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[Illustration: Henry E. Dixey in "The Man on the Box."]
THE MAN ON THE BOX
by
HAROLD MACGRATH
Author of The Grey Cloak, The Puppet Crown
Illustrated by scenes from Walter N. Lawrence's beautiful production of
the play as seen for 123 nights at the Madison Square Theatre, New York
To Miss Louise Everts
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I Introduces My Hero
II Introduces My Heroine
III The Adventure Begins
IV A Family Reunion
V The Plot Thickens
VI The Man on the Box
VII A Police Affair
VIII Another Salad Idea
IX The Heroine Hires a Groom
X Pirate
XI The First Ride
XII A Ticklish Business
XIII A Runaway
XIV An Ordeal or Two
XV Retrospective
XVI The Previous Affair
XVII Dinner is Served
XVIII Caught!
XIX "Oh, Mister Butler"
XX The Episode of the Stove Pipe
XXI The Rose
XXII The Drama Unrolls
XXIII Something About Heroes
XXIV A Fine Lover
XXV A Fine Heroine, Too
XXVI The Castle of Romance
_He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch
To win or lose it all._
_Dramatis Personae_
_Colonel George Annesley_ A retired Army Officer
_Miss Betty Annesley_ His daughter
_Lieutenant Robert Warburton_ Lately resigned
_Mr. John Warburton_ His elder brother, of the War
Department
_Mrs. John Warburton_ The elder brother's wife
_Miss Nancy Warburton_ The lieutenant's sister
_Mr. Charles Henderson_ Her fiance
_Count Karloff_ An unattached diplomat
_Colonel Frank Raleigh_ The Lieutenant's Regimental
Colonel
_Mrs. Chadwick_ A product of Washington life
_Monsieur Pierre_ A chef
_Mademoiselle Celeste_ A lady's maid
_Jane_ Mrs. Warburton's maid
_The Hopeful_ A baby
_William_ A stable-boy
_Fashionable People_ Necessary for a dinner party
_Celebrities_ Also necessary for a dinner party
_Unfashionables_ Police, cabbies, grooms, clerks,
etc.
TIME--Within the past ten years.
SCENE--Washington, D.C., and its environs.
I
INTRODUCES MY HERO
If you will carefully observe any map of the world that is divided into
inches at so many miles to the inch, you will be surprised as you
calculate the distance between that enchanting Paris of France and the
third-precinct police-station of Washington, D. C, which is not
enchanting. It is several thousand miles. Again, if you will take the
pains to run your glance, no doubt discerning, over the police-blotter
at the court (and frankly, I refuse to tell you the exact date of this
whimsical adventure), you will note with even greater surprise that all
this hubbub was caused by no crime against the commonwealth of the
Republic or against the person of any of its conglomerate people. The
blotter reads, in heavy simple fist, "disorderly conduct," a phrase
which is almost as embracing as the word diplomacy, or society, or
respectability.
So far as my knowledge goes, there is no such a person as James
Osborne. If, by any unhappy chance, he _does_ exist, I trust that he
will pardon the civil law of Washington, my own measure of familiarity,
and the questionable taste on the part of my hero--hero, because, from
the rise to the fall of the curtain, he occupies the center of the
stage in this little comedy-drama, and because authors have yet to find
a happy synonym for the word. The name James Osborne was given for the
simple reason that it was the first that occurred to the culprit's
mind, so desperate an effort did he make to hide his identity.
Supposing, for the sake of an argument in his favor, supposing he had
said John Smith or William Jones or John Brown? To this very day he
would have been hiring lawyers to extricate him from libel and
false-representation suits. Besides, had he given any of these names,
would not that hound-like scent of the ever suspicious police have been
aroused?
To move round and round in the circle of commonplace, and then to pop
out of it like a tailed comet! Such is the history of many a man's
life. I have a near friend who went away from town one fall, happy and
contented with his lot. And what do you suppose he found when he
returned home? He had been nominated for alderman. It is too early to
predict the fate of this unhappy man. And what tools Fate uses with
which to carve out her devious peculiar patterns! An Apache Indian,
besmeared with brilliant greases and smelling of the water that never
freezes, an understudy to Cupid? Fudge! you will say, or Pshaw! or
whatever slang phrase is handy and, prevalent at the moment you read
and run.
I personally warn you that this is a really-truly story, though I do
not undertake to force you to believe it; neither do I purvey many
grains of salt. If Truth went about her affairs laughing, how many more
persons would turn and listen! For my part, I believe it all nonsense
the way artists have pictured Truth. The idea is pretty enough, but so
far as hitting things, it recalls the woman, the stone, and the hen. I
am convinced that Truth goes about dressed in the dowdiest of clothes,
with black-lisle gloves worn at the fingers, and shoes run down in the
heels, an exact portrait of one of Phil May's lydies. Thus it is that
we pass her by, for the artistic sense in every being is repelled at
the sight of a dowdy with weeping eyes and a nose that has been rubbed
till it is as red as a winter apple. Anyhow, if she _does_ go about in
beautiful nudity, she ought at least to clothe herself with smiles and
laughter. There are sorry enough things in the world as it is, without
a lachrymal, hypochondriacal Truth poking her face in everywhere.
