THE MEETING
When Power arrived at New England's chief summer resort on a glorious
July morning twenty-two years ago, man had succeeded in adding only a
garish fringe to a quietly beautiful robe devised by Nature. Some few
pretentious houses had been built; but local residences in the mass made
up an architectural hotch-potch utterly at variance with sylvan
solitudes and breezy cliffs. Rhode Island, which lends its name to the
entire state, is slightly larger than Manhattan. A long southwesterly
spur shields from the mighty rages of the Atlantic the little bay on
which the old town of Newport stands; but the climate has the bracing
freshness which is almost invariably associated with the northern half
of that great ocean. If the bare rudiments of artistry existed among the
idle rich who overran the island during the '80's, it should have
protected a charming blend of seashore and grassy downs from the Italian
palaces, Rhenish castles, Swiss chalets, and don-jon keeps which the
freakish conceits of plutocrats placed cheek by jowl along the coast.
Nowadays these excrescences are either swallowed in forests of well
grown trees or have become so beautified by creepers that they have lost
much of their bizarre effect; while magnificent avenues, carefully laid
out and well shaded, run through a new city of delightful villas and
resplendent gardens. But Power's first stroll from the portals of the
Ocean House revealed a medley in which bad taste ran riot. The Casino, a
miserable-looking structure, was saved from dismal mediocrity by its
splendid lawns alone; the surf-bathers' friends were protected from the
fierce sun by a long, low shanty built of rough planks; the roads were
unkempt, and ankle-deep in mud or dust; broken-down shacks alternated
with mansions; a white marble replica of some old Florentine house,
stuck bleakly on one knob of a promontory, was scowled at by a
heavy-jowled fortress cumbering its neighbor.
He found these things irritating. They were less in harmony with their
environment than the corrugated iron roofs of Bison. His gorge rose at
them. They satisfied no esthetic sense. In a word, he resolved to get
through his business with the horse-fancying judge as speedily as might
be, and escape to the unspoiled wilderness of Maine.
Were it not for one of those minor accidents which at times can exert
such irresistible influence on the course of future events, he would
certainly have left Newport without ever being aware of Mrs. Marten's
presence there. He ascertained that the judge had gone off early in the
morning on a yachting excursion up Narragansett Bay, having arranged to
lunch at a friend's house at Pawtucket; so, perforce, he had to wait in
Newport another day.
At dinner he was allotted a seat at a large round table reserved for
unattached males like himself. The company was a curiously mixed one,
but pleasant withal. A Norwegian from San Francisco, who sold Japanese
curios, a globe-trotting Briton, a Southerner from Alabama, a man from
Plainville, New Jersey, and a Mexican who spoke no English, made up,
with Power himself, a genuinely cosmopolitan board, and Power soon
discovered that he was the only person present who could understand the
Mexican. Mere politeness insisted that he should lend his aid as
interpreter when a negro waiter asked the olive-skinned señor what he
would like to eat; but the "Greaser," as he was dubbed instantly, proved
to be a jovial soul, who laughed when any of the other men laughed,
insisted on having the joke translated, and roared again when it was
explained to him, so that each quip earned a double recognition, while
he never failed to pay his own score by some joyous anecdote or amusing
repartee. Thus, Power was forced into the role of "good fellow" in a way
which he would not have believed possible a few hours earlier. In spite
of himself, the merry mood of other years came uppermost, and, when the
party broke up at midnight, after a long and lively sitting on a moonlit
veranda, he retired to his room with a certain feeling of marvel and
agreeable surprise at the change which one evening of enforced
relaxation had effected in his outlook on life. He decided that these
chance companions had done him a world of good, that his misanthropic
attitude was a false one, and that a week or two at Newport might send
him back to Colorado a better man. Applying to a state of mind a
metaphor drawn from material things, he felt as an Englishman feels who
leaves his own dripping and fog-bound island on a January afternoon and
wakes next morning amid the roses and sunshine of the Riviera. The
glitter on land and sea may bear a close resemblance to spangles and
gilt paper on the stage; but it is cheering to eyes which have not seen
the sun for weeks, and when, in such conditions, John Bull sits down to
luncheon under the awnings of a café facing the blue Mediterranean, he
is unquestionably quite a different being from the muffled-up person who
hurried on board the steamer at Dover.
