From _Scribner's Magazine_.
Young Burnaby was late. He was always late. One associated him with
lateness and certain eager, impossible excuses--he was always coming
from somewhere to somewheres, and his "train was delayed," or his huge
space-devouring motor "had broken down." You imagined him, enveloped in
dust and dusk, his face disguised beyond human semblance, tearing up and
down the highways of the world; or else in the corridor of a train,
biting his nails with poorly concealed impatience. As a matter of fact,
when you saw him, he was beyond average correctly attired, and his
manner was suppressed, as if to conceal the keenness that glowed behind
his dark eyes and kept the color mounting and receding in his sunburnt
cheeks. All of which, except the keenness, was a strange thing in a man
who spent half his life shooting big game and exploring. But then, one
imagined that Burnaby on the trail and Burnaby in a town were two
entirely different persons. He liked his life with a thrust to it, and
in a great city there are so many thrusts that, it is to be supposed,
one of Burnaby's temperament hardly has hours enough in a day to
appreciate all of them and at the same time keep appointments.
On this February night, at all events, he was extremely late, even
beyond his custom, and Mrs. Malcolm, having waited as long as she
possibly could, sighed amusedly and told her man to announce dinner.
There were only three others besides herself in the drawing-room,
Masters--Sir John Masters, the English financier--and his wife, and
Mrs. Selden, dark, a little silent, with a flushed, finely cut face and
a slightly sorrow-stricken mouth. And already these people had reached
the point where talk is interesting. People did in Mrs. Malcolm's house.
One went there with anticipation, and came away with the delightful, a
little vague, exhilaration that follows an evening where the perfection
of the material background--lights, food, wine, flowers--has been almost
forgotten in the thrill of contact with real persons, a rare enough
circumstance in a period when the dullest people entertain the most. In
the presence of Mrs. Malcolm even the very great forgot the suspicions
that grow with success and became themselves, and, having come once,
came again vividly, overlooking other people who really had more right
to their attentions than had she.
This was the case with Sir John Masters. And he was a very great man
indeed, not only as the world goes but in himself: a short, heavy man,
with a long, heavy head crowned with vibrant, still entirely dark hair
and pointed by a black, carefully kept beard, above which arose--"arose"
is the word, for Sir John's face was architectural--a splendid, slightly
curved nose--a buccaneering nose; a nose that, willy-nilly, would have
made its possessor famous. One suspected, far back in the yeoman strain,
a hurried, possibly furtive marriage with gypsy or Jew; a sudden
blossoming into lyricism on the part of a soil-stained Masters.
Certainly from somewhere Sir John had inherited an imagination which was
not insular. Dangerous men, these Sir Johns, with their hooked noses and
their lyric eyes!
Mrs. Malcolm described him as fascinating. There was about him that
sense of secret power that only politicians, usually meretriciously, and
diplomats, and, above all, great bankers as a rule possess; yet he
seldom talked of his own life, or the mission that had brought him to
New York; instead, in his sonorous, slightly Hebraic voice, he drew
other people on to talk about themselves, or else, to artists and
writers and their sort, discovered an amazing, discouraging knowledge of
the trades by which they earned their living. "One feels," said Mrs.
Malcolm, "that one is eyeing a sensitive python. He uncoils
beautifully."
They were seated at the round, candle-lit table, the rest of the room in
partial shadow, Sir John looking like a lost Rembrandt, and his blonde
wife, with her soft English face, like a rose-and-gray portrait by
Reynolds, when Burnaby strode in upon them ... strode in upon them, and
then, as if remembering the repression he believed in, hesitated, and
finally advanced quietly toward Mrs. Malcolm. One could smell the snowy
February night still about him.
"I'm so sorry," he said. "I--"
"You broke down, I suppose," said Mrs. Malcolm, "or the noon train from
Washington was late for the first time in six years. What do you do in
Washington, anyway? Moon about the Smithsonian?"
"No," said Burnaby, as he sank into a chair and unfolded his napkin.
