MOONLIGHT AND POETRY
A ball followed dinner that night, Wednesday. The ample lounging-room
filled up rapidly after coffee: officers in smart uniforms and spurs,
whose principal function in times of peace is to get in everybody's way,
rowel exposed ankles, and demolish lace ruffles, Egyptians and Turks and
sleek Armenians in somber western frock and scarlet eastern fez or
_tarboosh_, women of all colors (meaning, of course, as applied) and
shapes and tastes, the lean and fat, the tall and short, such as _Billy
Taylor_ is said to have kissed in all the ports, and tail-coats of as
many styles as Joseph's had patches. George could distinguish his
compatriots by the fit of the trousers round the instep; the Englishman
had his fitted at the waist and trusted in Providence for the hang of
the rest. This trifling detective work rather pleased George. The women,
however, were all Eves to his eye; liberal expanses of beautiful white
skin, the bare effect being modified by a string of pearls or diamonds
or emeralds, and hair which might or might not have been wholly their
own. He waited restlessly for the reappearance of Mrs. Chedsoye and her
daughter. All was right with the world, except that he was to sail
altogether too soon. His loan had been returned, and he knew that his
former suspicions had been most unworthy. Mrs. Chedsoye had never
received his note.
Some one was sitting down beside him. It was Ryanne, in evening clothes,
immaculate, blasé, pink-cheeked. There are some men so happily framed
that they can don ready-made suits without calling your attention to the
fact. George saw at once that the adventurer was one of these fortunate
individuals.
"Makes a rather good picture to look at; eh?" began Ryanne, rolling a
flake-tobacco cigarette. "Dance?"
"No. Wish I could. You've done quick work," with admiring inspection.
"Not a flaw anywhere. How do you do it?"
"Thanks. Thanks to you, I might say. I did some tall hustling, though.
Strange, how we love these funeral toggeries. We follow the dance and we
follow the dead, with never a variation in color. The man who invented
the modern evening clothes must have done good business during the day
as chief-mourner."
"Why don't you send for your luggage?"
Ryanne caressed his chin. "My luggage is, I believe, in the hands of the
enemy. It is of no great importance. I never carry anything of value,
save my skin. I'm not like the villain in the melodrama; no
incriminating documents, no lost wills, no directions for digging up
pirates' gold."
"I suppose you'll soon be off for America?" George asked indifferently.
"I suppose so. By the way, I saw you at the game to-day."
"No! Where were you?"
"Top row. I am going to ask a favor of you. It may sound rather odd to
your ears, but I know those two ladies rather well. I kept out of the
way till I could find some clothes. The favor I ask is that you will not
tell them anything regarding the circumstances of our meeting. I am
known to them as a globe-trotter and a collector."
"That's too bad," said George contritely. "But I have already told
them."
"The devil you have!" Ryanne dropped his cigarette into the ash-tray.
"If I remember rightly, you asked me to say nothing."
"I know," said George, visibly embarrassed. "I forgot."
"Well, the fat is in the fire. I dare say that I can get round it. It
was risky. Women like to talk. I expect every hour to hear of some one
arriving from Bagdad."
"There's no boat from that direction till next week," informed George,
who was a stickler on time-tables.
"There are other ways of getting into Egypt. Know anything about
racing-camels?"
"You don't believe...?"
"My friend I believe in all things that haven't been proved impossible.
You've been knocking about here long enough to know something of the
tenacity of the Arab and the East Indian. Given a just cause, an idol's
eye or a holy carpet, and they'll follow you round the world ten times,
if need be. I never worry needlessly, but I lay out before me all the
points in the game. There is one man in Bagdad who will never cease to
think of me. This fellow is an Arab, Mahomed-El-Gebel by name, the real
article, proud and savage, into whose keeping the Holy Yhiordes was
given; Mahomed-El-Gebel, the Pasha's right-hand, a sheik in his own
right."
"But you haven't got the rug now."
"No, Mr. Jones, I haven't; but on the other hand, you have. So, here we
are together. When he gets through with me, your turn."
George laughed. Ryanne grew thoughtful over this sign. Percival Algernon
did not seem exactly worried.
"Aren't you a little afraid?"