Not many months ago, while seated on the stone veranda in the rear of
the Metropolitan Club in Washington (I believe we were discussing the
merits of some very old product), I recounted some of the lighter
chapters of this adventure.
_"Eempossible!"_ murmured the Russian attache, just as if the matter
had not come under his notice semi-officially.
I presume that this exclamation disclosed another side to diplomacy,
which, stripped of its fine clothes, means dexterity in hiding secrets
and in negotiating lies. When one diplomat believes what another says,
it is time for the former's government to send him packing. However,
the Englishman at my right gazed smiling into his partly emptied glass
and gently stirred the ice. I admire the English diplomat; he never
wastes a lie. He is frugal and saving.
"But the newspapers!" cried the journalist. "They never ran a line; and
an exploit like this would scarce have escaped them."
"If I remember rightly, it was reported in the regular police items of
the day," said I.
"Strange that the boys didn't look behind the scenes."
"Oh, I don't know," remarked the congressman; "lots of things happen of
which you are all ignorant. The public mustn't know everything."
"But what's the hero's name?" asked the journalist.
"That's a secret," I answered. "Besides, when it comes to the bottom of
the matter, I had something to do with the suppressing of the police
news. In a case like this, suppression becomes a law not excelled by
that which governs self-preservation. My friend has a brother in the
War Department; and together we worked wonders."
"It's a jolly droll story, however you look at it," the Englishman
admitted.
"Nevertheless, it had its tragic side; but that is even more than ever
a secret."
The Englishman looked at me sharply, even gravely; but the veranda is
only dimly illuminated at night, and his scrutiny went unrewarded.
"Eh, well!" said the Russian; "your philosopher has observed that all
mankind loves a lover."
"As all womankind loves a love-story," the Englishman added. "You ought
to be very successful with the ladies,"--turning to me.
"Not inordinately; but I shall not fail to repeat your epigram,"--and I
rose.
My watch told me that it was half after eight; and one does not receive
every day an invitation to a dinner-dance at the Chevy Chase Club.
I dislike exceedingly to intrude my own personality into this
narrative, but as I was passively concerned, I do not see how I can
avoid it. Besides, being a public man, I am not wholly averse to
publicity; first person, singular, perpendicular, as Thackeray had it,
in type looks rather agreeable to the eye. And I rather believe that I
have a moral to point out and a parable to expound.
My appointment in Washington at that time was extraordinary; that is to
say, I was a member of one of those committees that are born frequently
and suddenly in Washington, and which almost immediately after
registration in the vital statistics of national politics. I had been
sent to Congress, a dazzling halo over my head, the pride and hope of
my little country town; I had been defeated for second term; had been
recommended to serve on the committee aforesaid; served with honor, got
my name in the great newspapers, and was sent back to Congress, where I
am still to-day, waiting patiently for a discerning president and a
vacancy in the legal department of the cabinet. That's about all I am
willing to say about myself.
As for this hero of mine, he was the handsomest, liveliest rascal you
would expect to meet in a day's ride. By handsome I do not mean perfect
features, red cheeks, Byronic eyes, and so forth. That style of beauty
belongs to the department of lady novelists. I mean that peculiar manly
beauty which attracts men almost as powerfully as it does women. For
the sake of a name I shall call him Warburton. His given name in actual
life is Robert. But I am afraid that nobody but his mother and one
other woman ever called him Robert. The world at large dubbed him Bob,
and such he will remain up to that day (and may it be many years
hence!) when recourse will be had to Robert, because "Bob" would
certainly look very silly on a marble shaft.
What a friendly sign is a nickname! It is always a good fellow who is
called Bob or Bill, Jack or Jim, Tom, Dick or Harry. Even out of
Theodore there comes a Teddy. I know in my own case the boys used to
call me Chuck, simply because I was named Charles. (I haven't the
slightest doubt that I was named Charles because my good mother thought
I looked something like Vandyke's _Charles I_, though at the time of my
baptism I wore no beard whatever.) And how I hated a boy with a
high-sounding, unnicknamable given name!--with his round white collar
and his long glossy curls! I dare say he hated the name, the collar,
and the curls even more than I did. Whenever you run across a name
carded in this stilted fashion, "A. Thingumy Soandso", you may make up
your mind at once that the owner is ashamed of his first name and is
trying manfully to live it down and eventually forgive his parents.
Warburton was graduated from West Point, ticketed to a desolate
frontier post, and would have worn out his existence there but for his
guiding star, which was always making frantic efforts to bolt its
established orbit. One day he was doing scout duty, perhaps half a mile
in advance of the pay-train, as they called the picturesque caravan
which, consisting of a canopied wagon and a small troop of cavalry in
dingy blue, made progress across the desert-like plains of Arizona. The
troop was some ten miles from the post, and as there had been no sign
of Red Eagle all that day, they concluded that the rumor of his being
on a drunken rampage with half a dozen braves was only a rumor.
Warburton had just passed over a roll of earth, and for a moment the
pay-train had dropped out of sight. It was twilight; opalescent waves
of heat rolled above the blistered sands. A pale yellow sky, like an
inverted bowl rimmed with delicate blue and crimson hues, encompassed
the world. The bliss of solitude fell on him, and, being something of a
poet, he rose to the stars. The smoke of his corncob pipe trailed
lazily behind him. The horse under him was loping along easily.
