The town house of John Harmon was conspicuous for its size and beauty
even on an avenue famous for its magnificent residences. With a frontage
of a hundred feet facing Central Park, it was constructed entirely of
French gray stone, Renaissance style, with turrets, gables, oriel
windows, elaborately carved stone loggias and balconies, tiled roofs and
all the other architectural ornamentation of that picturesque period.
Set back some distance from the road, it was surrounded by tastefully
laid-out grounds, with a handsome portico decorated by elaborate stone
carvings, and a driveway bordered with flower-beds, entrance to which
was made through ornamental gates of massive bronze.
Beautiful from the exterior as was this railroad king's home, within it
was furnished with the lavish grandeur of a royal palace. All Europe had
been ransacked to fill it with beautiful and costly art treasures. At
the back of the large entrance-hall, with its magnificent frescoed
ceilings, its satin hangings, marble pillars and stained-glass windows,
was a monumental staircase of pure Italian marble and graceful design
which led to the reception-room and other apartments above. The stairway
was artistically decorated with marble statuary, trophies of arms and
priceless tapestries. On the second floor were the famous art-galleries
hung with paintings by the ancient and modern masters.
It was only on extraordinary occasions that visitors were afforded an
opportunity to see all the art treasures which the house contained. For
the greater part of the year the pictures were not on view. To-day,
however, was one of the rare exceptions. Mr. Harmon had thrown open his
entire house in honor of the special event which he was celebrating.
Outside the house, on Fifth Avenue, a crowd of people stood watching the
long string of carriages, automobiles and taxi-cabs in line before the
gate. The day, although fine, was cold and windy and an awning had been
stretched from the portico to the curb to protect the guests from the
weather. The crowd of curious sightseers grew larger as each moment
other cabs and automobiles dashed up. A mounted policeman prevented the
spectators from pressing too close and kept the way open for regular
traffic, while Mr. Harmon's servants in powdered hair and knee-breeches
received each newcomer.
"Gee! Get on to 'em guys wid der white wigs!" cried out a cheeky boy.
"What's all the fuss about?" inquired a bystander.
"Blessed if I know," replied the man curtly.
A well-dressed woman stopped and watched the scene with interest.
"Whose house is that?" she inquired of a policeman.
"John Harmon's, m'm," replied the officer of the law.
"The railroad man?" she asked, with growing interest.
"Yes," answered her informant. "Mr. Harmon's daughter was wrecked on the
_Atlanta_, you know. She was reported drowned. Then they found her on a
desert island. She's home to-day and they're giving a reception to all
their friends in honor of her return."
In the splendid reception-room facing the Avenue rich with its gold and
crimson furnishings, delicately frescoed ceilings, satin brocade
hangings, priceless rugs, onyx tables and heavy red carpet, Grace was
the center of an excited throng of women. Each fresh arrival literally
fought her way through the crowd to get a glimpse of the heroine of the
hour. There were murmurs of surprise and admiration on all sides as they
caught sight of her.
They expected to see Grace a physical wreck after all the suffering she
had gone through during her enforced imprisonment on the desert island.
Some had gone so far as to whisper that the young heiress would never
recover from the effects of the nervous shock. Such a terrible
experience, they said, was more than sufficient to kill a strong woman.
What effect, therefore, must it have had on the delicate Miss Harmon,
whose health already gave cause for alarm before she went on that fatal
voyage?
When the invited guests entered the reception-room and saw Grace beaming
and smiling in the center of a circle of enthusiastic friends they
could scarcely believe their eyes. To their utter astonishment she was
precisely the opposite of what they had imagined. Instead of the frail,
languid girl to whom they had said good-by when the _Atlanta_ sailed
from New York some six months before, she was the picture of good
health, in as perfect physical condition as she had ever been in her
life. Her face was tanned from long exposure to the sun, but the deeper
color only heightened the rich effects of her beauty. It became her dark
hair and her splendid eyes. She was a little stouter, but her fuller
figure only set off to better advantage a new gown of clinging silver
cloth, trimmed with rare lace. She looked radiant. Whispered murmurs of
admiration were heard in all parts of the room. The women raved about
her figure, her coloring and her hair, and the men fell over each other
in their eagerness to attract her attention.
