AT DESTINY’S CROSSROADS
“And what is the Barge of Haunted Lives?” asked the duckhunter, sharply.
Westfall, looking thoughtfully at the floor, replied:
“Well, Canbeck, it’s the product of a hobby--the hobby of one who,
for many years, has found diversion in the study of the strange fates
that befall mankind. It is a vessel as clumsy, ugly and as helpless on
the waves as are the barks which bear most men on the stormy sea of
Destiny. It is moved from place to place by a tugboat--one of those
inconsequential craft, which, while unable to make long, stormy and
romantic voyages themselves, often are in a position to lend helping
hands to great vessels which can do these things if they only get into
proper channels. The tug gets them there, and, in this respect, I am a
great deal like the tug. When I find a brother craft, enveloped in a
fog and drifting toward the reef of error, I throw him a line and tow
him out. But I am no hypocrite, so I will confess that only a certain
class of sufferers finds it possible to excite my interest--the class
which consists of men and women of haunted lives.”
“Ah, I see,” exclaimed the duckhunter, moodily. “You find diversion in
the unravelling of other men’s mysteries.”
“No. I simply afford them certain facilities for unravelling such
mysteries themselves.”
“It’s a queer sort of place you give to them in which to do it,”
growled the duckhunter, looking around dubiously.
Westfall laughed quietly.
“It suffices,” he said, resignedly. “And, after all, it is doubtful
whether a more appropriate scene for such endeavors may be found.
Everything you see around you came here as a result of tales that have
been told beneath this roof.”
“Those statues without faces?” queried the duckhunter.
“Everything. I first saw this barge when I was summoned to it one night
to bid a last farewell to a man who, years before, had been one of my
most intimate friends. In consequence of an unfortunate act, he became
a fugitive--a pariah. When I reached his side he was dying--the worst
example of a haunted life I have ever known. In respect to his memory I
bought the barge and fitted it up as a place of refuge for persons who
might be fleeing from ghosts of their misdeeds or misfortunes. It has
had many interesting visitors, I assure you.”
His eyes had wandered to the aeronaut again, and, pausing in his
speech, he continued to gaze at her thoughtfully. Then, rousing himself
suddenly, he laid a hand on one of the shoulders of the duckhunter.
“And so, my dear Canbeck, you don’t like my statues,” he said.
The duckhunter shook his head.
“I’m no judge of art, I’m afraid,” he answered surlily.
“Well, some excellent judges have expressed rather favorable opinions
on these same marbles,” Westfall replied. “I had them from the sculptor
himself--a queer fellow, who was the victim of one of the strangest
misfortunes I ever have known. During the last five years of his life,
this man, who had attained many artistic triumphs before, dared not
carve a human face. In every block of marble there was a face that
haunted him, and, strive as he would, he could carve no other. It
mattered not whether his model was man or woman, maiden or boy, the
face that always haunted him invariably took form under his chisel. And
so, at last, it came to pass that he carved only such statues as you
see about you now.”
“What became of him?” the matter-of-fact duckhunter asked.
Westfall shrugged his shoulders slightly, and an enigmatical smile
played for a moment on his lips.
“It was from another guest of the Barge of Haunted Lives that I
obtained the two skulls which you see in these suits of armor,” he
went on. “The man was a Frenchman, and among his ancestors was one of
those vandals who, during the French Revolution, entered the church of
St. Denis and, opening the tombs of the old French kings, used royal
bones as playthings for a while, and then threw them into a ditch.
This ancestor preserved these skulls which, years before, had worn the
crown of France. One is said to be that of Henry of Navarre, and the
other that of Louis the XI. It was a strange fate that had awaited
them all those years, was it not? Above one of these skulls fluttered
the famous white plume that led the embattled Huguenots to victory at
Ivry. In the other were evolved designs almost Napoleonic in their
magnitude--designs that made France the greatest world power of that
period, and also caused the French capital to become the centre of the
intellectual life of Europe. The brain is gone, but the case belongs to
me. The memories of those days at St. Denis so haunted the descendant
of the vandal that, at last, in return for a small service, the last
of the unhappy race gave the two deathheads to me.”
The young woman was staring, with wide, horror-stricken eyes, at the
deathheads.
“But the armor--surely those suits did not belong--” Canbeck began.
“No,” said Westfall, “they were not worn by kings. There was a skeleton
in each when both were found walled up in a niche in an old English
castle that was said to have been haunted. The suits belonged to the
period of the fifth Henry.”
The single, searching eye of the duckhunter was gazing now at the
sarcophagus.
