scrutiny, and then turned away abruptly and shook his head in silence,
and Arkwright passed around the table and on out of the room.
A month later, as the Southern senator was passing through the
reading-room of the Union Club, Livingstone beckoned to him, and handing
him an afternoon paper pointed at a paragraph in silence.
The paragraph was dated Sagua la Grande, and read:
“The body of Henry Arkwright, an American civil engineer, was brought
into Sagua to-day by a Spanish column. It was found lying in a road
three miles beyond the line of forts. Arkwright was surprised by a
guerilla force while attempting to make his way to the insurgent camp,
and on resisting was shot. The body has been handed over to the American
consul for interment. It is badly mutilated.”
Stanton lowered the paper and stood staring out of the window at the
falling snow and the cheery lights and bustling energy of the avenue.
“Poor fellow,” he said, “he wanted so much to help them. And he didn’t
accomplish anything, did he?”
Livingstone stared at the older man and laughed shortly.
“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “He died. Some of us only live.”
THE VAGRANT
His Excellency Sir Charles Greville, K. C. M. G., Governor of the
Windless Islands, stood upon the veranda of Government House surveying
the new day with critical and searching eyes. Sir Charles had been
so long absolute monarch of the Windless Isles that he had assumed
unconsciously a mental attitude of suzerainty over even the glittering
waters of the Caribbean Sea, and the coral reefs under the waters,
and the rainbow skies that floated above them. But on this particular
morning not even the critical eye of the Governor could distinguish a
single flaw in the tropical landscape before him.
The lawn at his feet ran down to meet the dazzling waters of the bay,
the blue waters of the bay ran to meet a great stretch of absinthe
green, the green joined a fairy sky of pink and gold and saffron.
Islands of coral floated on the sea of absinthe, and derelict clouds of
mother-of-pearl swung low above them, starting from nowhere and going
nowhere, but drifting beautifully, like giant soap-bubbles of light and
color. Where the lawn touched the waters of the bay the cocoanut-palms
reached their crooked lengths far up into the sunshine, and as the
sea-breeze stirred their fronds they filled the hot air with whispers
and murmurs like the fluttering of many fans. Nature smiled boldly upon
the Governor, confident in her bountiful beauty, as though she said,
“Surely you cannot but be pleased with me to-day.” And, as though in
answer, the critical and searching glance of Sir Charles relaxed.
The crunching of the gravel and the rattle of the sentry’s musket at
salute recalled him to his high office and to the duties of the morning.
He waved his hand, and, as though it were a wand, the sentry moved
again, making his way to the kitchen-garden, and so around Government
House and back to the lawn-tennis court, maintaining in his solitary
pilgrimage the dignity of her Majesty’s representative, as well as her
Majesty’s power over the Windless Isles.
The Governor smiled slightly, with the ease of mind of one who finds
all things good. Supreme authority, surroundings of endless beauty, the
respectful, even humble, deference of his inferiors, and never even an
occasional visit from a superior, had in four years lowered him into a
bed of ease and self-satisfaction. He was cut off from the world, and
yet of it. Each month there came, via Jamaica, the three weeks’ old copy
of The Weekly Times; he subscribed to Mudie’s Colonial Library; and
from the States he had imported an American lawn-mower, the mechanism of
which no one as yet understood. Within his own borders he had created
a healthy, orderly seaport out of what had been a sink of fever and a
refuge for all the ne’er-do-wells and fugitive revolutionists of Central
America.
He knew, as he sat each evening on his veranda, looking across the
bay, that in the world beyond the pink and gold sunset men were still
panting, struggling, and starving; crises were rising and passing;
strikes and panics, wars and the rumors of wars, swept from continent to
continent; a plague crept through India; a filibuster with five hundred
men at his back crossed an imaginary line and stirred the world from
Cape Town to London; Emperors were crowned; the good Queen celebrated
the longest reign; and a captain of artillery imprisoned in a swampy
island in the South Atlantic caused two hemispheres to clamor for
his rescue, and lit a race war that stretched from Algiers to the
boulevards.
And yet, at the Windless Isles, all these happenings seemed to Sir
Charles like the morning’s memory of a dream. For these things never
crossed the ring of the coral reefs; he saw them only as pictures in an
illustrated paper a month old. And he was pleased to find that this
was so. He was sufficient to himself, with his own responsibilities and
social duties and public works.