Power had contrived to withdraw himself so completely from the more
genial side of existence at Bison that he rediscovered it with a fresh
zest. Next day he was no longer alone. The man from Birmingham, Alabama,
and the Englishman shared his love of horses, and the three visited the
judge, who stabled some of his cattle on the island, and had photographs
and pedigrees galore wherewith to describe the stock on his New York
farm.
So Power stayed two days, and yet a third, and he was laughing with the
rest at some quaint bit of Spanish humor which he had translated for the
benefit of the company at dinner on the third evening, when he became
aware that a lady, entering with a large party, for whose use a table
had been specially decorated, was standing stock-still and looking at
him. He lifted his eyes, and met the astonished gaze of Mrs. Marten.
"Derry!" she gasped.
"Nancy!" said he, wholly off his guard, and flushing violently in an
absurd consciousness of having committed some fault. She had caught him,
as it were, in a boisterous moment utterly at variance with the three
years of self-imposed monasticism which followed her marriage. Yet, with
the speed of thought, he saw the futility of such reasoning. The
girl-wife knew nothing of his sufferings. She was greeting him with all
the warmth of undiminished friendship, and could not possibly understand
that he had endured tortures for her sake. So he regained his wits
almost at once, and was on his feet, bowing.
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Marten," he went on. "Your presence here took
me completely unawares. You are the last person breathing I expected to
see in Newport."
She laughed delightedly, with no hint of flurry or confusion beyond that
first natural outburst.
"It would sound much nicer if you said what I am going to say to you,"
she cried, "that you are one of the few persons breathing whom I am
really delighted to see in Newport. But I can't stop and talk now. I'll
ask Mrs. Van Ralten to forgive me if I slip away from her party for ten
minutes after dinner. Mind, you wait for me on the veranda. I'm simply
dying to hear some news of dear old Bison! How is Mac? Oh, my! I really
must go. But don't you dare escape afterward!"
Forgetful of all else, he allowed his startled eyes to follow her as she
ran to her place at the neighboring table. She was dressed in some
confection of white tulle and silver; a circlet of diamonds sparkled in
her thick brown hair; a big ruby formed a clasp in front for an aigrette
of osprey plumes; her robes and bearing were those of a princess. Were
it not for the warranty of his senses, he would never have pictured the
girl of the Dolores ranch in this fine lady. Even now he stood as one in
a trance, half incredulous of the evidence of eyes and ears, and
seemingly afraid lest he might awake and come back to the commonplaces
of an existence in which the Nancy Willard of his dreams had no part.
The Englishman, Dacre by name, knew something of the world and its
denizens, and he had seen the blood rush to his friend's face and ebb
away again until the brown skin was sallow.
"Sit down, old chap," he said quietly. "I was just thinking of ordering
some wine for the public benefit. Do you drink fizz?"
The calm voice helped to restore Power's bemused senses. Afraid lest his
moonstruck attitude might have been observed by some of Mrs. Marten's
companions, he tried to cover his confusion by a jest.
"Wine, did you say?" he cried. "Certainly--let's have a magnum. Bottled
sunlight should help to dissipate visions."
"Anacreon has something to that effect in one of his odes; though he
vowed that he worshiped Wine, Woman, and the Muses in equal measure."
"Who is Anacreon?" asked the man from Plainville.
"He flourished at Athens about 600 B.C.," laughed Dacre.
"Did he? By gosh! The Greeks knew a bit, then, even at that time."
"This one in particular was an authority on those three topics. Love, to
him, was no mischievous boy armed with silver darts, but a giant who
struck with a smith's hammer. He died like a gentleman, too, being
choked by a grapestone at the age of eighty-five."