Suddenly the animal lifted his head, and his brown ears went forward.
At Warburton's left, some hundred yards distant, was a clump of osage
brush. Even as he looked, there came a puff of smoke, followed by the
evil song of a bullet. My hero's hat was carried away. He wheeled, dug
his heels into his horse, and cut back over the trail. There came a
second flash, a shock, and then a terrible pain in the calf of his left
leg. He fell over the neck of his horse to escape the third bullet. He
could see the Apache as he stood out from behind the bush. Warburton
yanked out his Colt and let fly. He heard a yell. It was very
comforting. That was all he remembered of the skirmish.
For five weeks he languished in the hospital. During that time he came
to the conclusion that he had had enough of military life in the West.
He applied for his discharge, as the compulsory term of service was at
an end. When his papers came he was able to get about with the aid of a
crutch. One morning his colonel entered his subaltern's bachelor
quarters.
"Wouldn't you rather have a year's leave of absence, than quit
altogether, Warburton?"
"A year's leave of absence?" cried the invalid, "I am likely to get
that, I am."
"If you held a responsible position I dare say it would be difficult.
As it is, I may say that I can obtain it for you. It will be months
before you can ride a horse with that leg."
"I thank you, Colonel Raleigh, but I think I'll resign. In fact, I have
resigned."
"We can withdraw that, if you but say the word. I don't want to lose
you, lad. You're the only man around here who likes a joke as well as I
do. And you will have a company if you'll only stick to it a little
longer."
"I have decided, Colonel. I'm sorry you feel like this about it. You
see, I have something like twenty-five thousand laid away. I want to
see at least five thousand dollars' worth of new scenery before I
shuffle off this mortal coil. The scenery around here palls on me. My
throat and eyes are always full of sand. I am off to Europe. Some day,
perhaps, the bee will buzz again; and when it does, I'll have you go
personally to the president."
"As you please, Warburton."
"Besides, Colonel, I have been reading Treasure Island again, and I've
got the fever in my veins to hunt for adventure, even a treasure. It's
in my blood to wander and do strange things, and here I've been
hampered all these years with routine. I shouldn't care if we had a
good fight once in a while. My poor old dad traveled around the world
three times, and I haven't seen anything of it but the maps."
"Go ahead, then. Only, talking about Treasure Island, don't you and
your twenty-five thousand run into some old Long John Silver."
"I'll take care."
And Mr. Robert packed up his kit and sailed away. Not many months
passed ere he met his colonel again, and under rather embarrassing
circumstances.
II
INTRODUCES MY HEROINE
Let me begin at the beginning. The boat had been two days out of
Southampton before the fog cleared away. On the afternoon of the third
day, Warburton curled up in his steamer-chair and lazily viewed the
blue October seas as they met and merged with the blue October skies. I
do not recollect the popular novel of that summer, but at any rate it
lay flapping at the side of his chair, forgotten. It never entered my
hero's mind that some poor devil of an author had sweated and labored
with infinite pains over every line, and paragraph, and page-labored
with all the care and love his heart and mind were capable of, to
produce this finished child of fancy; or that this same author, even at
this very moment, might be seated on the veranda of his beautiful
summer villa, figuring out royalties on the backs of stray envelopes.
No, he never thought of these things.
What with the wind and the soft, ceaseless jar of the throbbing
engines, half a dream hovered above his head, and touched him with a
gentle, insistent caress. If you had passed by him this afternoon, and
had been anything of a mathematician who could straighten out
geometrical angles, you would have come close to his height had you
stopped at five feet nine. Indeed, had you clipped off the heels of his
low shoes, you would have been exact. But all your nice calculations
would not have solved his weight. He was slender, but he was hard and
compact. These hard, slender fellows sometimes weigh more than your men
of greater bulk. He tipped the scales at one hundred sixty-two, and he
looked twenty pounds less. He was twenty-eight; a casual glance at him,
and you would have been willing to wager that the joy of casting his
first vote was yet to be his.
The princess commands that I describe in detail the charms of this Army
Adonis. Far be it that I should disobey so august a command, being, as
I am, the prime minister in this her principality of Domestic Felicity.
Her brother has never ceased to be among the first in her dear regard.
He possessed the merriest black eyes: his mother's eyes, as I, a boy,
remember them. No matter how immobile his features might be, these eyes
of his were ever ready for laughter. His nose was clean-cut and
shapely. A phrenologist would have said that his head did not lack the
bump of caution; but I know better. At present he wore a beard; so this
is as large an inventory of his personal attractions as I am able to
give. When he shaves off his beard, I shall be pleased to add further
particulars. I often marvel that the women did not turn his head. They
were always sending him notes and invitations and cutting dances for
him. Perhaps his devil-may-care air had something to do with the
enchantment. I have yet to see his equal as a horseman. He would have
made it interesting for that pair of milk-whites which our old friend,
Ulysses (or was it Diomedes?) had such ado about.
Every man has some vice or other, even if it is only being good.
Warburton had perhaps two: poker and tobacco. He would get out of bed
at any hour if some congenial spirit knocked at the door and whispered
that a little game was in progress, and that his money was needed to
keep it going. I dare say that you know all about these little games.
