The little fraternity in the Arcade broke up gradually, after one
more dramatic interruption. The baron, whose health had faded
rapidly in the last months, was gradually confined to his room,
where Pansy came each day to watch over him with the tenderness
of a daughter. Twice Drinkwater attempted to follow his wife into
the intimacy of the room but each time the intrusion roused such a
tempest of fury in Mr. Cornelius that he actually drew a pistol and
threatened to shoot him, and the lawyer retreated precipitately. Of
Drinkwater’s assiduous curiosity and the plan of blackmail which
had long matured in his crafty mind, Pansy had not the slightest
suspicion, as was afterwards evident. Of all who had wondered at
the lawyer’s impulsive marriage with the girl who had won Mr.
Cornelius’ confidence, the baron alone divined the reasons for his
action. His hatred for Drinkwater was something uncontrollable and
terrifying in its rage. The resemblance of Pansy to the baron, so
marked in the upward lift of the right eyebrow, the lustrous black
of the eyes and the faint similarity of the profile, coupled with
the affection the old man had shown to her alone, had suggested a
scheme of blackmail to Drinkwater’s fertile imagination. At the
death of Mr. Cornelius he had planned to claim that Pansy was his
true daughter, and through threats of scandal to force a settlement
from the estate. For this purpose he had even insinuated the belief
into the imagination of the girl--who however was quite guiltless
in the attempt that followed.
To bolster up his scheme, it became necessary for Drinkwater to
procure first the knowledge of the baron’s real name and second
some intimate relics which would carry conviction. To this end he
had sought vainly an opportunity to force the lock of the great
chest, which he rightly guessed held the secrets he coveted. As a
matter of fact, it is quite possible that desiring what he did so
ardently, Drinkwater had actually been able to convince himself
that Pansy was in truth what he intended to claim. The declining
health of Mr. Cornelius and his own failure to gain admittance as
a friend, undoubtedly impelled him to the rash act which brought
so fatal a termination. By some means or other he had procured
a key to the door and one evening when the inhabitants of the
floor were gathered in O’Leary’s studio fêting Tootles’ birthday,
he succeeded in making his entrance into the baron’s room. Some
abiding suspicion must have crossed Mr. Cornelius’ mind for without
explanation he was seen to leave in the middle of the party. A
minute later a sudden outcry and the sound of a pistol shot sent
them rushing down the hall. In the center of the room Mr. Cornelius
was standing, pistol in hand, swaying against the back of a chair
which had caught his weight and by the chest, which had been pried
open, still grasping a locket, was the body of Drinkwater, quite
dead.
The baron did not long survive him. The shock and the memory sent
him into a raging fever, and the end came a week later. Every clue
to his past was carefully removed by Dangerfield, acting under
instructions, who transferred the chest to the control of the
lawyers. Only a few personal effects, a few books and the portrait
of the woman who had meant the whole of life--heaven and hell--in
his romantic tragic career, remained at the end. The few reporters
who came in avidly scenting a story drew fanciful pictures of
this inexplicable ending, stories that had a remembered touch of
Alexander Dumas--though one or two guesses came near the truth. The
death of Drinkwater seemed to affect Pansy but little, strong as
had been his almost hypnotic control over her during his lifetime.
She went back into the old partnership with Belle Shaler, neither
richer nor poorer, a little dazed but incapable of deeper emotions.
After this tragic interruption, the floor seemed to disintegrate
all at once. Tootles went off to Paris for further study, thanks to
Dangerfield, who sent him as a sort of tribute to the past, the one
touch of generosity permitted him. King O’Leary ended by marrying
Millie Brewster and went with her roving down into Central America,
where, thanks to her practical ambitions, he found opportunities
and began to make his way. Flick remained of the fraternity of
Bohemia, never at loss to turn a quick dollar, incapable of
saving one, wandering through many trades, always on the point of
discovering the sudden road to fortune, always awaking in a garret,
nor being greatly depressed by the failure.
Schneibel and Miss Quirley drew back into their respective shells.
Other tenants succeeded to the sixth floor but the association
which had been begun with the arrival of King O’Leary and
Dangerfield was never resumed.
And what of Inga? Despite her explanations, she remained as great
a mystery to Dangerfield as on the first wild night when he had
opened his eyes to find her in his studio in self-assumed command
of his destiny. Despite his pleadings and remonstrances she had
refused to take from him the slightest assistance. Free she had
always been and free she remained to come and go.