“That,” said Westfall, “contains the body of the Princess Tushepu, of
the Twentieth Dynasty, who died more than twelve hundred years before
Christ. It and the rug--but, enough of this. You will be here for two
or three days, and I will relate their stories when you have more
leisure to listen to them.”
“Two or three days!” exclaimed the duckhunter, scowling. “I’m afraid,
sir----”
“Possibly four,” added Westfall, thoughtfully.
And now the fair aeronaut spoke.
“You have said that it was your wish that I should meet at this table
certain persons in whose history I am especially interested,” she said.
“Might I ask you to tell me who these persons are?”
“They are those with whom some of the most important events of your
life are identified, your highness,” Westfall replied, respectfully.
“Singularly enough, however, you have met only three of them before.”
“But I must know the names of those three,” the young woman persisted,
as the millionaire paused.
“I beg of you to excuse me from revealing their names until you have
seen them.”
The young woman turned to the duckhunter.
“Am I right in assuming that I am under your protection, Colonel
Canbeck?” she asked.
“Perfectly,” replied the duckhunter, composedly.
“Then,” said the young woman, “I will ask you to take me from this
boat.”
The duckhunter turned to Westfall.
“You have my reason, sir, for now wishing you good-night,” he said
gravely.
Westfall, taking out his watch, glanced at it and laughed quietly.
“Not so fast--not so fast, Colonel,” he replied, easily. “If this lady
suspected how intimately you are related to her history, and the part
that you have played therein, you would be one of the last persons in
the world to whom she would go for protection.”
The face of the duckhunter grew pale with anger.
“Do you mean, sir, that I am not to be trusted--that I----”
“Oh, no, I do not mean that, but there is an episode in your life,
which, being of the greatest importance to her, it is best for her to
hear explained before she accepts any favor at your hands.”
“You are talking like a madman,” exclaimed the duckhunter, angrily.
“This lady and I never have met before, and there is nothing in my life
that possibly could have any effect on hers, or in her life that could
have affected mine. And, if there was, it would constitute no mystery
that would be an appropriate subject for one of your busybody councils
on this fool craft that you call the Barge of Haunted Lives.”
“You are sure, then, that you are not in that category--in short, that
the memory of no deed of yours has haunted you--that, when you sit out
yonder watching for wildfowl, it never enters your thoughts?” asked
Westfall.
An ashen pallor overspread the face of the duckhunter, and there was an
expression of apprehension in the eye that was turned to his questioner.
“No--unless----” he faltered.
Westfall nodded carelessly.
“Yes--that’s it,” he said.
With a low, half-smothered groan, Canbeck, still grasping his
fowling-piece, turned toward the door.
“Stop,” said the young woman, quietly.
The duckhunter halted, and, as he hesitated, the fair aeronaut saw that
his head was bowed and that there was a strange, dull glare in the eye
which gazed at the floor.
“You are fortunate, Colonel Canbeck, for it would seem that from your
past there comes only one spectre to haunt you,” the young woman went
on. “I am less favored, for I am the victim of many. For months I
have been trying to evade them, but they follow me everywhere. Thus
far, however, I have been able to identify all, but now Mr. Westfall,
apparently interesting himself in my unfortunate history, seems to have
found another one. Pray let him explain to us why it is that you and I,
who have never met before, must regard each other as enemies.”
“Come, come, let us all understand one another better,” said Westfall,
with some impatience. “As you see, the table has been laid for ten. An
hour hence eight men--including you, Canbeck--will sit down together.
The ninth place, which, from the first, was intended for you, Madame,
will remain vacant until the meal is finished. Then, you, madame,
having been served elsewhere, and veiled in such a manner that you
will not be recognized, will enter this room and take the seat reserved
for you.
“Of the men present I will be the only one who is not personally
identified with your strange history, and among the others there are
only two who have met before to-day. Your extraordinary misfortunes
are known to me, and during the nights which these men will spend on
this barge, each of them will tell a story. Some of these stories will
be scarcely less wonderful than those said to have been related by
Scheherezade to the Sultan of the Indies, but you will find that all
their adventures have direct connection with your own.”
“In this room I have heard many remarkable narratives and the analogy
of some of them to the stories told by Scheherezade has led me to call
them my American Nights Entertainments, but I may safely say that
the series which will begin to-night promises to be by far the most
wonderful of all, for a remarkable fatality seems to have invested with
an almost independent interest all the persons who, either directly or
indirectly, have had to do with those concerned with the mystery of the
Rajiid Buddha.”