But what would you? What is a man to do in a country where you may buy
a whole village for ten dollars? Warburton seldom drank, and, like the
author of this precious volume, only special vintages.
At this particular moment this hero of mine was going over the monotony
of the old days in Arizona, the sand-deserts, the unlovely landscapes,
the dull routine, the indifferent skirmishes with cattle-men and
Indians; the pagan bullet which had plowed through his leg. And now it
was all over; he had surrendered his straps; he was a private citizen,
with an income sufficient for his needs. It will go a long way,
forty-five hundred a year, if one does not attempt to cover the
distance in a five-thousand motor-car; and he hated all locomotion that
was not horse-flesh.
For nine months he had been wandering over Europe, if not happy, at
least in a satisfied frame of mind. Four of these months had been
delightfully passed in Paris; and, as his nomad excursions had
invariably terminated in that queen of cities, I make Paris the
starting point of his somewhat remarkable adventures. Besides, it was
in Paris that he first saw Her. And now, here he was at last,
homeward-bound. That phrase had a mighty pleasant sound; it was to the
ear what honey is to the tongue. Still, he might yet have been in Paris
but for one thing: She was on board this very boat.
Suddenly his eyes opened full wide, bright with eagerness.
"It is She!" he murmured. He closed his eyes again, the hypocrite!
Permit me to introduce you to my heroine. Mind you, she is not _my_
creation; only Heaven may produce her like, and but once. She is well
worth turning around to gaze at. Indeed I know more than one fine
gentleman who forgot the time of day, the important engagement, or the
trend of his thought, when she passed by.
She was coming forward, leaning against the wind and inclining to the
uncertain roll of the ship. A gray raincoat fitted snugly the youthful
rounded figure. Her hands were plunged into the pockets. You may be
sure that Mr. Robert noted through his half-closed eyelids these
inconsequent details. A tourist hat sat jauntily on the fine light
brown hair, that color which has no appropriate metaphor. (At least, I
have never found one, and I am _not_ in love with her and _never_ was.)
Warburton has described to me her eyes, so I am positive that they were
as heavenly blue as a rajah's sapphire. Her height is of no moment.
What man ever troubled himself about the height of a woman, so long as
he wasn't undersized himself? What pleased Warburton was the exquisite
skin. He was always happy with his comparisons, and particularly when
he likened her skin to the bloomy olive pallor of a young peach. The
independent stride was distinguishingly American. Ah, the charm of
these women who are my countrywomen! They come, they go, alone,
unattended, courageous without being bold, self-reliant without being
rude; inimitable. In what an amiable frame of mind Nature must have
been on the day she cast these molds! But I proceed. The young woman's
chin was tilted, and Warburton could tell by the dilated nostrils that
she was breathing in the gale with all the joy of living, filling her
healthy lungs with it as that rare daughter of the Cyprian Isle might
have done as she sprang that morn from the jeweled Mediterranean spray,
that beggar's brooch of Neptune's.
Warburton's heart hadn't thrilled so since the day when he first donned
cadet gray. There was scarce any room for her to pass between his chair
and the rail; and this knowledge filled the rascal with exultation.
Nearer and nearer she came. He drew in his breath sharply as the corner
of his foot-rest (aided by the sly wind) caught her raincoat.
"I beg your pardon!" he said, sitting up.
She quickly released her coat, smiled faintly, and passed on.
Sometimes the most lasting impressions are those which are printed most
lightly on the memory. Mr. Robert says that he never will forget that
first smile. And he didn't even know her name then.
I was about to engage your attention with a description of the villain,
but on second thought I have decided that it would be rather unfair.
For at that moment he was at a disadvantage. Nature was punishing him
for a few shortcomings. The steward that night informed Warburton, in
answer to his inquiries, that he, the villain, was dreadfully seasick,
and was begging him, the steward, to scuttle the ship and have done
with it. I have my doubts regarding this. Mr. Robert is inclined to
flippancy at times. It wasn't seasickness; and after all is said and
done, it is putting it harshly to call this man a villain. I recant.
True villainy is always based upon selfishness. Remember this, my wise
ones.
Warburton was somewhat subdued when he learned that the suffering
gentleman was _her_ father.
"What did you say the name was?" he asked innocently. Until now he
hadn't had the courage to put the question to any one, or to prowl
around the purser's books.
"Annesley; Colonel Annesley and daughter," answered the unsuspecting
steward.
Warburton knew nothing then of the mental tragedy going on behind the
colonel's state-room door. How should he have known? On the contrary,
he believed that the father of such a girl must be a most knightly and
courtly gentleman. He _was_, in all outward appearance. There had been
a time, not long since, when he had been knightly and courtly in all
things.
Surrounding every upright man there is a mire, and if he step not
wisely, he is lost. There is no coming back; step by step he must go on
and on, till he vanishes and a bubble rises over where he but lately
stood. That he misstepped innocently does not matter; mire and evil
have neither pity nor reason. To spend what is not ours and then to try
to recover it, to hide the guilty step: this is futility. From the
alpha men have made this step; to the omega they will make it, with the
same unchanging futility. After all, it _is_ money. Money _is_ the root
of all evil; let him laugh who will, in his heart of hearts he knows it.
Money! Have you never heard that siren call to you, call seductively
from her ragged isle, where lurk the reefs of greed and selfishness?
