on which lay an uncompleted drawing. At one side stood a glass, into
which were thrust numerous pens and brushes. Near this lay a small ball
of crumpled cambric, such as women insist upon carrying in their
street-car purses, a delicate, dainty, useless thing. So she drew
pictures, too, he thought. Was there anything this beautiful creature
could not do? Everything seemed to suggest her presence. An indefinable
feminine perfume still lingered on the air, speaking eloquently of her.
Curiosity impelled him to step forward and examine her work. He
approached with all the stealth of a gentlemanly burglar. He expected
to see some trees and hills and mayhap a brook, or some cows standing
in a stream, or some children picking daisies. He had a sister, and was
reasonably familiar with the kind of subjects chosen by the
lady-amateur.
A fortification plan!
He bent close to it. Here was the sea, here was the land, here the
number of soldiers, cannon, rounds of ammunition, resources in the
matter of procuring aid, the telegraph, the railways, everything was
here on this pale, waxen cloth, everything but a name. He stared at it,
bewildered. He couldn't understand what a plan of this sort was doing
outside the War Department. Instantly he became a soldier; he forgot
that he was masquerading as a groom; he forgot everything but this mute
thing staring up into his face. Underneath, on a little shelf, he saw a
stack of worn envelopes. He looked at them. Rough drafts of plans.
Governor's Island! Fortress Monroe! What did it mean? What _could_ it
mean? He searched and found plans, plans, plans of harbors, plans of
coast defenses, plans of ships building, plans of full naval and
military strength; everything, everything! He straightened. How his
breath pained him! ... And all this was the handiwork of the woman he
loved! Good God, what was going on in this house? What right had such
things as these to be in a private home? For what purpose had they been
drawn? so accurately reproduced? For what purpose?
Oh, whatever the purpose was, _she_ was innocent; upon this conviction
he would willingly stake his soul. Innocent, innocent! ticked the clock
over the mantel. Yes, she was innocent. Else, how could she laugh in
that light-hearted fashion? How could the song tremble on her lips? How
could her eyes shine so bright and merry?... Karloff, Annesley! Karloff
the Russian, Annesley the American; the one a secret agent of his
country, the other a former trusted official! No, no! He could not
entertain so base a thought against the father of the girl he loved.
Had he not admired his clean record, his personal bravery, his fearless
honesty? And yet, that absent-mindedness, this care-worn countenance,
these must mean something. The purpose, to find out the purpose of
these plans!
[Illustration: "A Saint Bernard dog might have done as much."--ACT III]
He took the handkerchief and hid it in his breast, and quietly stole
away.... A handkerchief, a rose, and a kiss; yes, that was all that
would ever be his.
Pirate nearly coughed his head off that night; but, it being William's
night off, nobody paid any particular attention to that justly
indignant animal.
XXI
THE ROSE
On a Wednesday morning, clear and cold: not a cloud floated across the
sky, nor did there rise above the horizon one of those clouds
(portentous forerunners of evil!) to which novelists refer as being "no
larger than a man's hand". Heaven knew right well that the blight of
evil was approaching fast enough, but there was no visible indication
on her face that glorious November morning. Doubtless you are familiar
with history and have read all about what great personages did just
before calamity swooped down on them. The Trojans laughed at the wooden
horse; I don't know how many Roman banqueters never reached the desert
because the enemy had not paid any singular regard to courtesies in
making the attack; men and women danced on the eve of Waterloo--"On
with the dance, let joy be unconfined"; _my_ heroine simply went
shopping. It doesn't sound at all romantic; very prosaic, in fact.
She declared her intention of making a tour of the shops and of
dropping into Mrs. Chadwick's on the way home. She ordered James to
bring around the pair and the coupe. James was an example of docile
obedience. As she came down the steps, she was a thing of beauty and a
joy for ever. She wore one of those jackets to which several
gray-squirrel families had contributed their hides, a hat whose
existence was due to the negligence of a certain rare bird, and many
silk-worms had spun the fabric of her gown. Had any one called her
attention to all this, there isn't any doubt that she would have been
shocked. Only here and there are women who see what a true Moloch
fashion is; this tender-souled girl saw only a handsome habit which
pleased the eye. Health bloomed in her cheeks, health shone from her
eyes, her step had all the elasticity of youth.
"Good morning, James," she said pleasantly.