The young woman gave utterance to a little cry, and exclaimed:
“The Rajiid Buddha! In Heaven’s name is that the man--the man who----”
She paused suddenly and darted a quick, searching glance toward Canbeck.
“I know nothing of a Rajiid Buddha,” the duckhunter explained.
“But you have been in India?” the young woman asked, with feverish
haste.
“Never, madame--never in my life,” the duckhunter answered gravely.
“Colonel Canbeck knows even less of the Rajiid adventure than you do,
madame,” Westfall explained.
“But you--you do know something of it, then?” the fair aeronaut asked,
and, as she spoke, her color came and went.
“The narrative of that adventure is one of those which will be
recounted to you, if you will consent to occupy the place which has
been provided for you at the table to-night,” Westfall answered. “I
can promise you that you will find the other narratives quite as
interesting.”
“I will stay,” the fair aeronaut murmured faintly.
“And you, Colonel?” queried Westfall, addressing the duckhunter.
“It is quite unnecessary,” said Canbeck in a low, uncertain voice.
“On the contrary, the story that you have to tell is one of the most
important of all, for, loth as you may be to tell it, its narration has
much to do toward defining this lady’s future position in the world.
You will, of course, exercise your own judgment in the matter. When,
however, you have heard something of the history of the principals
in this extraordinary affair, you will appreciate how much depends
on a revelation of the facts which are in your possession. You will
require no one then to urge you to speak. Until you make yourself known
voluntarily, no one will suspect your secret, and I think I may assure
you that, when you have told your story, the face that has haunted you
will trouble you no more.”
Canbeck shrugged his shoulders resignedly.
“Well, have it so then,” he muttered. Then, after a pause, he added:
“But, since you find it so easy to invite the confidence of others,
perhaps you will not mind telling us how you found me out--how it comes
to pass that this theatrical-looking barge of yours attracts to it so
many men and women of haunted lives who are willing to tell you their
troubles for your diversion.”
“They do not come here until I send for them, my dear Colonel,”
Westfall answered, calmly. “As I have told you, persons of this sort
always have interested me, but of this interest they are not aware
until I tell them of it. My hobby is known, however, to several
noted alienists, wardens of penitentiaries, and to city and private
detectives in this country and abroad. From these, from time to time,
I receive reports of strange cases to which their attention has been
directed. When one of these cases excites my interest, I get the
principals down to the Barge of Haunted Lives and, after listening
to their stories, I do all that lies within my power to aid the
unfortunate narrators. In this manner the expenses incident to the
clearing up of mysteries have constituted the price I pay for a form of
diversion which harms no man who yields it to me. In these matters my
curiosity is never idle, but I never betray confidence, even though the
man from whom I win it is a hardened, death-deserving criminal.”
“Humph!” Canbeck muttered. “Well, you’ve run me down, and that proves
your ability so far as others are concerned, I suppose. But why have
you had your barge towed away out here to this forsaken place?”
“Owing to the number of my guests, and certain perils which threaten
some of them, I thought it best to keep as well away from the city
as possible while they should be aboard,” Westfall explained. “While
I was still undecided as to where I should send the barge, I learned
that you, one of the men I sought, had arranged to come down here on
your annual visit to the shooting grounds. Accordingly, I had the
barge towed in here last night. The tug that brought it was out of
Great South Bay by dawn, so you did not see it when you came out from
Sellersville this morning.”
“Well, these shooting things are all I have to wear out here,” said
Canbeck, apologetically.
“More conventional garments await you in the room which has been
appropriated to your use,” replied Westfall, laughingly.
As he spoke, the millionaire crossed to one of the walls and pressed an
electric button. In response to the summons a young man in brown livery
appeared between the curtain under which Westfall had entered the room.
“Driggs, take the Duckhunter to his quarters, and bid Harvette report
to this lady,” said Westfall. Then turning to Canbeck, he added
smilingly: “It is a custom on this barge to give no guest a name in the
presence of others until such a time as it may please him to reveal
it himself. For this reason, each bears a title that is suggested
either by his story or some personal characteristic. Accordingly, while
you are known as the Duckhunter, the identity of this lady will be
protected by the sobriquet of the Veiled Aeronaut. Among the guests
whom you will meet will be the Whispering Gentleman, the Nervous
Physician, the Homicidal Professor and the Hypochondriacal Painter.
Each you see is----”
“And you tell me that the persons who have suggested these horrible
designations have, unknown to me, played important parts in the
miserable drama of my life?” demanded the aeronaut, breathlessly.