Money! What has this siren not to offer? Power, ease, glory, luxury;
aye, I had almost said love! But, no; love is the gift of God, money is
the invention of man: all the good, all the evil, in the heart of this
great humanity.
III
THE ADVENTURE BEGINS
It was only when the ship was less than a day's journey off Sandy Hook
that the colonel came on deck, once more to resume his interest in
human affairs. How the girl hovered about him! She tucked the shawl
more snugly around his feet; she arranged and rearranged the pillows
back of his head; she fed him from a bowl of soup; she read from some
favorite book; she smoothed the furrowed brow; she stilled the long,
white, nervous fingers with her own small, firm, brown ones; she was
mother and daughter in one. Wherever she moved, the parent eye followed
her, and there lay in its deeps a strange mixture of fear, and trouble,
and questioning love. All the while he drummed ceaselessly on the arms
of his chair.
And Mr. Robert, watching all these things from afar, Mr. Robert sighed
dolorously. The residue air in his lungs was renewed more frequently
than nature originally intended it should be. Love has its beneficences
as well as its pangs, only they are not wholly appreciable by the
recipient. For what is better than a good pair of lungs constantly
filled and refilled with pure air? Mr. Robert even felt a twinge of
remorse besides. He was brother to a girl almost as beautiful as yonder
one (to my mind far more beautiful!) and he recalled that in two years
he had not seen her nor made strenuous efforts to keep up the
correspondence. Another good point added to the score of love! And,
alas! he might never see this charming girl again, this daughter so
full of filial love and care. He had sought the captain, but that hale
and hearty old sea-dog had politely rebuffed him.
"My dear young man," he said, "I do all I possibly can for the
entertainment and comfort of my passengers, but in this case I must
refuse your request."
"And pray, why, sir?" demanded Mr. Robert, with dignity.
"For the one and simple reason that Colonel Annesley expressed the
desire to be the recipient of no ship introductions."
"What the deuce is he, a billionaire?"
"You have me there, sir. I confess that I know nothing whatever about
him. This is the first time he has ever sailed on my deck."
All of which perfectly accounts for Mr. Robert's sighs in what
musicians call the _doloroso_. If only he knew some one who knew the
colonel! How simple it would be! Certainly, a West Point graduate would
find some consideration. But the colonel spoke to no one save his
daughter, and his daughter to none but her parent, her maid, and the
stewardess. Would they remain in New York, or would they seek their
far-off southern home? Oh, the thousands of questions which surged
through his brain! From time to time he glanced sympathetically at the
colonel, whose fingers drummed and drummed and drummed.
"Poor wretch! his stomach must be in bad shape. Or maybe he has the
palsy." Warburton mused upon the curious incertitude of the human
anatomy.
But Colonel Annesley did not have the palsy. What he had is at once the
greatest blessing and the greatest curse of God--remembrance, or
conscience, if you will.
What a beautiful color her hair was, dappled with sunshine and shadow!
... Pshaw! Mr. Robert threw aside his shawl and book (it is of no real
importance, but I may as well add that he never completed the reading
of that summer's most popular novel) and sought the smoking-room,
where, with the aid of a fat perfecto and a liberal stack of blues, he
proceeded to divert himself till the boat reached quarantine. I shall
not say that he left any of his patrimony at the mahogany table with
its green-baize covering and its little brass disks for cigar ashes,
but I am certain that he did not make one of those stupendous winnings
we often read about and never witness. This much, however: he made the
acquaintance of a very important personage, who was presently to add no
insignificant weight on the scales of Mr. Robert's destiny.
He was a Russian, young, handsome, suave, of what the newspapers insist
on calling distinguished bearing. He spoke English pleasantly but
imperfectly. He possessed a capital fund of anecdote, and Warburton,
being an Army man, loved a good droll story. It was a revelation to see
the way he dipped the end of his cigar into his coffee, a stimulant
which he drank with Balzacian frequency and relish. Besides these
accomplishments, he played a very smooth hand at the great American
game. While Mr. Robert's admiration was not aroused, it was surely
awakened.
My hero had no trouble with the customs officials. A brace of old
French dueling pistols and a Turkish simitar were the only articles
which might possibly have been dutiable. The inspector looked hard, but
he was finally convinced that Mr. Robert was _not_ a professional
curio-collector. Warburton, never having returned from abroad before,
found a deal of amusement and food for thought in the ensuing scenes.
There was one man, a prim, irascible old fellow, who was not allowed to
pass in two dozen fine German razors. There was a time of it, angry
words, threats, protestations. The inspector stood firm. The old
gentleman, in a fine burst of passion, tossed the razors into the
water. Then they were going to arrest him for smuggling. A friend
extricated him. The old gentleman went away, saying something about the
tariff and an unreasonably warm place which has as many synonyms as an
octopus has tentacles.
Another man, his mouth covered by an enormous black mustache which must
have received a bath every morning in coffee or something stronger,
came forward pompously. I don't know to this day what magic word he
said, but the inspectors took never a peep into his belongings.
Doubtless they knew him, and that his word was as good as his bond.
Here a woman wept because the necklace she brought trustingly from
Rotterdam must be paid for once again; and here another, who clenched
her fists (do women have fists?) and if looks could have killed there
would have been a vacancy in customs forthwith. All her choicest linen
strewn about on the dirty boards, all soiled and rumpled and useless!