"I? Why should I be?" inquired George innocently. "Certainly, whatever
your Arab friend's arguments may be, moral or physical, I'm going to
keep that Yhiordes."
Was he bluffing? Ryanne wondered. Did he really have nerve? Well,
within forty-eight hours there would come a test.
"Say, do you know, I rather wish you'd been with me on that trip--that
is, if you like a rough game." Ryanne said this in all sincerity.
"I have never been in a rough game, as you call it; but I've often had a
strong desire to be, just to find out for myself what sort of a duffer I
am."
Ryanne had met this sort of man before; the fellow who wanted to know
what stuff he was made of, and was ready to risk his hide to find out.
His experience had taught him to expect nothing of the man who knew just
what he was going to do in a crisis.
"Did you ever know, Mr. Jones," said Ryanne, his eyes humorous, "that
there is an organization in this world of ours, a company that offers a
try-out to men of your kidney?"
"What's that? What do you mean?"
"What I say. There is an established concern which will, upon
application for a liberal purchase of stock, arrange any kind of
adventure you wish."
"What?" George drew in his legs and sat up. "What sort of a jolly is
this?"
"You put your finger upon the one great obstacle. No one will believe
that such a concern exists. Yet it is a fact. And why not?"
"Because it wouldn't be real; it would be going to the moon _à la_ Coney
Island."
"Wrong, absolutely wrong. If I told you that I am a stock-holder in this
company, and that the adventure of the Yhiordes rug was arranged for my
special benefit, what would you say?"
"Say?" George turned a serious countenance toward the adventurer. "Why,
the whole thing is absurd on the face of it. As a joke, it might go; but
as a genuine affair, utterly impossible."
"No," quietly. "I admit that it sounds absurd, yes; but ten years ago
they'd have locked up, as insane, a man who said that he could fly. But
think of last summer at Paris, at Rheims, at Frankfort; the Continental
air was full of flying-machines. Bah! It's pretty difficult to impress
the average mind with something new. Why shouldn't we cater to the
poetic, the romantic side of man? We've concerns for everything else.
The fact is, mediocrity is always standing behind the corner with
brickbats for the initiative. Believe me or not, Mr. Jones, but this
company exists. The proof is that you have the rug and I have the
scars."
"But in these prosaic times!" murmured George, still skeptical.
"Prosaic times!" sniffed Ryanne. "There's one of your brickbats. They
swung it at the head of the first printer. Prosaic times! My friend,
this is the most romantic and bewildering age humanity has yet seen.
There's more romance and adventure going about on wheels and
steel-bottoms than ever there was in the days of Drake and the
Spanish galleons. There's an adventure lurking round the nearest
corner--romance, too. What this organization does is to direct you;
after that you have to shift for yourself. But, like a first-rate
physical instructor, they never map out more than a man can do. They
gave me the rug. Your bones, on such a quest, would have been bleaching
upon the banks of the Tigris."
"What the deuce is this company called?" George was enjoying the
conversation immensely.
"The United Romance and Adventure Company, Ltd., of London, Paris, and
New York."
"Have you any of the company's paper with you?" George repressed his
laughter because Ryanne's face was serious enough.
"Unfortunately, no. But if you will give me your banker's address I'll
be pleased to forward you the prospectus."
"Knauth, Nachod and Kühne. I am shortly leaving for home. Better send it
to New York. I say, suppose a chap buys an adventure that is not up to
the mark; can he return it or exchange it for another?"
"No. It's all chance, you know. The rules of the game are steel-bound.
We find you an adventure; it's up to you to make good."
"But, once more, suppose a chap gets a little too rough a game, and
doesn't turn up for his dividends; what then?"
"In that event," answered Ryanne sadly, "the stock reverts to the
general fund."
George lay back in his chair and let go his laughter. "You are mighty
good company, Mr. Ryanne."
"Well, well; we'll say nothing more about it. But a moment gone you
spoke as if you were game for an exploit."
"I still am. But if I knew the adventure was prearranged, as you say,
and I was up against a wall, there would be the inclination to cable the
firm for more instructions."