"Ah, that explains it!"
"Explains what?"
"He had a small swallow, or rum and romance would have knocked him out
in half the time."
Power was rapidly becoming himself again. "I behaved like a stupid boy
just now," he said; "but I was never more taken aback in my life. I have
not met Mrs. Marten since her marriage, three years ago, and I imagined
she was in Europe."
"Oh, is that Mrs. Marten?" chimed in downright Plainville. "Last
Sunday's papers whooped her up as the prize beauty of Newport this
summer, and I guess they got nearer the truth than usual. She's a sure
winner."
"Did I hear her mention Mrs. Van Ralten?" inquired Dacre.
"Yes, her hostess tonight, I believe."
"Van Ralten and Marten hurried off together to the Caspian last week.
They are interested in the oil wells at Baku."
Cymbals seemed to clash in Power's brain, and he heard his own voice
saying in a subdued and colorless staccato, "I am sorry I did not meet
her sooner. I leave tomorrow."
Dacre looked at him curiously; but the wine had arrived, a choice
vintage of the middle '70's, and the Mexican was lifting his glass.
"_El sabio muda conseja; el necio no_," he quoted.
The phrase was so apt that Power glanced at the speaker with marked
doubt; whereupon the blond Norwegian asked what the señor had said.
"He told us that the wise man changes his mind, but the fool does not,"
translated Power.
"Gee whizz!" cried Plainville. "It's a pity he can't give out the text
in good American; for he talks horse sense most all the time. If _I_ had
a peach like Mrs. Marten callin' me 'Derry,' damn if I'd quit for a
month!"
The general laugh at this dry comment evoked a demand by the Mexican for
a Spanish version of the joke. Then he made it clear that he had
resolved to abjure wine, and was only salving his conscience by a
proverb.
This cheerful badinage, which might pass among any gathering of men when
one of them happened to be greeted by a pretty woman, did not leave
Power unscathed. He had dwelt too long apart from his fellows not to
wince at allusions which would glance harmlessly off less sensitive
skins. The iron which had entered into his soul was fused to a white
heat by sight of the woman he had loved and lost. He resented what he
imagined as being the knowledge these boon companions boasted of his
parlous state. Unable to join in their banter, not daring to trust his
voice in the most obvious of retorts, for the man from Plainville had
not been designed by nature to pose as a squire of dames, he gulped down
a glass of champagne at a draft, and pretended to make up for wasted
time in an interrupted course.
Dacre seemed to think that he would be interested in the latest gossip
in financial circles with reference to a supposed scheme organized by
Marten and Van Ralten to fight the Oil Trust. Power listened in silence
until he felt sure of himself; then he launched out vigorously.
"It strikes me that America has lost the art of producing great men," he
said. "We whites are degenerating into mere money-grubbers; so, by the
law of compensation, our next demigod should be a nigger."
"Huh!" snorted Alabama, eager for battle.
"That's my serious opinion," continued Power dogmatically. "And, what's
more, I think I know the nigger. Have any of you dined in the Auditorium
Hotel, Chicago?"
Yes, several; dining-room on top floor; lightning elevator; all right
going up empty, but coming down full was rather a trial.
"Well, you will remember that, as you go in, a young colored gentleman
takes your hat and overcoat, and cane or umbrella. He supplies no
numbered voucher, and cannot possibly tell at which tables some six or
seven hundred diners will be seated. At this time of year every man is
wearing a straw hat of similar design; yet, as each guest comes forth,
he is handed his own hat and other belongings. Now, I hold that that
nigger has a brain of supreme mathematical excellence. There is not a
financier in Wall Street who could begin to emulate that feat of memory.
Given a chance, and such men make their own opportunities. The
Auditorium cloakroom attendant will rise to a dizzy height."
"Tosh!" exclaimed Alabama, primed with facts to prove that hundreds of
negroes could perform similar tricks, but were no good for anything
else.