When the colonel's turn came, Warburton moved within hearing distance.
How glorious she looked in that smart gray traveling habit! With what
well-bred indifference she gazed upon the scene! Calmly her glance
passed among the circles of strange faces, and ever and anon returned
to the great ship which had safely brought her back to her native land.
There were other women who were just as well-bred and indifferent, only
Warburton had but one pair of eyes. Sighs in the _doloroso_ again. Ha!
if only one of these meddling jackasses would show her some disrespect
and give him the opportunity of avenging the affront!
(Come, now; let me be your confessor. Have you never thought and acted
like this hero of mine? Haven't you been just as melodramatic and
ridiculous? It is nothing to be ashamed of. For my part, I should
confess to it with the same equanimity as I should to the mumps or the
measles. It comes with, and is part and parcel of, all that strange
medley we find in the Pandora box of life. Love has no diagnosis, so
the doctors say. 'Tis all in the angle of vision.)
But nothing happened. Colonel Annesley and his daughter were old hands;
they had gone through all this before. Scarce an article in their
trunks was disturbed. There was a slight duty of some twelve dollars
(Warburton's memory is marvelous), and their luggage was free. But
alas, for the perspicacity of the inspectors! I can very well imagine
the god of irony in no better or more fitting place than in the United
States Customs House.
Once outside, the colonel caught the eye of a cabby, and he and his
daughter stepped in.
"Holland House, sir, did you say?" asked the cabby.
The colonel nodded. The cabby cracked his whip, and away they rolled
over the pavement.
Warburton's heart gave a great bound. She had actually leaned out of
the cab, and for one brief moment their glances had met. Scarce knowing
what he did, he jumped into another cab and went pounding after. It was
easily ten blocks from the pier when the cabby raised the lid and
peered down at his fare.
"Do you want t' folly them ahead?" he cried.
"No, no!" Warburton was startled out of his wild dream. "Drive to the
Holland House--no--to the Waldorf. Yes, the Waldorf; and keep your nag
going."
"Waldorf it is, sir!" The lid above closed.
Clouds had gathered in the heavens. It was beginning to rain. But
Warburton neither saw the clouds nor felt the first few drops of rain.
All the way up-town he planned and planned--as many plans as there were
drops of rain; the rain wet him, but the plans drowned him--he became
submerged. If I were an expert at analysis, which I am not, I should
say that Mr. Robert was not violently in love; rather I should observe
that he was fascinated with the first really fine face he had seen in
several years. Let him never see Miss Annesley again, and in two weeks
he would entirely forget her. I know enough of the race to be able to
put forward this statement. Of course, it is understood that he would
have to mingle for the time among other handsome women. Now, strive as
he would, he could not think out a feasible plan. One plan might have
given him light, but the thousand that came to him simply overwhelmed
him fathoms deep. If he could find some one he knew at the Holland
House, some one who would strike up a smoking-room acquaintance with
the colonel, the rest would be simple enough. Annesley--Annesley; he
couldn't place the name. Was he a regular, retired, or a veteran of the
Civil War? And yet, the name was not totally unfamiliar. Certainly, he
was a fine-looking old fellow, with his white hair and Alexandrian
nose. And here he was, he, Robert Warburton, in New York, simply
because he happened to be in the booking office of the _Gare du Nord_
one morning and overheard a very beautiful girl say: "Then we shall
sail from Southampton day after to-morrow." Of a truth, it is the
infinitesimal things that count heaviest.
So deep was he in the maze of his tentative romance that when the cab
finally stopped abruptly, he was totally unaware of the transition from
activity to passivity.
"Hotel, sir!"
"Ah, yes!" Warburton leaped out, fumbled in his pocket, and brought
forth a five-dollar note, which he gave to the cabby. He did not
realize it, but this was the only piece of American money he had on his
person. Nor did he wait for the change. Mr. Robert was exceedingly
careless with his money at this stage of his infatuation; being a
soldier, he never knew the real value of legal tender. I know that _I_
should never have been guilty of such liberality, not even if Mister
Cabby had bowled me from Harlem to Brooklyn. And you may take my word
for it, the gentleman in the ancient plug-hat did not wait to see if
his fare had made a mistake, but trotted away good and hearty. The cab
system is one of the most pleasing and amiable phases of metropolitan
life.
Warburton rushed into the noisy, gorgeous lobby, and wandered about
till he espied the desk. Here he turned over his luggage checks to the
clerk and said that these accessories of travel must be in his room
before eight o'clock that night, or there would be trouble. It was now
half after five. The clerk eagerly scanned the register. Warburton,
Robert Warburton; it was not a name with which _he_ was familiar. A
thin film of icy hauteur spread over his face.
"Very well, sir. Do you wish a bath with your room?"
"Certainly." Warburton glanced at his watch again.
"The price--"
"Hang the price! A room, a room with a bath--that's what I want. Have
you got it?" This was said with a deal of real impatience and a hauteur
that overtopped the clerk's.
The film of ice melted into a gracious smile. Some new millionaire from
Pittsburg, thought the clerk. He swung the book around.
"You have forgotten your place of residence, sir," he said.