The reception-rooms were already crowded and new arrivals were coming in
constantly. Somebody said that Prince Sergius of Eurasia was present,
and there was a general craning of necks to get a glimpse of royalty. A
woman whispered confidentially to a friend that his royal highness had
been a constant caller since Miss Harmon's return and that there were
good grounds for believing that they were engaged. In a few minutes the
friend had spread the information all over the room that the engagement
was official and would immediately be made public.
Supremely unconscious of the gossip of which she was the envied object,
Grace stood in a corner of the room surrounded by Mrs. Wesley Stuart,
Professor Hanson, Mrs. Phelps, and the Hon. Percy Fitzhugh. All fellow
survivors of the wreck of the _Atlanta_, they made an interesting little
group by themselves as they stood comparing notes and describing their
adventures, while Mr. and Mrs. Harmon, scarcely able yet to believe the
good news that their darling child had returned from the dead, went from
one to another telling the wonderful story of her life on a desert
island.
For the hundredth time Grace told and retold the story of the wreck--how
she fell into the water from the overturned life-boat, and after
swimming some distance, was fast becoming exhausted when suddenly one
of the crew seized her and dragged her ashore. She told of her horrible
adventure with the cobra and narrated in detail all the other incidents
of her sojourn on the desert island up to the time that she was rescued
by the _Saucy Polly_.
Mrs. Stuart explained how she and Professor Hanson, together with Mr.
Fitzhugh got away in one of the life-boats. Mrs. Phelps and Count von
Hatzfeldt were also saved, but poor Captain Summers was drowned, a
martyr to duty. He refused to leave the bridge and went down with his
ship, keeping the whistle blowing as the vessel sank out of sight
beneath the waves. After rowing all night they were picked up the
following day by a P. and O. steamer bound from Calcutta to Southampton.
They naturally supposed Grace was among the drowned, and, on arriving in
England, gave her name among the others to the correspondents, who
cabled the sensational news to New York.
Mrs. Stuart threw her arms around Grace's neck and kissed her
effusively.
"Oh, my poor, dear girl," she cried. "If you only knew what mental
agonies I've suffered! I thought that I should never see you again. I
blamed myself for having suggested the voyage. I held myself
responsible. I did not dare look your poor father in the face. Your
mental suffering must have been terrible, to say nothing of the dangers
you were subjected to. How terrified you must have been to be all alone
with that dreadful stoker! You should thank heaven he did you no
violence. A man of that character is capable of anything--especially
when alone with a defenceless woman."
Grace smiled faintly. A thoughtful expression came into her face. She
made no answer, and Mrs. Stuart repeated her question:
"Weren't you afraid of him?"
Aroused from her reverie, Grace answered:
"No, not at all, we got along capitally. You know, dear," she went on,
"the devil is never as black as he is painted. When people don't get
along together, it is very often because they don't understand each
other."
Mrs. Stuart looked at her former _protegee_ with blank astonishment.
"So this stoker fellow--you think you understand him? Did you actually
take the trouble to understand him?"
She looked closely at Grace, a searching look that made the latter's
cheeks redden.
"Perhaps," went on Mrs. Stuart, with a knowing smile, "you both came to
a perfect understanding--some foolish romance which you'd blush now to
acknowledge."
"Don't be silly, Cora," answered Grace quickly. "You know he saved my
life twice. The least I could do was to be civil to him."
"Where is he now?" demanded Mrs. Stuart.
"I haven't the slightest idea," replied Grace. "He returned to America,
of course, on the _Saucy Polly_, and when the ship arrived at Boston my
father was there to meet me. When I had said what he had done for me,
father was anxious to repay him, but he refused to take anything and
mysteriously disappeared. I have not seen him since, but we are trying
to trace him. Father has written to the owner of the _Saucy Polly_,
whom, we think, knows his whereabouts."