He was a man in authority, who said to others, “Come!” and “Go!” Under
him were commissioners, and under the commissioners district inspectors
and boards of education and of highways. For the better health of the
colony he had planted trees that sucked the malaria from the air;
for its better morals he had substituted as a Sunday amusement
cricket-matches for cock-fights; and to keep it at peace he had created
a local constabulary of native negroes, and had dressed them in the
cast-off uniforms of London policemen. His handiwork was everywhere,
and his interest was all sunk in his handiwork. The days passed gorgeous
with sunshine, the nights breathed with beauty. It was an existence
of leisurely occupation, and one that promised no change, and he was
content.
As it was Thursday, the Council met that morning, and some questions
of moment to the colony were to be brought up for consideration.
The question of the dog-tax was one which perplexed Sir Charles most
particularly. The two Councillors elected by the people and the three
appointed by the crown had disagreed as to this tax. Of the five hundred
British subjects at the seaport, all but ten were owners of dogs, and it
had occurred to Sassoon, the chemist, that a tax of half-a-crown a
year on each of these dogs would meet the expense of extending the
oyster-shell road to the new cricket-grounds. To this Snellgrove, who
held the contract for the narrow-gauge railroad, agreed; but the three
crown Councillors opposed the tax vigorously, on the ground that as
scavengers alone the dogs were a boon to the colony and should be
encouraged. The fact that each of these gentlemen owned not only one,
but several dogs of high pedigree made their position one of great
delicacy.
There was no way by which the Governor could test the popular will
in the matter, except through his secretary, Mr. Clarges, who, at the
cricket-match between the local eleven and the officers and crew of
H. M. S. Partridge, had been informed by the other owners of several
fox-terriers that, in their opinion, the tax was a piece of “condemned
tommy-rot.” From this the Governor judged that it would not prove a
popular measure. As he paced the veranda, drawing deliberately on his
cigar, and considering to which party he should give the weight of
his final support, his thoughts were disturbed by the approach of a
stranger, who advanced along the gravel walk, guarded on either side
by one of the local constabulary. The stranger was young and of poor
appearance. His bare feet were bound in a pair of the rope sandals worn
by the natives, his clothing was of torn and soiled drill, and he fanned
his face nonchalantly with a sombrero of battered and shapeless felt.
Sir Charles halted in his walk, and holding his cigar behind his back,
addressed himself to the sergeant.
“A vagrant?” he asked.
The words seemed to bear some amusing significance to the stranger, for
his face lit instantly with a sweet and charming smile, and while he
turned to hear the sergeant’s reply, he regarded him with a kindly and
affectionate interest.
“Yes, your Excellency.”
The Governor turned to the prisoner.
“Do you know the law of this colony regarding vagrants?”
“I do not,” the young man answered. His tone was politely curious, and
suggested that he would like to be further informed as to the local
peculiarities of a foreign country.
“After two weeks’ residence,” the Governor recited, impressively, “all
able-bodied persons who will not work are put to work or deported. Have
you made any effort to find work?”
Again the young man smiled charmingly. He shook his head and laughed.
“Oh dear no,” he said.
The laugh struck the Governor as impertinent.
“Then you must leave by the next mail-steamer, if you have any money to
pay your passage, or, if you have no money, you must go to work on the
roads. Have you any money?”
“If I had, I wouldn’t--be a vagrant,” the young man answered. His voice
was low and singularly sweet. It seemed to suit the indolence of his
attitude and the lazy, inconsequent smile. “I called on our consular
agent here,” he continued, leisurely, “to write a letter home for money,
but he was disgracefully drunk, so I used his official note-paper to
write to the State Department about him, instead.”
The Governor’s deepest interest was aroused. The American consular agent
was one of the severest trials he was forced to endure.
“You are not a British subject, then? Ah, I see--and--er--your
representative was unable to assist you?”
“He was drunk,” the young man repeated, placidly. “He has been drunk
ever since I have been here, particularly in the mornings.”
He halted, as though the subject had lost interest for him, and gazed
pleasantly at the sunny bay and up at the moving palms.