James touched his hat. What was it, he wondered. Somehow her eyes
looked unfamiliar to him. Had I been there I could have read the secret
easily enough. Sometimes the pure pools of the forests are stirred and
become impenetrable; but by and by the commotion subsides, and the
water clears. So it is with the human soul. There had been doubt
hitherto in this girl's eyes; now, the doubt was gone.
To him, soberly watchful, her smile meant much; it was the patent of
her innocence of any wrong thought. All night he had tossed on his cot,
thinking, thinking! What should he do? What_ever_ should he do? That
some wrong was on the way he hadn't the least doubt. Should he confront
the colonel and demand an explanation, a demand he knew he had a
perfect right to make? If this should be evil, and the shame of it fall
on this lovely being?... No, no! He must stand aside, he must turn a
deaf ear to duty, the voice of love spoke too loud. His own assurance
of her innocence made him desire to fall at her feet and worship. After
all, it _was_ none of his affair. Had he not played at this comedy,
this thing would have gone on, and he would have been in ignorance of
its very existence. So, why should he meddle? Yet that monotonous query
kept beating on his brain: What _was_ this thing?
He saw that he must wait. Yesterday he had feared nothing save his own
exposure. Comedy had frolicked in her grinning mask. And here was
Tragedy stalking in upon the scene.
The girl named a dozen shops which she desired to honor with her custom
and presence, and stepped into the coupe. William closed the door, and
James touched up the pair and drove off toward the city. He was
perfectly indifferent to any possible exposure. In truth, he forgot
everything, absolutely and positively everything, but the girl and the
fortification plans she had been drawing.
Scarce a half a dozen bundles were the result of the tour among the
shops.
"Mrs. Chadwick's, James."
The call lasted half an hour.
As a story-teller I am supposed to be everywhere, to follow the
footsteps of each and all of my characters, and with a fidelity and a
perspicacity nothing short of the marvelous. So I take the liberty of
imagining the pith of the conversation between the woman and the girl.
_The Woman:_ How long, dear, have we known each other?
_The Girl:_ Since I left school, I believe. Where _did_ you get that
stunning morning gown?
_The Woman_ (smiling in spite of the serious purpose she has in view):
Never mind the gown, my child; I have something of greater importance
to talk about.
_The Girl: Is_ there anything more important to talk about among women?
_The Woman:_ Yes. There is age.
_The Girl:_ But, mercy, we do not talk about that!
_The Woman:_ I am going to establish a precedent, then. I am forty, or
at least, I am on the verge of it.
_The Girl_ (warningly): Take care! If we should ever become enemies! If
I should ever become treacherous!
_The Woman:_ The world very well knows that I am older than I look.
That is why it takes such interest in my age.
_The Girl:_ The question is, how _do_ you preserve it?
_The Woman:_ Well, then, I am forty, while you stand on the threshold
of the adorable golden twenties. (Walks over to picture taken eighteen
years before and contemplates it.) Ah, to be twenty again; to start
anew, possessing my present learning and wisdom, and knowledge of the
world; to avoid the pits into which I so carelessly stumbled! But no!
_The Girl_: Mercy! what have you to wish for? Are not princes and
ambassadors your friends; have you not health and wealth and beauty?
You wish for something, you who are so handsome and brilliant!
_The Woman_: Blinds, my dear Betty, only blinds; for that is all beauty
and wealth and wit are. Who sees behind sees scars of many wounds. You
are without a mother, I am without a child. (Sits down beside the girl
and takes her hand in hers.) Will you let me be a mother to you for
just this morning? How can any man help loving you! (impulsively.)
_The Girl_: How foolish you are, Grace!
_The Woman_: Ah, to blush like that!
_The Girl_: You are very embarrassing this morning. I believe you are
even sentimental. Well, my handsome mother for just this morning, what
is it you have to say to me? (jestingly.)
_The Woman_: I do not know just how to begin. Listen. If ever trouble
should befall you, if ever misfortune should entangle you, will you
promise to come to me?
_The Girl:_ Misfortune? What is on your mind, Grace?
_The Woman:_ Promise!
_The Girl:_ I promise. (Laughs.)
_The Woman:_ I am rich. Promise that if poverty should ever come to
you, you will come to me.
_The Girl_ (puzzled): I do not understand you at all!
_The Woman:_ Promise!
_The Girl:_ I promise; but--
_The Woman:_ Thank you, Betty.
_The Girl_ (growing serious): What is all this about, Grace? You look
so earnest.