He was no match for Power in an argument where figures held a place,
and Dacre was the only other man present who realized that the talk had
been boldly and skilfully wrenched to an impersonal topic. He, at any
rate, made no further allusion to Marten or his projects; though he
continued to watch Power narrowly but unobtrusively. Himself something
of a derelict, though his aimless path lay in summer seas, he had
conceived a warm regard for the quiet-mannered stranger from Colorado.
Neither he nor any of the others knew aught of Power's history, who
might really be the rancher he professed to be, though his student's
features and reserved manner did not bear out the assumption. Later,
when Dacre was better informed, he realized the cause of his first
skepticism, for the engineer belonged to one of those rarer types of
mankind who, like the lawyer, the soldier, the physician, and the
clergyman, had the seal of his life's work stamped plainly upon him.
Hence, it followed that in a spirit of sheer comradeship and sympathy he
kept an eye on Power during the next few days. He saw how matters were
tending, and risked a rebuff in offering a friendly hint when disaster
was imminent. Above all--whether for good or evil who can judge? at any
rate, the writer of this record of a man's life feels least qualified to
decide the point--he brought a dominating influence to bear at a moment
when Power was adrift in a maelstrom which threatened to engulf him.
Yet there was slight sign of impending tempest in that bright room with
its groups of diners seemingly well content with their surroundings.
From the adjoining table, which Power could not see owing to the
position he occupied, came gusts of animated conversation. Mrs. Van
Ralten rejoiced in the loud, penetrating accents of the Middle West, and
snatches of her talk were audible.
"I do think James Gordon might have provided a more stylish Casino while
he was about it."
"Yes, I sail on the _Teutonic_ first week in August. Nothing will keep
Willie away from the moors on the Twelfth."
"Did I see them? My dear, who could miss them? Has anyone ever met such
freaks outside a dime museum?"
"Why, Nancy, I don't wonder a little bit that you were such a success in
Paris. The nice things I was told about you turned me green with envy."
Alabama hotly contested each milestone of the Mason and Dixon Line; but
Dacre believed that Power was less intent on the color problem than on
catching each syllable of a sweet voice seldom heard above the clatter
of tongues at the next table. At last the meal was ended, and the men
strolled out into the veranda. Mrs. Marten seemed to know when her
friend had risen; she turned and waved a hand, and obviously explained
her action in the next breath. Soon she appeared, a radiant being fully
in keeping with moonlight and a garden of exotics.
"Mary Van Ralten is a duck," she said joyously, when Power hurried
forward. "She has given me half an hour; but I mustn't be a minute
later, as she has turned out of her own house to accommodate the
Barnstormers from Boston, who are acting for her guests tonight. All
Newport will be there. You are coming, Derry. I asked her, and will
introduce you afterward. My carriage will wait. But, gracious me, why
are you lame?"
He was leading her to a couple of reserved chairs in a palm-shaded nook,
and she noticed that he walked with a limp.
"Happened an accident near the mine quite a time since," he said.
"I never heard. I wonder my father didn't mention it. Anyhow, Derry, why
have you never written?"
"Listen to the pot calling the kettle, or, if that is only a trite
simile, listen to the Fairy Queen berating a poor mortal for her own
lapses!"
"Ah, I have not written since my marriage, it is true, but you treated
my hapless missives so cavalierly when I did send them that I hardly
dared risk another rebuff."
"What do you mean?" he asked thickly. He was priding himself on the ease
with which they were establishing new relations, when this unlooked-for
development plunged him again into a swift-running current of doubt and
foreboding. They were seated now, not side by side as he had planned,
but in such wise that Nancy could see his face clearly, she having
deliberately pulled her chair round for that purpose.
"Exactly what I have said," she answered composedly. "I sent three
separate letters to Mr. John Darien Power, the Esperanza Placer Mine,
Sacramento--I sha'n't forget the address in a hurry, because I've always
longed to ask why you were so ready to desert a friend--and, seeing that
not one of them was returned by the postoffice, I had good reason to
suppose that they reached you all right. Derry, don't tell me you never
got them!"