"Place of residence!"
Warburton looked at the clerk in blank astonishment. Place of
residence? Why, heaven help him, he had none, none! For the first time
since he left the Army the knowledge came home to him, and it struck
rather deep. He caught up the pen, poised it an indecisive moment, then
hastily scribbled Paris: as well Paris as anywhere. Then he took out
his wallet, comfortably packed with English and French bank-notes, and
a second wave of astonishment rolled over him. Altogether, it was a
rare good chance that he ever came to the surface again. No plan, no
place of residence, no American money!
"Good Lord! I forgot all about exchanging it on shipboard!" he
exclaimed.
"Don't let that trouble you, sir," said the clerk, with real
affability. "Our own bank will exchange your money in the morning."
"But I haven't a penny of American money on my person!"
"How much will you need for the evening, sir?"
"Not more than fifty."
The clerk brought forth a slip of paper, wrote something on it, and
handed it to Warburton.
"Sign here," he said, indicating a blank space.
And presently Mr. Robert, having deposited his foreign money in the
safe, pocketed the receipt for its deposit along with five crisp
American notes. There is nothing lacking in these modern hostelries,
excepting it be a church.
Our homeless young gentleman lighted a cigar and went out under the
portico. An early darkness had settled over the city, and a heavy
steady rain was falling. The asphalt pavements glistened and twinkled
as far as the eye's range could reach. A thousand lights gleamed down
on him, and he seemed to be standing in a canon dappled with fireflies.
Place of residence! Neither the fig-tree nor the vine! Did he lose his
money to-morrow, the source of his small income, he would be without a
roof over his head. True, his brother's roof would always welcome him:
but a roof-tree of his own! And he could lay claim to no city, either,
having had the good fortune to be born in a healthy country town. Place
of residence! Truly he had none; a melancholy fact which he had not
appreciated till now. And all this had slipped his mind because of a
pair of eyes as heavenly blue as a rajah's sapphire!
Hang it, what should he do, now that he was no longer traveling, now
that his time was no longer Uncle Sam's? He had never till now known
idleness, and the thought of it did not run smoothly with the grain. He
was essentially a man of action. There might be some good sport for a
soldier in Venezuela, but that was far away and uncertain. It was quite
possible Jack, his brother, might find him a post as military attache,
perhaps in France, perhaps in Belgium, perhaps in Vienna. That was the
goal of more than one subaltern. The English novelist is to be blamed
for this ambition. But Warburton could speak French with a certain
fluency, and his German was good enough to swear by; so it will be seen
that he had some ground upon which to build this ambition.
Heigho! The old homestead was gone; his sister dwelt under the elder
brother's roof; the prodigal was alone.
"But there's always a fatted calf waiting in Washington," he laughed
aloud. "Once a soldier, always a soldier. I suppose I'll be begging the
colonel to have a chat with the president. There doesn't seem to be any
way of getting out of it. I'll have to don the old togs again. I ought
to write a letter to Nancy, but it will be finer to drop in on 'em
unexpectedly. Bless her heart! (So say I!) And Jack's, too, and his
little wife's! And I haven't written a line in eight weeks. But I'll
make it all up in ten minutes. And if I haven't a roof-tree, at least
I've got the ready cash and can buy one any day." All of which proves
that Mr. Robert possessed a buoyant spirit, and refused to be downcast
for more than one minute at a time.
He threw away his cigar and reentered the hotel, and threaded his way
through the appalling labyrinths of corridors till he found some one to
guide him to the barber shop, where he could have his hair cut and his
beard trimmed in the good old American way, money no object. For a plan
had at last come to him; and it wasn't at all bad. He determined to
dine at the Holland House at eight-thirty. It was quite possible that
he would see Her.
My only wish is that, when I put on evening clothes (in my humble
opinion, the homeliest and most uncomfortable garb that man ever
invented!) I might look one-quarter as handsome and elegant as Mr.
Robert looked, as he came down stairs at eight-ten that night. He
wasn't to be blamed if the women glanced in his direction, and then
whispered and whispered, and nodded and nodded. Ordinarily he would
have observed these signs of feminine approval, for there was warm
blood in his veins, and it is proverbial that the Army man is gallant.
But to-night Diana and her white huntresses might have passed him by
and not aroused even a flicker of interest or surprise on his face.
There was only one pair of eyes, one face, and to see these he would
have gladly gone to the ends of the earth, travel-weary though he was.
He smoked feverishly, and was somewhat troubled to find that he hadn't
quite got his land legs, as they say. The floor swayed at intervals,
and the throbbing of the engines came back. He left the hotel, hailed a
cab, and was driven down Fifth Avenue. He stopped before the fortress
of privileges. From the cab it looked very formidable. Worldly as he
was, he was somewhat innocent. He did not know that New York hotels are
formidable only when your money gives out. To get past all these
brass-buttoned lackeys and to go on as though he really had business
within took no small quantity of nerve. However, he slipped by the
outpost without any challenge and boldly approached the desk. A quick
glance at the register told him that they had indeed put up at this
hotel. He could not explain why he felt so happy over his discovery.
There are certain exultations which are inexplicable. As he turned away
from the desk, he bumped into a gentleman almost as elegantly attired
as himself.
"I beg your pardon!" he cried, stepping aside.