_The Woman:_ Some day you will understand. Will you answer me one
question, as a daughter would answer her mother?
_The Girl_ (gravely): Yes.
_The Woman:_ Would you marry a title for the title's sake?
_The Girl_ (indignantly): I?
_The Woman:_ Yes; would you?
_The Girl:_ I shall marry the man I love, and if not him, nobody. I
mean, of course, _when_ I love.
_The Woman:_ Blushing again? My dear, is Karloff anything to you?
_The Girl:_ Karloff? Mercy, no. He is handsome and fascinating and
rich, but I could not love him. It would be easier to love--to love my
groom outside.
(They both smile.)
_The Woman_ (grave once more): That is all I wished to know, dear.
Karloff is not worthy of you.
_The Girl_ (sitting very erect): I do not understand. Is he not
honorable?
_The Woman_ (hesitating): I have known him for seven years; I have
always found him honorable.
_The Girl:_ Why, then, should he not be worthy of me?
_The Woman_ (lightly): Is any man?
_The Girl:_ You are parrying my question. If I am to be your daughter,
there must be no fencing.
_The Woman_ (rising and going over to the portrait again): There are
some things that a mother may not tell even to her daughter.
_The Girl_ (determinedly): Grace, you have said too much or too little.
I do not love Karloff, I never could love him; but I like him, and
liking him, I feel called upon to defend him.
_The Woman_ (surprised into showing her dismay): You defend him? You!
_The Girl:_ And why not? That is what I wish to know: why not?
_The Woman:_ My dear, you do not love him. That is all I wished to
know. Karloff is a brilliant, handsome man, a gentleman; his sense of
honor, such as it is, would do credit to many another man; but behind
all this there is a power which makes him helpless, makes him a puppet,
and robs him of certain worthy impulses. I have read somewhere that
corporations have no souls; neither have governments. Ask me nothing
more, Betty, for I shall answer no more questions.
_The Girl:_ I do not think you are treating me fairly.
_The Woman:_ At this moment I would willingly share with you half of
all I possess in the world.
_The Girl:_ But all this mystery!
_The Woman:_ As I have said, some day you will understand. Treat
Karloff as you have always treated him, politely and pleasantly. And I
beg of you never to repeat our conversation.
The Girl (to whom illumination suddenly comes; rises quickly and goes
over to the woman; takes her by the shoulders, and the two stare into
each other's eyes, the one searchingly, the other fearfully): Grace!
The Woman: I am a poor foolish woman, Betty, for all my worldliness and
wisdom; but I love you (softly), and that is why I appear weak before
you. The blind envy those who see, the deaf those who hear; what one
does not want another can not have. Karloff loves you, but you do not
love him.
(The girl kisses the woman gravely on the cheek, and without a word,
makes her departure.)
The Woman (as she hears the carriage roll away): Poor girl! Poor,
happy, unconscious, motherless child! If only I had the power to stay
the blow! ... Who can it be, then, that she loves?
The Girl (in her carriage): Poor thing! She adores Karloff, and I never
suspected it! I shall begin to hate him.
How well women read each other!
James had never parted with his rose and his handkerchief. They were
always with him, no matter what livery he wore. After luncheon, William
said that Miss Annesley desired to see him in the study. So James
spruced up and duly presented himself at the study door.
"You sent for me, Miss?"--his hat in his hand, his attitude deferential
and attentive.
She was engaged upon some fancy work, the name of which no man knows,
and if he were told, could not possibly remember for longer than ten
minutes. She laid this on the reading-table, stood up and brushed the
threads from the little two-by-four cambric apron.
"James, on Monday night I dropped a rose on the lawn. (Finds thread on
her sleeve.) In the morning when I looked for it (brushes the apron
again), it was gone. Did you find it?" She made a little ball of the
straggling threads and dropped it into the waste-basket. A woman who
has the support of beauty can always force a man to lower his gaze.
James looked at his boots. His heart gave one great bound toward his
throat, then sank what seemed to be fathoms deep in his breast. This
was a thunderbolt out of heaven itself. Had she seen him, then? For a
space he was tempted to utter a falsehood; but there was that in her
eyes which warned him of the uselessness of such an expedient. Yet, to
give up that rose would be like giving up some part of his being. She
repeated the question: "I ask you if you found it."
"Yes, Miss Annesley."
"Do you still possess it?"
"Yes, Miss."
"And why did you pick it up?"