“Yes,” Westfall replied, “and, since these appellations have alarmed
you, perhaps it is better that I should not name the others, but I
assure you that there is not one among them who bears you any ill will.”
“Who is this Harvette you are sending to me?” asked the young woman,
suspiciously.
“A middle-aged Frenchwoman, who, being on the barge for such
emergencies as this, will be wholly at your service, madame, while you
are aboard.”
Canbeck, following Driggs, the liveried servant, bowed gravely to the
aeronaut and then disappeared behind the curtains. A few moments later
a pleasant-faced, matronly woman, clad in black, appeared and led the
young woman to a dainty little stateroom which was so well appointed
that, despite her forebodings of evil, the visitor was conscious of a
thrill of satisfaction. This, at least, was a happier fate than had
been indicated while she was confronted by the prospect of a bunk in
the Duckhunter’s disreputable-looking sloop.
When Canbeck returned to the saloon in which he first had encountered
Westfall, a marvellous change in his appearance had been effected.
Shaved, attired in evening dress and with carefully brushed hair,
he bore himself as easily as Westfall, and had the aspect of a
well-groomed man of the world. But the gloom that had settled on his
face nearly an hour before was not to be dissipated by the cheerful
greeting of his host.
“Well, Colonel, my yacht is in the bay, and one of her boats has just
brought the other members of our company aboard the barge,” Westfall
said. “They will be in presently, and dinner soon will be served.”
Passing a hand nervously over his face, the Duckhunter nodded, but made
no verbal reply.
They had not long to wait, for soon the sounds of subdued voices were
heard outside the curtains, and Canbeck’s single, greenish-yellow eye,
became suggestive of a searchlight.
“There will be no introductions,” said Westfall, speaking quietly. “I
will indicate our friends as they come in, however.”
Between the curtains there now appeared a figure that caused the
Duckhunter, strong-nerved as he was, to stiffen suddenly and contract
his brows. It was the figure of an admirably proportioned man, a little
under six feet in height. He carried himself gracefully, but his face
seemed to constitute a veritable caricature of human physiognomy.
Though his head was well-shaped, his features were so strikingly
demoniacal that it was impossible to look upon them without sensations
of horror and fear. The lean, triangular face was partly covered by
a close-cropped, double-pointed beard which, with a small moustache,
failed to disguise the effects produced on the visage by a wide,
high-cornered, pointed-lipped mouth, which, even in repose, constantly
was expressive of sardonic humor. In singular contrast with this
expression was one of suppressed pain which, burning in his large, dark
eyes, seemed ever to belie the sinister and unearthly smile that was
always present on his lips. Though this singular guest appeared to be
no more than thirty or thirty-two years of age, his thick, rebellious
black hair was well sprinkled with gray.
“The Sentimental Gargoyle--with the Fugitive Bridegroom just behind
him,” said Westfall, explanatorily.
As the Gargoyle descended the steps and the guest behind him stood
revealed, the Duckhunter saw a man, apparently about thirty-five years
old, whose appearance offered a striking contrast with that of the
guest who preceded him. Tall, and distinctly handsome, his thoughtful
features bespoke a mind ill at ease. His brow was contracted, and he
flashed toward the Duckhunter a stern, challenging glance which caused
Canbeck to believe that the newcomer suspected him of being an enemy.
“The Nervous Physician,” said Westfall, as a short, thick-set,
gray-bearded man, with a quick, fidgety manner, came down the steps.
“The Hypochondriacal Painter and the Whispering Gentleman,” Westfall
went on.
The first mentioned of these was a tall, emaciated man, past the prime
of life, with long, patriarchal white hair and beard. His brow was
high and unwrinkled, but on it, and in the large dark eyes below, was
an expression of the most profound melancholy that the Duckhunter ever
had seen on a human face. Beside the Hypochondriacal Painter walked a
man of medium height, with white hair and furtive gray eyes. The skin
of his hands and clean-shaven face had a peculiar copper-colored hue.
He glanced sharply at the Duckhunter to whom he nodded curtly, then,
having traversed the full length of the apartment with quick, nervous
steps, he drew out a pair of eyeglasses and, holding these to his nose,
he calmly proceeded to study the hieroglyphics which were inscribed on
the cartonnage covering the body of the Egyptian princess.
“The Homicidal Professor,” Westfall whispered.
The Duckhunter, whose eye had been following the movements of the
Whispering Gentleman, again turned toward the curtained doorway through
which a stalwart-looking man, about thirty years of age, was passing.
In the dark, brooding face and small, curled moustache of the newcomer
there was something which caused the Duckhunter to suspect that he was
either a Greek or an Italian. The low, deferential bow with which he
saluted the host seemed to confirm this suspicion.