"What? Mr. _Warrr_burton?"
Mr. Robert, greatly surprised and confused, found himself shaking hands
with his ship acquaintance, the Russian.
"I am very glad to see you again, Count," said Warburton, recovering.
"A great pleasure! It is wonderful how small a city is. I had never
expect' to see you again. Are you stopping here?" I had intended to try
to reproduce the Russian's dialect, but one dialect in a book is
enough; and we haven't reached the period of its activity.
"No, I am at the Waldorf."
"Eh? I have heard all about you millionaires."
"Oh, we are not all of us millionaires who stop there," laughed
Warburton. "There are some of us who try to make others believe that we
are." Then, dropping into passable French, he added: "I came here
to-night with the purpose of dining. Will you do me the honor of
sharing my table?"
"You speak French?"--delighted. "It is wonderful. This English has so
many words that mean so many things, that of all languages I speak it
with the least fluency. But it is my deep regret, Monsieur, to refuse
your kind invitation. I am dining with friends."
"Well, then, breakfast to-morrow at eleven," Warburton urged, for he
had taken a fancy to this affable Russian.
"Alas! See how I am placed. I am forced to leave for Washington early
in the morning. We poor diplomats, we earn our honors. But my business
is purely personal in this case, neither political nor diplomatic." The
count drew his gloves thoughtfully through his fingers. "I shall of
course pay my respects to my ambassador. Do I recollect your saying
that you belonged to the United States Army?"
"I recently resigned. My post was in a wild country, with little or
nothing to do; monotony and routine."
"You limp slightly?"
"A trifling mishap,"--modestly.
"Eh, you do wrong. You may soon be at war with England, and having
resigned your commission, you would lose all you had waited these years
for."
Warburton smiled. "We shall not go to war with England."
"This Army of yours is small."
"Well, yes; but made of pretty good material--fighting machines with
brains."
"Ha!" The count laughed softly. "Bah! how I detest all these cars and
ships! Will you believe me, I had rather my little chateau, my
vineyard, and my wheat fields, than all the orders.... Eh, well, _my
country_: there must be some magic in that phrase. Of all loves, that
of country is the most lasting. Is that Balzac? I do not recall. Only
once in a century do we find a man who is willing to betray his
country, and even then he may have for his purpose neither hate,
revenge, nor love of power." A peculiar gravity sat on his mobile face,
caused, perhaps, by some disagreeable inward thought.
"How long shall you be in Washington?" asked Warburton.
The count shrugged. "Who can say?"
"I go to Washington myself within a few days."
"Till we meet again, then, Monsieur."
The count lifted his hat, a courtesy which was gracefully acknowledged
by the American; while the clerks at the desk eyed with tolerant
amusement these polite but rather unfamiliar ceremonies of departure.
These foreigners were odd duffers.
"A very decent chap," mused Warburton, "and a mighty shrewd hand at
poker--for a foreigner. He is going to Washington: we shall meet again.
I wonder if she's in the restaurant now."
Meet again? Decidedly; and had clairvoyance shown my hero that night
how he and the count were to meet again, certainly he would have
laughed.
If I dared, I should like to say a good deal more about this Russian.
But I have no desire to lose my head, politically or physically. Even
the newsboys are familiar with this great young man's name; and if I
should disclose it, you would learn a great many things which I have no
desire that you should. One day he is in Paris, another in Berlin, then
off to Vienna, to Belgrade, or St. Petersburg, or Washington, or
London, or Rome. A few months ago, previous to this writing, he was in
Manchuria; and to this very day England and Japan are wondering how it
happened; not his being there, mind you, but the result. Rich, that is
to say independent; unmarried, that is to say unattached; free to come
and go, he stood high up in that great army of the czar's, which I call
the uncredited diplomatic corps, because the phrase "secret service"
always puts into my mind a picture of the wild-eyed, bearded anarchist,
whom I most heartily detest.
What this remarkable diplomatic free-lance did in Washington was
honestly done in the interests of his country. A Russ understands honor
in the rough, but he lacks all those delicate shadings which make the
word honor the highest of all words in the vocabularies of the Gaul and
the Saxon. And while I do not uphold him in what he did, I can not
place much blame at the count's door. Doubtless, in his place, and
given his cast of mind, I might have done exactly as he did. Russia
never asks how a thing is done, but why it is _not_ done. Ah, these
Aspasias, these Circes, these Calypsos, these Cleopatras, with their
blue, their gray, their amber eyes! I have my doubts concerning Jonah,
but, being a man, I am fully convinced as to the history of Eve. And
yet, the woman in this case was absolutely innocent of any guile,
unless, a pair of eyes as heavenly blue as a rajah's sapphire may be
called guile.
Pardon me this long parenthesis. By this time, no doubt, Mr. Robert has
entered the restaurant We shall follow him rather than this aimless
train of thought.
Mr. Robert's appetite, for a healthy young man, was strangely
incurious. He searched the menu from top to bottom, and then from
bottom to top; nothing excited his palate. Whenever persons entered, he
would glance up eagerly, only to feel his heart sink lower and lower. I
don't know how many times he was disappointed. The waiter ahemmed
politely. Warburton, in order to have an excuse to remain, at length
hit upon a partridge and a pint of Chablis.