Ryanne himself laughed this time. "That's a good idea. I don't believe
the company ever thought of such a contingency. But I repeat, our
business is to give you the kick-off. After that you have to fight for
your own downs."
"The stock isn't listed?" again laughing.
"Scarcely. One man tells another, as I tell you, and so on."
"You send me the prospectus. I'm rather curious to have a look at it."
"I certainly shall do so," replied Ryanne, with gravity unassumed. "Ah!
Here come Mrs. Chedsoye and her daughter. If you don't mind, I'll make
myself scarce. I do not care to see them just now, after your having
told them about the stolen Yhiordes."
"I'm sorry," said George, rising eagerly.
"It's all in the game," gallantly.
George saw him gracefully manoeuver his way round the crush toward the
stairs leading to the bar. Really, he would like to know more about
this amiable free-lance. As the old fellows used to say, he little
dreamed that destiny, one of those things from Pandora's box, was
preparing a deeper and more intimate acquaintance.
"And what has been amusing you, Mr. Jones?" asked Mrs. Chedsoye. "I saw
you laughing."
"I was talking with the rug chap. He's a droll fellow. He said that he
had met you somewhere, but concluded not to renew the acquaintance,
since I told him that his adventure in part was known to you."
"That is foolish. I rather enjoy meeting men of his stamp. Don't you,
Fortune?"
"Sometimes," with a dry little smile. "I believe we have met him,
mother. There was something familiar about his head. Of course, we saw
him only from a distance."
"I do not think there is any real harm in him," said George. "What made
me laugh was a singular proposition he set before me. He said he owned
stock in a concern called 'The United Romance and Adventure Company';
and that for a specified sum of money, one could have any adventure one
pleased."
"Did you ever hear of such a thing?" cried the mother merrily. Fortune
searched her face keenly. "The United Romance and Adventure Company! He
must have been joking. What did you say his name is?"
"Ryanne. Joking is my idea exactly," George agreed. "The scheme is to
plunge the stock-holder into a real live adventure, and then let him
pull himself out the best way he can. Sounds good. He added that this
rug business was an instance of the success of the concern. There goes
the music. Do you dance, Miss Chedsoye?"
"A little." Fortune was preoccupied. She was wondering what lay behind
Mr. Ryanne's amiable jest.
"Go along, both of you," said Mrs. Chedsoye. "I am too old to dance. I
prefer watching people." She sat down and arranged herself comfortably.
She was always arranging herself comfortably; it was one of the secrets
of her perennial youth. She was very lovely, but George had eyes for the
daughter only. Mrs. Chedsoye saw this, but was not in the least
chagrined.
"It is so many years since I tripped the light fantastic toe," George
confessed, reluctantly and nervously, now that he had bravely committed
himself. "It is quite possible that the accent will be primarily upon
the trip."
"Perhaps, then," replied the girl, who truthfully was out of tune,
"perhaps I had better get my wraps and we'll go outside. The night is
glorious."
She couldn't have suggested anything more to his liking. And so, after a
little hurrying about, the two young people went outside and began to
promenade slowly up and down the mole. Their conversation was desultory.
George had dropped back into his shell and the girl was not equal to the
task of drawing him out. Once he stumbled over a sleeping beggar, and
would have fallen had she not caught him by the arm.
"Thanks. I'm clumsy."
"It's rather difficult to see them in the moonlight; their rags match
the pavements."
The Egyptian night, that sapphirine darkness which the flexible
imagination peoples with lovely and terrible shades, or floods with
mystery and romance and wonder, lay softly upon this strip of verdure
aslant the desert's face, the Valley of the Nile. The moon, round,
brilliant, strangely near, suffused the scarred old visage of the world
with phantom silver; the stones of the parapet glowed dully, the
pavement glistened whitely, all things it touched with gentleness,
lavishing beauty upon beauty, mellowing ugliness or effacing it. The
deep blue Nile, beribboned with the glancing lights from the silent
feluccas, curling musically along the sides of the frost-like dahabeahs
and steamers, rolled on to the sea; and the blue-white arc-lamps,
spanning the Great Nile Bridge, took the semblance of a pearl necklace.