“Then,” said the Governor, as though he had not been interrupted, “as
you have no means of support, you will help support the colony until you
can earn money to leave it. That will do, sergeant.”
The young man placed his hat upon his head and turned to move away, but
at the first step he swayed suddenly and caught at the negro’s shoulder,
clasping his other hand across his eyes. The sergeant held him by the
waist, and looked up at the Governor with some embarrassment.
“The young gentleman has not been well, Sir Charles,” he said,
apologetically.
The stranger straightened himself up and smiled vaguely. “I’m all
right,” he murmured. “Sun’s too hot.”
“Sit down,” said the Governor.
He observed the stranger more closely. He noticed now that beneath the
tan his face was delicate and finely cut, and that his yellow hair clung
closely to a well-formed head.
“He seems faint. Has he had anything to eat?” asked the Governor.
The sergeant grinned guiltily. “Yes, Sir Charles; we’ve been feeding him
at the barracks. It’s fever, sir.”
Sir Charles was not unacquainted with fallen gentlemen, “beach-combers,”
“remittance men,” and vagrants who had known better days, and there had
been something winning in this vagrant’s smile, and, moreover, he had
reported that thorn in his flesh, the consular agent, to the proper
authorities.
He conceived an interest in a young man who, though with naked feet, did
not hesitate to correspond with his Minister of Foreign Affairs.
“How long have you been ill?” he asked.
The young man looked up from where he had sunk on the steps, and roused
himself with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’ve had a touch
of Chagres ever since I was on the Isthmus. I was at work there on the
railroad.”
“Did you come here from Colon?”
“No; I worked up the Pacific side. I was clerking with Rossner Brothers
at Amapala for a while, because I speak a little German, and then I
footed it over to Puerto Cortez and got a job with the lottery people.
They gave me twenty dollars a month gold for rolling the tickets, and
I put it all in the drawing, and won as much as ten.” He laughed, and
sitting erect, drew from his pocket a roll of thin green papers. “These
are for the next drawing,” he said. “Have some?” he added. He held
them towards the negro sergeant, who, under the eye of the Governor,
resisted, and then spread the tickets on his knee like a hand at cards.
“I stand to win a lot with these,” he said, with a cheerful sigh. “You
see, until the list’s published I’m prospectively worth twenty
thousand dollars. And,” he added, “I break stones in the sun.” He rose
unsteadily, and saluted the Governor with a nod. “Good-morning, sir,” he
said, “and thank you.”
“Wait,” Sir Charles commanded. A new form of punishment had suggested
itself, in which justice was tempered with mercy. “Can you work one of
your American lawn-mowers?” he asked.
The young man laughed delightedly. “I never tried,” he said, “but I’ve
seen it done.”
“If you’ve been ill, it would be murder to put you on the shell
road.” The Governor’s dignity relaxed into a smile. “I don’t desire
international complications,” he said. “Sergeant, take this--him--to the
kitchen, and tell Corporal Mallon to give him that American lawn-mowing
machine. Possibly he may understand its mechanism. Mallon only cuts
holes in the turf with it.” And he waved his hand in dismissal, and as
the three men moved away he buried himself again in the perplexities of
the dog-tax.
Ten minutes later the deliberations of the Council were disturbed by a
loud and persistent rattle, like the whir of a Maxim gun, which proved,
on investigation, to arise from the American lawn-mower. The vagrant was
propelling it triumphantly across the lawn, and gazing down at it with
the same fond pride with which a nursemaid leans over the perambulator
to observe her lusty and gurgling charge.
The Councillors had departed, Sir Charles was thinking of breakfast, the
Maxim-like lawn-mower still irritated the silent hush of midday, when
from the waters of the inner harbor there came suddenly the sharp report
of a saluting gun and the rush of falling anchor-chains. There was
still a week to pass before the mail-steamer should arrive, and H. M. S.
Partridge had departed for Nassau. Besides these ships, no other vessel
had skirted the buoys of the bay in eight long smiling months. Mr.
Clarges, the secretary, with an effort to appear calm, and the orderly,
suffocated with the news, entered through separate doors at the same
instant.
The secretary filed his report first. “A yacht’s just anchored in the
bay, Sir Charles,” he said.