"Y'see--well, that is--I ran across a fellow--an Englishman--who knew a
chap I met last summer up on the Francis River--I didn't exactly meet
him, that is, I ran into him, and it wasn't the Francis River really, it
was the Upper Liara, a branch that comes in from the northwest. Strange,
wasn't it?--this fellow, this Englishman, got to talking about tea, and
that reminded me of the whole thing." He paused on the last word and,
with a peculiar habit that is much his own, stared across the table at
Lady Masters, but over and through her, as if that pretty pink-and-white
woman had entirely disappeared,--and the warm shadows behind her,--and
in her place were no one could guess what vistas of tumbling rivers and
barren tundras.
"Tea!" ejaculated Mrs. Malcolm.
Burnaby came back to the flower-scented circle of light.
"Yes," he said soberly, "tea. Exactly."
Mrs. Malcolm's delicate eyebrows rose to a point. "What," she asked, in
the tones of delighted motherhood overlaid with a slight exasperation
which she habitually used toward Burnaby, "has tea got to do with a man
you met on the Upper Liara last summer and a man you met this afternoon?
Why tea?"
"A lot," said Burnaby cryptically, and proceeded to apply himself to his
salad, for he had refused the courses his lateness had made him miss.
"Y'see," he said, after a moment's reflection, "it was this way--and
it's worth telling, for it's queer. I ran into this Terhune this
afternoon at a club--a big, blond Englishman who's been in the army, but
now he's out making money. Owns a tea house in London. Terhune &
Terhune--perhaps you know them?" He turned to Sir John.
"Yes, very well. I imagine this is Arthur Terhune."
"That's the man. Well, his being in tea and that sort of thing got me to
telling him about an adventure I had last summer, and, the first crack
out of the box, he said he remembered the other chap perfectly--had
known him fairly well at one time. Odd, wasn't it, when you come to
think of it? A big, blond, freshly bathed Englishman in a club, and that
other man away up there!"
"And the other man? Is he in the tea business too?" asked Mrs. Selden.
She was interested by now, leaning across the table, her dark eyes
catching light from the candles. It was something--to interest Mrs.
Selden.
"No," said Burnaby abruptly. "No. He's in no business at all, except
going to perdition. Y'see, he's a squaw-man--a big, black squaw-man,
with a nose like a Norman king's. The sort of person you imagine in
evening clothes in the Carleton lounge. He might have been anything but
what he is."
"I wonder," said Sir John, "why we do that sort of thing so much more
than other nations? Our very best, too. It's odd."
"It was odd enough the way it happened to me, anyhow," said Burnaby.
"I'd been knocking around up there all summer, just an Indian and
myself--around what they call Fort Francis and the Pelly Lakes, and
toward the end of August we came down the Liara in a canoe. We were
headed for Lower Post on the Francis, and it was all very lovely until,
one day, we ran into a rapid, a devil of a thing, and my Indian got
drowned."
"How dreadful!" murmured Lady Masters.
"It was," agreed Burnaby; "but it might have been worse--for me, that
is. It couldn't have been much worse for the poor devil of an Indian,
could it? But I had a pretty fair idea of the country, and had only
about fifty miles to walk, and a little waterproof box of grub turned up
out of the wreck, so I wasn't in any danger of starving. It was lonely,
though--it's lonely enough country, anyhow, and of course I couldn't
help thinking about that Indian and the way big rapids roar. I couldn't
sleep when night came--saw black rocks sticking up out of white water
like the fangs of a mad dog. I was pretty near the horrors, I guess. So
you can imagine I wasn't sorry when, about four o'clock of the next
afternoon, I came back to the river again and a teepee standing up all
by itself on a little pine-crowned bluff. In front of the teepee was an
old squaw--she wasn't very old, really, but you know how Indians
get--boiling something over a fire in a big pot. 'How!' I said, and she
grunted. 'If you'll lend me part of your fire, I'll make some tea,' I
continued. 'And if you're good, I'll give you some when it's done.' Tea
was one of the things cached in the little box that had been saved. She
moved the pot to one side, so I judged she understood, and I trotted
down to the river for water and set to work. As you can guess, I was
pretty anxious for any kind of conversation by then, so after a while I
said brightly: 'All alone?' She grunted again and pointed over her
shoulder to the teepee. 'Well, seeing you're so interested,' said I,
'and that the tea's done, we'll all go inside and ask your man to a
party--if you'll dig up two tin cups. I've got one of my own.' She
raised the flap of the teepee and I followed her. I could see she wasn't
a person who wasted words. Inside a little fire was smouldering, and
seated with his back to us was a big, broad-shouldered buck, with a dark
blanket wrapped around him. 'Your good wife,' I began cheerily--I was
getting pretty darned sick of silence--'has allowed me to make some tea
over your fire. Have some? I'm shipwrecked from a canoe and on my way to
Lower Post. If you don't understand what I say, it doesn't make the
slightest difference, but for God's sake grunt--just once, to show
you're interested.' He grunted. 'Thanks!' I said, and poured the tea
into the three tin cups. The squaw handed one to her buck. Then I sat
down.
