-chair.
"Yes. I have often wondered where you were, what you were doing. You
and your brother were upper-classmen. I never knew Arthur very well;
but you and I were chummy, after a fashion. Arthur was a little too
bookish for my style. Didn't we use to call you Old Galahad? You were
always walloping the bullies and taking the weaker chaps under your
wing. To me, you were the last man in the world for this business.
Moreover, I never could understand, nor could father, how you got it,
for you were not an office-man. Women and cards, I suppose. Father
said that you had the making of a great engineer. Fierce place, this
old town," waving his hand toward the myriad sparkling roofs and towers
and spires. "Have to be strong and hard-headed to survive it. Built
anything since you've been away?"
"In Cashmir." To have thrown away a decade!
"Glad you kept your hand in. I dare say you've seen a lot of life." To
the younger man it was an extremely awkward interview.
"Yes; I've seen life," dully.
"Orient, mostly, I suppose. Your letter about the strike in oil was
mighty interesting. Heap of money over there, if they'd only let us
smart chaps in to dig it up. Now, old man, I want you to wipe the
slate clear of these ten years. We'll call it a bad dream. What are
your plans for the future?"
"Plans?" Warrington looked up blankly. He realized that he had made
no plans for the future.
"Yes. What do you intend to do? A man like you wasn't made for
idleness. Look here, Paul; I'm not going to beat about the bush.
We've got a whopping big contract from the Chinese government, and we
need a man to take charge, a man who knows and understands something of
the yellow people. How about a salary of ten thousand a year for two
years, to begin in October?"
Warrington twisted the check. Work, rehabilitation.
"Could you trust me?" he asked quietly.
"With anything I have in the world. Understand, Paul, there's no
philanthropic string to this offer. You've pulled through a devil of a
hole. You're a man. I should not be holding down this chair if I
couldn't tell a man at a glance. We were together two months in Peru.
I'm familiar with your work. Do you want to know whose portrait that
is up there? Well, it's General Chetwood's, the founder of this
concern, the silent partner. The man who knew kings and potentates and
told 'em that they needed bridges in their backyards. This building
belongs to his daughter. She converted her stock into granite. About
a month ago I received a letter from her. It directly concerned you.
It seems she learned through the consul-general at Singapore that you
had worked with us. She's like her father, a mighty keen judge of
human nature. Frankly, this offer comes through her advices. To
satisfy yourself, you can give us a surety-bond for fifty thousand.
It's not obligatory, however."
Elsa Chetwood. She had her father's eyes, and it was this which had
drawn his gaze to the portrait. Chetwood; and Arthur had not known any
more than he had. What irony! Ten years wasted . . . for nothing!
Warrington laughed aloud. A weakness seized him, like that of a man
long gone hungry.
"Buck up, Paul," warned the good Samaritan. "All this kind of knocks
the wind out of you. I know. But what I've offered you is in good
faith. Will you take it?"
"Yes," simply.
"That's the way to talk. Supposing you go out to lunch with me? We'll
talk it over like old times."
"No. I haven't seen . . ."
"To be sure! I forgot. Do you know where they live, your mother and
brother?"
"No. I expected to ask you."
The vice-president scribbled down the address. "I believe you'll find
them both there, though Arthur, I understand, is almost as great a
traveler as you are. Of course you want to see them, you poor beggar!
The Southwestern will pull you almost up to the door. After the
reunion, you hike back here, and we'll get down to the meat of the
business."
"John," said Warrington, huskily, "you're a man."
"Oh, piffle! It's not all John. The old man left word that if you
ever turned up again to hang on to you. You were valuable. And
there's Miss Chetwood. If you want to thank anybody, thank her."
Warrington missed the searching glance, which was not without its touch
of envy. "You'd better be off. Hustle back as soon as you can."
Elmore offered his hand now. "Gad! but you haven't lost any of your
old grip."
"I'm a bit dazed. The last six months have loosened up my nerves."
"Nobody's made of iron."
"I'd sound hollow if I tried to say what I feel. I'll be back a week
from to-day."
"I'll look for you."
As the door closed behind Warrington, the young millionaire sat down,
scowling at a cubby-hole in his desk. He presently took out a letter
postmarked Yokohama. He turned it about in his hands, musingly.
Without reading it (for he knew its contents well!) he thrust it back
into the cubby-hole. Women were out of his sphere. He could build a
bridge within a dollar of the bid; but he knew nothing about women
beyond the fact that they were always desirable.
A few monosyllables, a sentence or two, and then, good day. The
average man would have recounted every incident of note during those
ten years. He did not admire Warrington any the less for his
reticence. It took a strong man to hold himself together under all
these blows from the big end of fortune's horn.
He had known the two brothers at college, and to Paul he had given a
freshman's worship. In the field Paul had been the idol, and popular
not only for his feats of strength but for his lovableness. He
recalled the affection between the two boys. Arthur admired Paul for
his strength, Paul admired and gloried in his brother's learning.
Never would he forget that commencement-day, when the two boys in their
mortar-boards, their beautiful mother between them, arm in arm, walked
across the green of the campus. It was an unforgettable picture.
Paul was a born-engineer; Arthur had entered the office as a
make-shift. Paul had taken eight-thousand one day, and decamped.
Arthur had refunded the sum, and disappeared. Elmore could not
understand, nor could his father. Perhaps some of the truth would now
come to light. Somehow, Paul, with his blond beard and blonder head,
his bright eyes, his tan, his big shoulders, somehow Paul was out of
date. He did not belong to the times.
And Elsa had met him over there; practically ordered (though she had no
authority) that he should be given a start anew; that, moreover, she
would go his bond to any amount. Funny old world! Well, he was glad.
Paul was a man, a big man, and that was the sort needed in the foreign
bridge-building. He rolled down the top of his desk and left the
building. He was in no mood for work.