"Perfectly delicious!" exclaimed Mrs. Stuart sarcastically. "Your father
can offer him a position as coachman, footman or butler. No doubt he's
dead in love with you! The romance wouldn't be complete unless you
eloped with him!"
Grace was silent. Her friend's cynicism grated on her. She turned her
head away afraid that the expression on her face might betray her. How
often she thought words uttered in jest hit upon the truth! She did not
tell Mrs. Stuart that she was just as anxious to have news of Armitage
as was her father. Strangely enough, her return home, which she thought
would fill her with joy, had failed to give her all the happiness she
expected. Once more she was enjoying the social prestige, all the
luxuries that her father's position and money secured for her, yet there
were moments when she missed those days on Hope Island when her greatest
ambition was to prepare a satisfactory meal for her companion's return.
She wondered if she would ever see him again. She knew why he had
disappeared. He understood that there could never be anything between
them. They belonged to different worlds. She had returned to hers; he
to his. She would not have expected anything else of him. She would have
been disappointed in him if he had done anything else. He was not the
kind of man to come round, hat in hand, and ask payment for his
services. No matter how poor he might be, he was too proud for that, and
secretly in her heart she rejoiced to think that the man she cared for
was of that stamp.
Of course, their little love-affair was a thing of the past. When she
thought of it she felt inclined to laugh, it was so preposterously out
of keeping with her social position. Probably she would never see him
again. She would try not to, because, secretly, she was afraid of
herself. She was afraid that if she saw him again and heard his voice,
if ever again he spoke to her as he had on that island, she would be
tempted to throw herself into his arms, no matter what her position or
how it might wreck her future. She remembered the story Professor Hanson
had told her of a girl of good family marrying an Indian. She recalled
the stories she had seen in the papers of rich girls running away with
their coachmen. She could understand those things now. There was
something in these men, some strange magnetic power, that made girls
love them for themselves, regardless of the disastrous consequences.
Mr. Harmon was listening with rapture to the flattering comments on all
sides, on his daughter's improved appearance, when suddenly the English
butler approached him and said quietly:
"May I speak to you a minute, Sir?"
"Yes, Hawkins, what is it?" answered Mr. Harmon impatiently.
"There's some one down-stairs to see you, Sir."
"Some one to see me?" echoed Mr. Harmon. "Go and tell him to come
up--like all the rest."
The butler did not budge. He had been in service boy and man for over
forty years, and he thought he knew what kind of people were privileged
to enter his master's home as guests.
"Didn't you hear me?" repeated Mr. Harmon. "Go and tell him to come up."
"Excuse me, Sir--it is not a visitor, Sir. It's a person who tried to
come in the front way, shovin' and elbowin' 'is way in along with the
guests as if 'ee was a regular caller, sir. The policeman collared 'im,
thinkin' 'ee was up to no good. You can never tell, sir. Sometimes
they're arter the coats and umbrellas, sir. But the feller said you 'ad
written him, sir, to come 'ere. So the policeman let 'im go. But we
wouldn't let him come in the front way, Sir. We hustled 'im in through
the tradesmen's entrance, and 'ee's down-stairs now. James is lookin'
arter the silver, Sir, so there ain't no danger, there, Sir."
"What's that?" exclaimed Mr. Harmon. "A person of that description says
that I wrote him to come here. He must be an impostor. Throw him
out--have him arrested."
The butler gave a grin of self-satisfaction. Rubbing his hands, he said:
"That's wot I thought, Sir. Leave 'im to me, Sir. We'll take care of
'im, Sir."
He was about to retire when Mr. Harmon suddenly had an idea.
"Can it possibly be----" he muttered to himself. "It must be he."
Turning to the butler he went on: "Here, Hawkins, don't say a word to
any one--particularly not to my daughter. Take the man to my library.
I'll be down at once."
Astonished, and also hurt, that his employer should have acquaintances
whose appearance necessitated their being ushered in through the
tradesman's entrance, the butler withdrew.
After greeting a few more arrivals and responding to a toast to his
daughter in a glass of champagne, at the buffet-table besieged by a
hungry and noisy crowd, Mr. Harmon slipped away unobserved and made his
way to the library.