His heart seemed to miss a beat or two. In an instant he guessed the
truth, that their correspondence had been burked by malicious
contriving; but all he could find to say was:
"Did you really write to me?"
"Of course, I did. Am I not telling you? And you, Derry, did _you_ write
to _me_?"
His tongue almost cleaved to the roof of his mouth; for he knew, in that
instant, that they were not seated in the comfortable veranda of the
Ocean House, but standing side by side on the lip of an abyss.
He must not, he dared not, answer truly. He had no right to make wreck
and ruin of this bright young life, and none knew so well as he how
proudly she would denounce the thievish wiles which had separated them
if once she grasped their full import.
"It is so long ago," he muttered brokenly. "So many things have occurred
since. I have forgotten. I--I can only be sure that I received no
letters from you."
"You have forgotten!" she repeated slowly.
"Yes--that is, I suffered a good deal from a broken leg--it was badly
set--that is why I have such a noticeable hobble. Events round about
that period are all jumbled up in my mind."
The explanation was lame as his leg. It would never have deceived even
the Nancy Willard of bygone years, and was utterly thrown away on this
wide-eyed woman. She was conscious of a fierce pain somewhere in the
region of her heart, and wanted to cry aloud in her distress; but she
crushed the impulse with a self-restraint that had become second nature,
and bent nearer, smiling wanly.
"Why did you throw away your cigar, Derry?" she said. "Please smoke.
Like every other man, you will talk more easily then. And do tell me
what has been going on at Bison. I have often asked Hugh for news; but
he says he never hears a word about the place since he sold his
interests there."
Power hardly realized how swiftly and certainly she had made smooth the
way. He was conscious only of a vast relief that the subject of the
missing correspondence was dropped. Only in later hours of quiet
reflection did he grasp the reason--that she was bitterly aware of the
truth, and the whole truth. He began at once to describe developments on
the ranch, and was too wishful to hide his own confusion behind the
smoke of a cigar to notice how a white-gloved hand clenched the arm of a
chair when he spoke of his mother and the place she filled in public
esteem. Unconsciously he was telling Nancy just what she wanted to know.
He was not married. There was no other woman! She uttered no sound; but
her lower lip bore a series of white marks for a little while.
"You see," he explained glibly, "I acquired the habit of letting other
people work when I was laid by for repairs. Please excuse these frequent
references to a broken limb, which seems to figure in my talk much as
King Charles's head in Mr. Dick's disjointed manuscripts. Anyhow, I had
plenty of time for reading, as the mine paid from the very beginning,
and a rock spring which nearly scared Mac stiff came in handy to
irrigate the upper part of the ranch--that long slope just below the
Gulch, you remember."
"Yes, I remember," she said.
"Well, what between fruit-growing and horse-breeding, I hardly ever have
time to go near Bison. My mother drives in every day over the new
trail----"
"What new trail?"
"We had to cut a road across the divide. The Gulch is blocked by rails."
"Why?"
"That is where the mine is, you know."
"I don't know. Whereabouts exactly is the mine?"
"It starts in the west side of the canyon, about a hundred yards from
the ranch end."
"Near a narrow cleft, topped by a sloping ledge?"
"Yes. How well you recollect every yard of the ground!"
"How did you come to locate the lost seam there?"
"By sheer chance. Some pieces of the granite wall fell away, and any
miner who had been a week at his trade would have recognized the vein
then."
"When did they fall away--the bits of rock, I mean?"
"It must have been about the time you--you were married, Mrs. Marten."
She tapped a satin-shod foot emphatically on the boarded floor. "Why are
you calling me 'Mrs. Marten'?" she demanded.
"Well----"
"Don't do it again. I am 'Nancy' to you, Derry. I refuse to part with
the privileges of friendship in that casual way. But I want to
understand things more closely. What caused the stones to fall?"
"I don't mind telling," he said, "though a good many people have asked
me the history of El Preço, and I have refused hitherto to gratify their
curiosity----"
"El Preço--doesn't that mean 'the price'?"