"It was fresh and beautiful; and I believed that some lady at the
dinner had worn it."
"And so you picked it up? Where did you find it?"
"Outside the bow-window, Miss."
"When?"
He thought for a moment. "In the morning, Miss."
"Take care, James; it was not yet eleven o'clock, at night."
"I admit what I said was not true, Miss. As you say, it was not yet
eleven." James was pale. So she had thrown it away, confident that this
moment would arrive. This humiliation was premeditated. Patience, he
said inwardly; this would be the last opportunity she should have to
humiliate him.
"Have you the flower on your person?"
"Yes, Miss."
"Did you know that it was mine?"
He was silent.
"Did you know that it was mine?"--mercilessly.
"Yes; but I believed that you had deliberately thrown it away. I saw no
harm in taking it."
"But there _was harm."_
"I bow to your superior judgment, Miss,"--ironically.
She deemed it wisest to pass over this experimental irony. "Give the
flower back to me. It is not proper that a servant should have in his
keeping a rose which was once mine, even if I had thrown it away or
discarded it."
Carefully he drew forth the crumpled flower. He looked at her, then at
the rose, hoping against hope that she might relent. He hesitated till
he saw an impatient movement of the extended hand. He surrendered.
"Thank you. That is all. You may go."
She tossed the withered flower into the waste-basket.
"Pardon me, but before I go I have to announce that I shall resign my
position next Monday. The money which has been advanced to me,
deducting that which is due me, together with the amount of my fine at
the police-court, I shall be pleased to return to you on the morning of
my departure."
Miss Annesley's lips fell apart, and her brows arched. She was very
much surprised.
"You wish to leave my service?"--as if it were quite impossible that
such a thing should occur to him.
"Yes, Miss."
"You are dissatisfied with your position?"--icily.
"It is not that, Miss. As a groom I am perfectly satisfied. The trouble
lies in the fact that I have too many other things to do. It is very
distasteful for me to act in the capacity of butler. My temper is not
equable enough for that position." He bowed.
"Very well. I trust that you will not regret your decision." She sat
down and coolly resumed her work.
"It is not possible that I shall regret it."
"You may go."
He bowed again, one corner of his mouth twisted. Then he took himself
off to the stables. He was certainly in what they call a towering rage.
If I were not a seer of the first degree, a narrator of the penetrative
order, I should be vastly puzzled over this singular action on her part.
XXII
THE DRAMA UNROLLS
When a dramatist submits his _scenario_, he always accompanies it with
drawings, crude or otherwise, of the various set-scenes and curtains
known as drops. To the uninitiated these scrawls would look impossible;
but to the stage-manager's keen, imaginative eye a whole picture is
represented in these few pothooks. Each object on the stage is labeled
alphabetically; thus A may represent a sofa, B a window, C a table, and
so forth and so on. I am not a dramatist; I am not writing an acting
drama; so I find that a diagram of the library in Senator Blank's house
is neither imperative nor advisable. It is half after eight; the
curtain rises; the music of a violin is heard coming from the
music-room; Colonel Annesley is discovered sitting in front of the wood
fire, his chin sunk on his breast, his hands hanging listlessly on each
side of the chair, his face deeply lined. From time to time he looks at
the clock. I can imagine no sorrier picture than that of this loving,
tender-hearted, wretched old man as he sits there, waiting for Karloff
and the ignominious end. Fortune gone with the winds, poverty leering
into his face, shame drawing her red finder across his brow, honor in
sackcloth and ashes!
And but two short years ago there had not been in all the wide land a
more contented man than himself, a man with a conscience freer. God!
Even yet he could hear the rolling, whirring ivory ball as it spun the
circle that fatal night at Monte Carlo. Man does not recall the
intermediate steps of his fall, only the first step and the last. In
his waking hours the colonel always heard the sound of it, and it
rattled through his troubled dreams. He could not understand how
everything had gone as it had. It seemed impossible that in two years
he had dissipated a fortune, sullied his honor, beggared his child. It
was all so like a horrible dream. If only he might wake; if only God
would be so merciful as to permit him to wake! He hid his face. There
is no hell save conscience makes it.
The music laughed and sighed and laughed. It was the music of love and
youth; joyous, rollicking, pulsing music.
The colonel sprang to his feet suddenly, his hands at his throat. He
was suffocating. The veins gnarled on his neck and brow. There was in
his heart a pain as of many knives. His arms fell: of what use was it
to struggle? He was caught, trapped in a net of his own contriving.
