I
After arranging the Egyptian and Mexican pottery so as to contrast
agreeably with the Dutch and the German beer-mugs on the top of the
bookcase that ran along one wall of the sitting-room, Cosmo Waynflete
went back into the bedroom and took from a half-empty trunk the little
cardboard boxes in which he kept the collection of playing-cards, and
of all manner of outlandish equivalents for these simple instruments of
fortune, picked up here and there during his two or three years of
dilettante travelling in strange countries. At the same time he brought
out a Japanese crystal ball, which he stood upon its silver tripod,
placing it on a little table in one of the windows on each side of the
fireplace; and there the rays of the westering sun lighted it up at
once into translucent loveliness.
The returned wanderer looked out of the window and saw on one side the
graceful and vigorous tower of the Madison Square Garden, with its
Diana turning in the December wind, while in the other direction he
could look down on the frozen paths of Union Square, only a block
distant, but as far below him almost as though he were gazing down from
a balloon. Then he stepped back into the sitting-room itself, and noted
the comfortable furniture and wood-fire crackling in friendly fashion
on the hearth, and his own personal belongings, scattered here and
there as though they were settling themselves for a stay. Having
arrived from Europe only that morning, he could not but hold himself
lucky to have found these rooms taken for him by the old friend to whom
he had announced his return, and with whom he was to eat his Christmas
dinner that evening. He had not been on shore more than six or seven
hours, and yet the most of his odds and ends were unpacked and already
in place as though they belonged in this new abode. It was true that he
had toiled unceasingly to accomplish this, and as he stood there in his
shirt-sleeves, admiring the results of his labors, he was conscious
also that his muscles were fatigued, and that the easy-chair before the
fire opened its arms temptingly.
He went again into the bedroom, and took from one of his many trunks a
long, loose garment of pale-gray silk. Apparently this beautiful robe
was intended to serve as a dressing-gown, and as such Cosmo Waynflete
utilized it immediately. The ample folds fell softly about him, and the
rich silk itself seemed to be soothing to his limbs, so delicate was
its fibre and so carefully had it been woven. Around the full skirt
there was embroidery of threads of gold, and again on the open and
flowing sleeves. With the skilful freedom of Japanese art the pattern
of this decoration seemed to suggest the shrubbery about a spring, for
there were strange plants with huge leaves broadly outlined by the
golden threads, and in the midst of them water was seen bubbling from
the earth and lapping gently over the edge of the fountain. As the
returned wanderer thrust his arms into the dressing-gown with its
symbolic embroidery on the skirt and sleeves, he remembered distinctly
the dismal day when he had bought it in a little curiosity-shop in
Nuremberg; and as he fastened across his chest one by one the loops of
silken cord to the three coins which served as buttons down the front
of the robe, he recalled also the time and the place where he had
picked up each of these pieces of gold and silver, one after another.
The first of them was a Persian daric, which he had purchased from a
dealer on the Grand Canal in Venice; and the second was a Spanish peso
struck under Philip II. at Potosi, which he had found in a stall on the
embankment of the Quay Voltaire, in Paris; and the third was a York
shilling, which he had bought from the man who had turned it up in
ploughing a field that sloped to the Hudson near Sleepy Hollow.
Having thus wrapped himself in this unusual dressing-gown with its
unexpected buttons of gold and silver, Cosmo Waynflete went back into
the front room. He dropped into the arm-chair before the fire. It was
with a smile of physical satisfaction that he stretched out his feet to
the hickory blaze.
The afternoon was drawing on, and in New York the sun sets early on
Christmas day. The red rays shot into the window almost horizontally,
and they filled the crystal globe with a curious light. Cosmo Waynflete
lay back in his easy-chair, with his Japanese robe about him, and gazed
intently at the beautiful ball which seemed like a bubble of air and
water. His mind went back to the afternoon in April, two years before,
when he had found that crystal sphere in a Japanese shop within sight
of the incomparable Fugiyama.