"Yes."
"What an extraordinary name! The price of what?"
"Of my broken leg. There, you see! King Charles's head once more."
She paused, ever so briefly, before resuming her questioning. "Now, why
did the stones fall?"
"Because an excited cowboy fired his revolver in the air, and the
bullets struck a section of rock which required some such shock to
dislodge it."
"But how did that affect you?"
"I happened to be lying on the very ledge you spoke of, and--oh, dash it
all! I secured my limp then and there."
"Did the fall disturb a rattlesnake?"
"It may have disturbed a dozen rattlesnakes, for all that I can tell.
But what an extraordinary thing to say! Did you know that a rattler
lived in that cleft?"
"No. I was just thinking of the Gulch and its inhabitants. Perhaps my
wits were wandering.... Come, Derry. Our half-hour is not gone, but we
can talk on the way. Send a boy for my carriage. Do you want your hat
and coat?"
She rose suddenly, and drew a light wrap of silvery tissue around her
shoulders. Power stood up, and faced her. He had never seen her looking
so ethereally beautiful, not even on the night, now so long ago, when he
parted from her before taking that disastrous journey to Sacramento.
"Do you really think I ought to come with you to Mrs. Van Ralten's?" he
said.
"Of course. Why not? You are invited."
"But----"
"You are my big brother from Bison, Derry, and I'm not going to forgo
the pleasure of your company if all Newport lined the road and bawled,
'Send him away!' But do hurry. Mary Van Ralten will forgive everything
except unpunctuality."
The nebulous protest on Power's lips faded into silence. "On such a
night I can dispense with hat and overcoat," he said. "Your carriage is
a closed landau, I suppose?"
"Yes. After the play you can escort me to the Breakers--that is the name
of the house we have rented--and Sam, our coachman, will take you
home.... Oh, there he is, waiting. Mrs. Van Ralten's, Sam."
"Yes, Ma'am," said the negro, who had brought a carriage and pair to the
doorway when he caught sight of his mistress. A negro footman opened the
door, and Nancy entered, the brilliant moonlight gleaming for an instant
on the sheen of a white silk stocking. Power seated himself by her side,
and the horses dashed off. He felt the soft folds of her dress touching
him. When she turned slightly to say something about the marvelous
nights which tempered the heat-wave at Newport, her right shoulder and
elbow pressed him closely. Some subtle fragrance came from her that
stirred him almost to a frenzy of longing; yet he dared not flinch away
into a corner of the carriage. Perforce, he schooled his voice to utter
the platitudes of the moment. Yes, he had been in Newport three whole
days, and had not the remotest notion that she was there. He had come to
buy horses, and might remain another week. Well, he _would_ remain, now
that they had met; for he was sure he would find a good deal to tell her
of Bison and its folk once he had got over the novelty and
unexpectedness of this meeting.
And all the time his heart was pounding madly, throbbing so furiously
that he feared lest she should become aware of its lack of restraint,
and he stooped forward in a make-believe glance at some building they
were passing.
"That is the Casino," she said, misinterpreting his action, or
pretending to--Heaven alone knows the extent of a woman's divination
where a man is concerned! "We play tennis there, in the evenings, when
it's so hot during the day. Are you a tennis-player, Derry?... Oh, I'm
sorry! I quite forgot."
"I have been arousing your sympathy by false pretense," he said, and the
laughter in his voice demanded a real effort. "I can walk and ride and
jump and dance as well as ever, and I have taught three of the ranchmen
to play tennis quite creditably. So, if the Newport stores run to
flannels and rubber shoes----"
"Derry," she cooed, "you are not such a fraudulent person as you
imagine. If you knew how much you have told me tonight about yourself,
you would be awfully surprised, as they say in London. But here we are
at Mrs. Van Ralten's. Now, be nice to everybody; for I mean you to have
a real good time in Newport. People here can be very pleasant
acquaintances if you take them the right way."