That she had loved him and still loved him he knew, for on the
rare occasions when they passed each other in the crowd, her eyes
showed that she still remembered. Yet was this love as deep and
encompassing as her impulse towards the other man? And what part
had he played in her life, in both their lives?
Luigi Champeno he met once, two years after her marriage to him,
at the opening of the fall academy, where two groups by the young
sculptor were the eyes of the exhibition, for their uncanny
originality, a daring representation of the squalor of a crowded
tenement stoop in which, curiously enough, it seemed to him that he
found traits of his own way of looking at things.
The meeting had been accidental, the introduction unavoidable. He
had given his hand with a feeling of deepest kindness, strongly
stirred, at the sight of Inga, at the somberness and poverty of her
dress, divining all the struggle and the happiness that it revealed.
Only a few words were said and those quite inconsequential. In the
eyes of the young man he had seen the sudden leap of hatred and
animal jealousy which once, he remembered, had torn his soul in
shreds in the days of his own infatuation. That Champeno adored
her with a clinging idolatrous faith was evident. Dangerfield
had looked eagerly at Inga, into the sea-blue eyes, seeking some
clue there of regret, of complaint, of renewed triumph or of
restlessness, but her eyes as always retained their veil. He could
divine nothing.
Yet of the man himself he retained a singularly illuminating
memory, an impression of a morose and tortured child, of violent
moods and moral weakness,--a precocious child tortured by a spark
of genius, utterly undisciplined and untamed, incapable of standing
alone.
“The battle there will never be won,” he thought, with a sudden
comprehension, and he added with a little touch of poignant
regret, “and he will adore her fiercely, tyrannically as I never
could.”
The answer to many perplexities seemed to be there. Inga had adored
him and by the other she had been adored. With him her reason for
existing had been accomplished, with the other it could never end.
With him she had never quite been herself, conscious of intangible
social demarcations, while with Champeno she went arm in arm, child
of the people to the last.
He moved over to where De Gollyer was standing in critical
admiration before the exhibit of the young sculptor which had
attracted general enthusiasm. It was a group of immigrants, mother
and babe, with children clutching at her skirts, marooned on a
flight of stairs, looking hopelessly out on the sea of New York;
powerfully repulsive, startling in its fidelity, revolutionary but
convincing.
“What puzzles you?” he asked.
“My boy, it has a suggestion of you,” said De Gollyer, with his
head on one side. “Fact--reminds me of things you’ve done.”
“You think so?” he said, surprised that his friend had noticed what
he had felt at the first glance.
“It’s strong--best thing in years. The boy’s got it fairly,” said
De Gollyer, “came out of the slums himself; the iron and the gall
are there. There’s a story he started in an East Side gang and was
railroaded up to the reformatory for a year. Probably fiction. But
he’s felt what he’s crying out to us. No mistake about that. And
yet, Dan, if you’d signed it I shouldn’t have been surprised.”
Dangerfield didn’t reply. He was staring at the strangely revealing
group, wondering what else she had taken out of his life to give to
the other.
He never remarried. He did big things. It is true he just missed
the final enduring touch of genius, but it is doubtful if he
himself realized it, nor what he might have been if Inga had not
left him and the world made him its hero and its slave. For his
own day, he was master and leader. For whatever the judgment of
posterity may be, as De Gollyer was wont to remark: “It is better
to die as Sheridan than to die as Shakespeare, for Shakespeare
never knew.”
The world naturally completely misjudged Dangerfield. In his career
they saw nothing but the oft repeated story of devouring genius;
the man growing beyond the woman who had regenerated him and
sacrificing her once he has arrived. Dangerfield himself was aware
of this hostile attitude but he never sought to explain it away. De
Gollyer, it is true, told his version of the romance in strictest
confidence to a multitude of friends, but De Gollyer’s reputation
as a raconteur was against him. His listeners were amused, grateful
and stubbornly incredulous, knowing full well from their own
experience that women like Inga Sonderson do not exist.
[Illustration]
* * * * * *
Transcriber's note:
The spelling, punctuation, hyphenation and word usage of the
original text have been retained, except that obvious punctuation
omissions were corrected. Consistent with the usage of the time,
several words are hyphenated in one instance and not in another.
Paragraphs often end in a comma when introducing dialog that begins
in the following paragraph. These differences were retained.