Softly he crossed the room and stood by the portiere beyond which was
the music-room. She was happy, happy in her youth and ignorance; she
could play all those sprightly measures, her spirit as light and
conscience-free; she could sing, she could laugh, she could dance. And
all the while his heart was breaking, breaking!
"How shall I face her mother?" he groaned.
The longing which always seizes the guilty to confess and relieve the
mind came over him. If only he dared rush in there, throw himself at
her feet, and stammer forth his wretched tale! She was of his flesh, of
his blood; when she knew she would not wholly condemn him . . . No, no!
He could not. She honored and trusted him now; she had placed him on so
high a pedestal that it was utterly impossible for him to disillusion
her young mind, to see for ever and ever the mute reproach in her
honest eyes, to feel that though his arm encircled her she was beyond
his reach.... God knew that he could not tell this child of the black
gulf he had digged for himself and her.
Sometimes there came to him the thought to put an end to this maddening
grief, by violence to period this miserable existence. But always he
cast from him the horrible thought. He was not a coward, and the
cowardice of suicide was abhorrent to him. Poverty he might leave her,
but not the legacy of a suicide. If only it might be God's kindly will
to let him die, once this abominable bargain was consummated! Death is
the seal of silence; it locks alike the lips of the living and the
dead. And she might live in ignorance, till the end of her days,
without knowing that her wealth was the price of her father's dishonor.
A mist blurred his sight; he could not see. He steadied himself, and
with an effort regained his chair noiselessly. And how often he had
smiled at the drama on the stage, with its absurdities, its tawdriness,
its impossibilities! Alas, what did they on the stage that was half so
weak as he had done: ruined himself without motive or reason!
The bell sang its buzzing note; there was the sound of crunching wheels
on the driveway; the music ceased abruptly. Silence. A door opened and
closed. A moment or so later Karloff, preceded by the girl, came into
the study. She was grave because she remembered Mrs. Chadwick. He was
grave also; he had various reasons for being so.
"Father, the count tells me that he has an engagement with you," she
said. She wondered if this appointment in any way concerned her.
"It is true, my child. Leave us, and give orders that we are not to be
disturbed."
She scrutinized him sharply. How strangely hollow his voice sounded!
Was he ill?
"Father, you are not well. Count, you must promise me not to keep him
long, however important this interview may be. He is ill and needs
rest,"--and her loving eyes caressed each line of care in her parent's
furrowed cheeks.
Annesley smiled reassuringly. It took all the strength of his will, all
that remained of a high order of courage, to create this smile. He
wanted to cry out to her that it was a lie, a mockery. Behind that
smile his teeth grated.
"I shall not keep him long, Mademoiselle," said the count. He spoke
gently, but he studiously avoided her eyes.
She hesitated for a moment on the threshold; she knew not why. Her lips
even formed words, but she did not speak. What was it? Something
oppressed her. Her gaze wandered indecisively from her father to the
count, from the count to her father.
"When you are through," she finally said, "bring your cigars into the
music-room."
"With the greatest pleasure, Mademoiselle," replied the count. "And
play, if you so desire; our business is such that your music will be as
a pleasure added.'"
Her father nodded; but he could not force another smile to his lips.
The brass rings of the portiere rattled, and she was gone. But she left
behind a peculiar tableau, a tableau such as is formed by those who
stand upon ice which is about to sink and engulf them.
The two men stood perfectly still. I doubt not that each experienced
the same sensation, that the same thought occurred to each mind, though
it came from different avenues: love and shame. The heart of the little
clock on the mantel beat tick-tock, tick-tock; a log crackled and fell
between the irons, sending up a shower of evanescent sparks; one of the
long windows giving out upon the veranda creaked mysteriously.
Karloff was first to break the spell. He made a gesture which was
eloquent of his distaste of the situation.
"Let us terminate this as quickly as possible," he said.
"Yes, let us have done with it before I lose my courage," replied the
colonel, his voice thin and quavering. He wiped his forehead with his
handkerchief. His hand shone white and his nails darkly blue.
The count stepped over to the table, reached into the inner pocket of
his coat, and extracted a packet. In this packet was the enormous sum
of one hundred and eighty thousand dollars in notes of one thousand
denomination; that is to say, one hundred and eighty slips of paper
redeemable in gold by the government which had issued them. On top of
this packet lay the colonel's note for twenty thousand dollars.