The orderly’s face fell. He looked aggrieved. “An American yacht,” he
corrected.
“And much larger than the Partridge,” continued the secretary.
The orderly took a hasty glance back over his shoulder. “She has her
launch lowered already, sir,” he said.
Outside the whir of the lawn-mower continued undisturbed. Sir Charles
reached for his marine-glass, and the three men hurried to the veranda.
“It looks like a man-of-war,” said Sir Charles. “No,” he added,
adjusting the binocular; “she’s a yacht. She flies the New York Yacht
Club pennant--now she’s showing the owner’s absent pennant. He must have
left in the launch. He’s coming ashore now.”
“He seems in a bit of a hurry,” growled Mr. Clarges.
“Those Americans always--” murmured Sir Charles from behind the
binocular. He did not quite know that he enjoyed this sudden onslaught
upon the privacy of his harbor and port.
It was in itself annoying, and he was further annoyed to find that it
could in the least degree disturb his poise.
The launch was growing instantly larger, like an express train
approaching a station at full speed; her flags flew out as flat as
pieces of painted tin; her bits of brass-work flashed like fire. Already
the ends of the wharves were white with groups of natives.
“You might think he was going to ram the town,” suggested the secretary.
“Oh, I say,” he exclaimed, in remonstrance, “he’s making in for your
private wharf.”
The Governor was rearranging the focus of the glass with nervous
fingers. “I believe,” he said, “no--yes--upon my word, there are--there
are ladies in that launch!”
“Ladies, sir!” The secretary threw a hasty glance at the binocular, but
it was in immediate use.
The clatter of the lawn-mower ceased suddenly, and the relief of its
silence caused the Governor to lower his eyes. He saw the lawn-mower
lying prostrate on the grass. The vagrant had vanished.
There was a sharp tinkle of bells, and the launch slipped up to the
wharf and halted as softly as a bicycle. A man in a yachting-suit jumped
from her, and making some laughing speech to the two women in the stern,
walked briskly across the lawn, taking a letter from his pocket as he
came. Sir Charles awaited him gravely; the occupants of the launch had
seen him, and it was too late to retreat.
“Sir Charles Greville, I believe,” said the yachtsman. He bowed, and ran
lightly up the steps. “I am Mr. Robert Collier, from New York,” he said.
“I have a letter to you from your ambassador at Washington. If you’ll
pardon me, I’ll present it in person. I had meant to leave it, but
seeing you--” He paused, and gave the letter in his hand to Sir Charles,
who waved him towards his library.
Sir Charles scowled at the letter through his monocle, and then shook
hands with his visitor. “I am very glad to see you, Mr. Collier,” he
said. “He says here you are preparing a book on our colonies in the West
Indies.” He tapped the letter with his monocle. “I am sure I shall be
most happy to assist you with any information in my power.”
“Well, I am writing a book--yes,” Mr. Collier observed, doubtfully,
“but it’s a logbook. This trip I am on pleasure bent, and I also wish
to consult with you on a personal matter. However, that can wait.” He
glanced out of the windows to where the launch lay in the sun. “My wife
came ashore with me, Sir Charles,” he said, “so that in case there was
a Lady Greville, Mrs. Collier could call on her, and we could ask if you
would waive etiquette and do us the honor to dine with us to-night on
the yacht--that is, if you are not engaged.”
Sir Charles smiled. “There is no Lady Greville,” he said, “and I
personally do not think I am engaged elsewhere.” He paused in thought,
as though to make quite sure he was not. “No,” he added, “I have no
other engagement. I will come with pleasure.”
Sir Charles rose and clapped his hands for the orderly. “Possibly the
ladies will come up to the veranda?” he asked. “I cannot allow them to
remain at the end of my wharf.” He turned, and gave directions to the
orderly to bring limes and bottles of soda and ice, and led the way
across the lawn.
Mrs. Collier and her friend had not explored the grounds of Government
House for over ten minutes before Sir Charles felt that many years ago
he had personally arranged their visit, that he had known them for even
a longer time, and that, now that they had finally arrived, they must
never depart.