"There was nothing to be heard but the gurgling of the river outside and
the rather noisy breathing we three made as we drank; and then--very
clearly, just as if we'd been sitting in an English drawing-room--in the
silence a voice said: 'By Jove, that's the first decent cup of tea I've
had in ten years!' Yes, just that! 'By Jove, that's the first decent cup
of tea I've had in ten years!' I looked at the buck, but he hadn't
moved, and then I looked at the squaw, and she was still squatting and
sipping her tea, and then I said, very quietly, for I knew my nerves
were still ragged, 'Did any one speak?' and the buck turned slowly and
looked me up and down, and I saw the nose I was talking about--the nose
like a Norman king's. I was rattled, I admit; I forgot my manners.
'You're English!' I gasped out; and the buck said very sweetly: 'That's
none of your damned business.'"
Burnaby paused and looked about the circle of attentive faces. "That's
all. But it's enough, isn't it? To come out of nothing, going nowheres,
and run into a dirty Indian who says: 'By Jove, that's the first decent
cup of tea I've had in ten years!' And then along comes this Terhune
and says that he knows the man."
Mrs. Malcolm raised her chin from the hand that had been supporting it.
"I don't blame you," she said, "for being late."
"And this man," interrupted Sir John's sonorous voice, "this squaw-man,
did he tell you anything about himself?"
Burnaby shook his head. "Not likely," he answered. "I tried to draw him
out, but he wasn't drawable. Finally he said: 'If you'll shut your
damned mouth I'll give you two dirty blankets to sleep on. If you won't,
I'll kick you out of here.' The next morning I pulled out, leaving him
crouched over the little teepee fire nursing his knees. But I hadn't
gone twenty yards when he came to the flap and called out after me: 'I
say!' I turned about sullenly. His dirty face had a queer, cracked smile
on it. 'Look here! Do you--where did you get that tea from, anyway?
I--there's a lot of skins I've got; I don't suppose you'd care to trade,
would you?' I took the tea out of the air-tight box and put it on the
ground. Then I set off down river. Henderson, the factor at Lower Post,
told me a little about him: his name--it wasn't assumed, it seems; and
that he'd been in the country about fifteen years, going from bad to
worse. He was certainly at 'worse' when I saw him." Burnaby paused and
stared across the table again with his curious, far-away look. "Beastly,
isn't it?" he said, as if to himself. "Cold up there now, too! The snow
must be deep." He came back to the present. "And I suppose, you know,"
he said, smiling deprecatingly at Mrs. Selden, "he's just as fond of
flowers and lights and things as we are."
Mrs. Selden shivered.
"Fonder!" said Sir John. "Probably fonder. That sort is. It's the poets
of the world who can't write poetry who go to smash that way. They ought
to take a term at business, and"--he reflected--"the business men, of
course, at poetry." He regarded Burnaby with his inscrutable eyes, in
the depths of which danced little flecks of light.
"What did you say this man's name was?" asked Lady Masters, in her soft
voice. She had an extraordinary way of advancing, with a timid rush, as
it were, into the foreground, and then receding again, melting back into
the shadows. She rarely ever spoke without a sensation of astonishment
making itself felt. "She is like a mist," thought Mrs. Malcolm.