All the guests were attired in full evening dress, and, with the single
exception of the Whispering Gentleman, all appeared to be too much
engrossed in serious reflections to manifest any interest in their
extraordinary environment.
“Well, gentlemen, shall we be seated?” asked Westfall, cheerfully.
“Are we all here?” asked the Whispering Gentleman, in a loud, hoarse
whisper.
“There are two absentees, but these will not join us until the meal
is finished,” Westfall explained, as he moved toward the head of the
table. “Of these, one will occupy the seat at the foot of the table and
the other will be on my right. A card at each plate will enable each of
you to find the place to which I have taken the liberty of assigning
you.”
All then seated themselves and, while they were being served by
Driggs, their host made several attempts to interest his guests in
topics suggested by the news of the day. These efforts met with scant
encouragement, however. The Nervous Physician and the Whispering
Gentleman were the only persons to respond, the others being so
occupied with their thoughts and the dishes set before them as to be
oblivious to all else.
At length the cigars were reached, and Driggs proceeded to remove the
last of the dishes. Then Westfall said:
“Gentlemen, though the eighth member of our company, who is about to
join us, is a member of the other sex, she has assured me that our
cigars will not be offensive to her, so you are at perfect liberty to
retain them. Driggs, ask the Veiled Aeronaut if she is prepared to join
us now.”
“The Veiled Aeronaut!” exclaimed the Gargoyle, starting.
Westfall frowned, as he went on:
“That is the name by which the eighth guest will be known to you, and
our friend’s exclamation seems to make it necessary for me to repeat
what I said when you arrived at the Barge. Neither by word nor by sign
must any of us interrupt a speaker in the course of his narrative, nor,
during the hours that intervene between our sessions, are we to discuss
with one another the subjects which have to do with the histories that
you have come here to relate. This is now thoroughly understood, I
believe.”
The silence that followed remained unbroken for several moments, then
Westfall, who had turned towards the doorway, rose gravely.
“My friends,” he said, “the Veiled Aeronaut is now a member of our
company.”
Following the example of their host, the seven guests rose, and it
would have been difficult to tell whether their action had been
inspired by amazement or a sense of chivalry. In the doorway stood one
of the most extraordinary figures they ever had seen. Apparently it was
the figure of a woman, for the garments were feminine. Through the open
front of a long, hanging-sleeved robe of gold and black brocade were
visible a red silk waist and skirt. The head was enveloped in a heavy
white veil which, falling to the shoulders of the wearer, completely
concealed not only her features but the outlines of her head.
For several moments the strange figure paused between the curtains.
Then those who watched it curiously saw it sway and move as if it were
about to retreat. Westfall, stepping quickly toward the veiled woman,
offered her his arm. After a little further hesitation she accepted
it, and permitted her host to lead her to the further end of the table
where she sank listlessly into the chair that Driggs drew back for her.
Exchanging covert, wondering glances, the other guests reseated
themselves. Westfall, standing at the head of the table, addressed them.
“My friends,” he said, “my purpose in causing you to assemble here
has been to solve the mystery of a single life, but, in attempting
to effect this solution, I have discovered that, supplementary to
that mystery there are others in which each of you is individually
interested. Into the greater mystery these individual adventures merge
like streams in confluence with a mighty river. All become one at last.
“In the course of my inquiries into the subject of haunted lives, I
learned, a few months ago, of the case of a bridegroom who, on the
very day of his wedding, became a fugitive under most extraordinary
circumstances. A secret investigation of this case led me through many
strange fields to some of the most remarkable men I have ever known.
With one exception, all these men are here, and though, looking around
you, my friends, most of you see no face, except my own, that you can
recollect having seen before you met to-day, all of you have been
working out a common destiny. Even now, as I say this, you look at me
incredulously.
“The impression that I am exaggerating may be strengthened at first,
perhaps, by the fact that the scenes of the first two tales are so
far apart, and the characters so vastly different. However, it soon
will be demonstrated that they bear the most intimate relationship. As
we proceed, you will observe that the interest of all the adventures
which will be described to you will focus on a single object. In the
mysterious chain that has excited my wonder every link is a haunted
life, and, as the adventure of the Fugitive Bridegroom constitutes the
first link I found, it properly will be the first to be submitted to
your attention. With your permission, therefore, he will relate it to
you now.”
As he finished speaking, Westfall bowed gravely toward the Fugitive
Bridegroom, who, leaning with crossed arms on the table, forthwith
began his narrative.