To them there was apparently nothing on his domain which did not thrill
with delightful interest. They were as eager as two children at a
pantomime, and as unconscious. As a rule, Sir Charles had found it
rather difficult to meet the women of his colony on a path which they
were capable of treading intelligently. In fairness to them, he
had always sought out some topic in which they could take an equal
part--something connected with the conduct of children, or the better
ventilation of the new school-house and chapel. But these new-comers did
not require him to select topics of conversation; they did not even wait
for him to finish those which he himself introduced. They flitted from
one end of the garden to the other with the eagerness of two midshipmen
on shore leave, and they found something to enjoy in what seemed to
the Governor the most commonplace of things. The Zouave uniform of the
sentry, the old Spanish cannon converted into peaceful gate-posts, the
aviary with its screaming paroquets, the botanical station, and even the
ice-machine were all objects of delight.
On the other hand, the interior of the famous palace, which had been
sent out complete from London, and which was wont to fill the wives of
the colonials with awe or to reduce them to whispers, for some reason
failed of its effect. But they said they “loved” the large gold V. R.’s
on the back of the Councillors’ chairs, and they exclaimed aloud over
the red leather despatch-boxes and the great seal of the colony, and the
mysterious envelopes marked “On her Majesty’s service.”
“Isn’t it too exciting, Florence?” demanded Mrs. Collier. “This is
the table where Sir Charles sits and writes letters ‘on her Majesty’s
service,’ and presses these buttons, and war-ships spring up in perfect
shoals. Oh, Robert,” she sighed, “I do wish you had been a Governor!”
The young lady called Florence stood looking down into the great
arm-chair in front of the Governor’s table.
“May I?” she asked. She slid fearlessly in between the oak arms of the
chair and smiled about her. Afterwards Sir Charles remembered her as she
appeared at that moment with the red leather of the chair behind her,
with her gloved hands resting on the carved oak, and her head on one
side, smiling up at him. She gazed with large eyes at the blue linen
envelopes, the stiff documents in red tape, the tray of black sand, and
the goose-quill pens.
“I am now the Countess Zika,” she announced; “no, I am Diana of the
Crossways, and I mean to discover a state secret and sell it to the
Daily Telegraph. Sir Charles,” she demanded, “if I press this electric
button is war declared anywhere, or what happens?”
“That second button,” said Sir Charles, after deliberate scrutiny, “is
the one which communicates with the pantry.”
The Governor would not consider their returning to the yacht for
luncheon.
“You might decide to steam away as suddenly as you came,” he said,
gallantly, “and I cannot take that chance. This is Bachelor’s Hall, so
you must pardon my people if things do not go very smoothly.” He himself
led them to the great guest-chamber, where there had not been a guest
for many years, and he noticed, as though for the first time, that
the halls through which they passed were bare, and that the floor was
littered with unpacked boxes and gun-cases. He also observed for the
first time that maps of the colony, with the coffee-plantations and
mahogany belt marked in different inks, were not perhaps so decorative
as pictures and mirrors and family portraits. And he could have wished
that the native servants had not stared so admiringly at the guests,
nor directed each other in such aggressive whispers. On those other
occasions, when the wives of the Councillors came to the semi-annual
dinners, the native servants had seemed adequate to all that was
required of them. He recollected with a flush that in the town these
semi-annual dinners were described as banquets. He wondered if to these
visitors from the outside world it was all equally provincial.
But their enjoyment was apparently unfeigned and generous. It was
evident that they had known each other for many years, yet they received
every remark that any of them made as though it had been pronounced by a
new and interesting acquaintance. Sir Charles found it rather difficult
to keep up with the talk across the table, they changed the subject
so rapidly, and they half spoke of so many things without waiting to
explain. He could not at once grasp the fact that people who had no
other position in the world save that of observers were speaking so
authoritatively of public men and public measures. He found, to his
delight, that for the first time in several years he was not presiding
at his own table, and that his guests seemed to feel no awe of him.
“What’s the use of a yacht nowadays?” Collier was saying--“what’s the
use of a yacht, when you can go to sleep in a wagon-lit at the Gare du
Nord, and wake up at Vladivostok? And look at the time it saves; eleven
days to Gib, six to Port Said, and fifteen to Colombo--there you are,
only half-way around, and you’re already sixteen days behind the man in
the wagon-lit.”