From time to time a caravan trooped across the bridge into Cairo. The
high and low weird notes of the tom-toms, the wheezing protests of the
camels, the raucous defiance of the donkeys, the occasional thin music
of reeds, were sounds that crossed and recrossed one another, anciently.
"Do you care for poetry, Mr. Jones?"
"I? I used to write it."
"And you aren't afraid to admit it?"
"Well, I shouldn't confess the deed to every one," he answered frankly.
"We all write poetry at one time or another; but it's generally not
constitutional, and we recover."
"I do not see why any one should be ashamed of writing poetry."
"Ah, but there is poetry and poetry. My kind and Byron's is born of
kindred souls; but he was an active genius, whereas, I wasn't even a
passive one. In all great poets I find my own rejected thoughts, as
Emerson says; and that's enough for my slender needs. Poets are rather
uncomfortable chaps to have round. They are capricious, irritable,
temperamental, selfish, and usually demand all the attention."
The little vocal stream dried up again, and once more they listened to
the magic sounds of the night. She stopped abruptly to look over the
parapet, and his shoulder met hers; after that the world to him was
never going to be the same again.
Moonlight and poetry; not the safest channels to sail uncharted. The
girl was lonely, and George was lonely, too. His longing had now assumed
a definite form; hers moved from this to that, still indefinitely. The
quickness with which this definition had come to George rather startled
him. His first sight of Fortune Chedsoye had been but yesterday; yet,
here he was, not desperately but consciously in love with her. The
situation bore against all precepts; it ripped up his preconceived ideas
of romance as a gale at sea shreds a canvas. He felt a bit panicky. He
had always planned a courtship of a year or so, meetings, separations,
and remeetings, pleasurable expectations, little junkets to theatres and
country places; in brief, to witness the rose grow and unfold. Somewhere
he had read or heard that courtship was the plummet which sounded the
depths of compatibility. He knew nothing of Fortune Chedsoye, save that
she was beautiful to his eyes, and that she was as different from the
ordinary run of girls as yonder moon was from the stars. Here his
knowledge ended. But instinct went on, appraising and delving and
winnowing, and instinct told him what knowledge could not, that she was
all his heart desired.
When a man finally decides that he is in love, his troubles begin, the
imaginary ones. Is he worthy? Can he always provide for her? Is it
possible for such a marvelous creature to love an insignificant chap
like himself? And that worst of mental poisons, is she in love with any
one else? What to do to win her? The feats of Hercules, of Perseus, of
Jason: what mad piece of heroism can he lay his hand to that he may wake
the slumbering fires, and having roused them, continue to feed them?
Manhood, meaning that decade between thirty and forty, looks upon this
phase, abashed. After all, it wasn't so terrible; there were vaster
emotions, vaster achievements in life to which in comparison love was as
a candle held to the sun.
Again she stopped, leaning over the parapet and staring down at the
water swirling past the stone embankment. He did likewise, resting upon
his folded arms. Suddenly his tongue became alive; and quietly, without
hesitancy or embarrassment, he began to tell her of his school life, his
life at home. And the manner in which he spoke of his mother warmed her;
and she was strangely and wonderingly attracted.
"Of course, the mother meant the best in the world when she gave me
Percival Algernon; and because she meant the best, I have rarely tried
to hide them. What was good enough for her to give was good enough for
me to keep. It is simply that I have been foolish about it,
supersensitive. I should have laughed and accepted the thing as a joke;
instead, I made the fatal move of trying to run away and hide. But,
taking the name in full," lightly, "it sounds as incongruous as playing
_Traumerei_ on a steam-piano."
He expected her to laugh, but her heart was too full of the old ache.
This young man, kindly, gentle, intelligent, if shy, was a love-child.
And she? An offspring, the loneliest of the lonely, the child that
wasn't wanted. Many a time she had thought of flinging all to the winds,
of running away and hiding where they never should find her, of working
with her own hands for her bread and butter. Little they'd have cared.
But always the rebel spirit died within her as she stepped outside the
villa gates. To leave behind for unknown privations certain assured
comforts, things of which she was fond, things to which she was used,
she couldn't do it, she just couldn't. Morally and physically she was a
little coward.
"Let us go in," she said sharply. Another moment, and she would have
been in tears.