"Bewsher," said Burnaby--"Geoffrey Boisselier Bewsher. Quite a name,
isn't it? He was in the cavalry. His family are rather swells in an
old-fashioned way. He is the fifth son--or seventh, or whatever it
is--of a baronet and, Terhune says, was very much in evidence about
London twenty-odd years ago. Terhune used to see him in clubs, and every
now and then dining out. Although he himself, of course, was a much
younger man. Very handsome he was, too, Terhune said, and a favorite.
And then one day he just disappeared--got out--no one knows exactly why.
Terhune doesn't. Lost his money, or a woman, or something like that. The
usual thing, I suppose. I--You didn't hurt yourself, did you?"...
He had paused abruptly and was looking across the table; for there had
been a little tinkle and a crash of breaking glass, and now a pool of
champagne was forming beside Lady Masters's plate, and finding its way
in a thin thread of gold along the cloth. There was a moment's silence,
and then she advanced again out of the shadows with her curious soft
rush. "How clumsy I am!" she murmured. "My arm--My bracelet! I--I'm so
sorry!" She looked swiftly about her, and then at Burnaby. "Oh, no! I'm
not cut, thanks!" Her eyes held a pained embarrassment. He caught the
look, and her eyelids flickered and fell before his gaze, and then, as
the footman repaired the damage, she sank back once more into the
half-light beyond the radiance of the candles. "How shy she is!" thought
Burnaby. "So many of these English women are. She's an important woman
in her own right, too." He studied her furtively.
Into the soft silence came Sir John's carefully modulated voice.
"Barbara and I," he explained, "will feel this very much. We both knew
Bewsher." His eyes became somber. "This is very distressing," he said
abruptly.
"By Jove!" ejaculated Burnaby, and raised his head like an alert hound.
"How odd it all is!" said Mrs. Malcolm. But she was wondering why men
are so queer with their wives--resent so much the slightest social
clumsiness on their part, while in other women--provided the offense is
not too great--it merely amuses them. Even the guarded manners of Sir
John had been disturbed. For a moment he had been very angry with the
shadow that bore his name; one could tell by the swift glance he had
cast in her direction. After all, upsetting a glass of champagne was a
very natural sequel to a story such as Burnaby had told, a story about a
former acquaintance--perhaps friend.
Sir John thoughtfully helped himself to a spoonful of his dessert before
he looked up; when he did so he laid down his spoon and sat back in his
chair with the manner of a man who has made a sudden decision. "No," he
said, and an unexpected little smile hovered about his lips, "it isn't
so odd. Bewsher was rather a figure of a man twenty years ago. Shall I
tell you his history?"
To Mrs. Malcolm, watching with alert, humorous eyes, there came a
curious impression, faint but distinct, like wind touching her hair; as
if, that is, a door into the room had opened and shut. She leaned
forward, supporting her chin in her hand.
"Of course," she said.
Sir John twisted between his fingers the stem of his champagne-glass and
studied thoughtfully the motes of at the heart of the amber wine. "You
see," he began thoughtfully, "it's such a difficult story to
tell--difficult because it took twenty-five--and, now that Mr. Burnaby
has furnished the sequel, forty-five years--to live; and difficult
because it is largely a matter of psychology. I can only give you the
high lights, as it were. You must fill in the rest for yourselves. You
must imagine, that is, Bewsher and this other fellow--this Morton. I
can't give you his real name--it is too important; you would know it.
No, it isn't obviously dramatic. And yet--" his voice suddenly became
vibrant--"such things compose, as a matter of fact, the real drama of
the world. It--" he looked about the table swiftly and leaned forward,
and then, as if interrupting himself, "but what _was_ obviously
dramatic," he said--and the little dancing sparks in the depths of his
eyes were peculiarly noticeable--"was the way I, of all people, heard
it. Yes. You see, I heard it at a dinner party like this, in London; and
Morton--the man himself--told the story." He paused, and with
half-closed eyes studied the effect of his announcement.
"You mean--?" asked Burnaby.
"Exactly." Sir John spoke with a certain cool eagerness. "He sat up
before all those people and told the inner secrets of his life; and of
them all I was the only one who suspected the truth. Of course, he was
comparatively safe, none of them knew him well except myself, but think
of it! The bravado--the audacity! Rather magnificent, wasn't it?" He
sank back once more in his chair.