LIBER SEXTUS.
The voice which John heard was silent after its one outburst. He
could find for the words no logical connection with any present
event. An inquiry in the nine-teeth century concerning an individual
of an ancient German nation was a circumstance which he could not
understand. It might be a quotation which some one was reciting in a
tragical manner or the exclamation of a lunatic whose bewildered
faculties were roaming through European barbaric history. The latter
supposition seemed the more likely, for a practicing declaimer would
not content himself with the repetition of a single sentence.
John presently heard the tones of a female in the lower part of the
house who was complaining bitterly of some grievance. "I tell you I
won't," she cried. "I won't have them here, so many of them, without
letting them know they ain't welcome. This is my house, or as good as
my house, and you needn't say a word more about it."
John began to feel positive alarm. He mistrusted that Durgenson had
entrapped him into a mad-house, for what purpose he could not decide.
He knew, however, on reflection that if it were a public institution,
he could demonstrate his sanity, when he would at once be set free.
But if it were not a refuge for the insane, what meant the strange
language, especially that sonorous voice which had so startled him.
To satisfy himself that he was not a prisoner he went to the one
window of the room, which he endeavored to open, but which resisted
his efforts. The blinds were closed and fastened, he did not doubt,
in such a manner as to defy anything less than a great expenditure of
force.
He did not yet desire an escape ardently enough to shatter the window
and the blinds. There was probably no way of descent to the ground,
except by leaping; and in case he failed to find a reasonably safe
method of exit, the violence he contemplated would bring him
disagreeable consequences, whether he were in the hands of friends or
of enemies. Notwithstanding its disadvantages he would in all
likelihood have attempted a flight from the window, had he not still
clung to the hope of realizing some benefit from his visit. Panicky
had told him he could not afford to stay away from this place for all
the wealth in Ann Arbor.
He seated himself in a chair and waited. Footsteps, evidently those
of a woman, were ascending the stairs. A key turned in the lock of
the door, which opened, and a light shone into the room.
"Come this way," authoritatively said the woman who had conducted him
to the chamber.
"Very well," answered John, "but before you lock me up again as if I
were a convict, I wish to know what I have done to merit such
treatment, I am used to being my own master."
"Excuse me if I have appeared rude," said the woman, "What I have
done, I have done for your good. You will acknowledge it to-morrow.
Do as I tell you, and I will soon explain everything to your
satisfaction."
This speech, though it silenced John and partly quieted his
displeasure, was said in a manner not in the least apologetic.
Not far from the bottom of the stairs she opened a door at the left,
which she requested John to enter. After placing the lamp on the desk
she said, much as she would address a child, "Be patient a few
minutes more. You will find it to your advantage to do as you are
directed."
John expected that when she left him this time she would omit her
precaution of locking the door, but in this he was mistaken. He was
in a library which faced the street, and had closely-packed shelves
on three of its walls. The room was plainly, almost shabbily
furnished, but the books were arranged with method. One set of
shelves was devoted to history and biography, another to theoretical
and miscellaneous works, and the third contained, besides such as
were included in the second, poetry and light literature. In the
historical department the works of ancient nations were at the bottom
and the chronology of the subject matter in each volume was more
modern than that in the book underneath it. The bottom shelves of the
theoretical and miscellaneous department were occupied by books of
reference, such as dictionaries, cyclopedias, etc. Above them, in
order, were religious, philosophical and political treatises and
various odd and antiquated dissertations. The legal and political
works occupied the greater number of the shelves in the theoretical
division, and usurped more than half the space in the third
department. The imaginative literature, alone, of all the library,
showed signs of disarrangement. Poems and novels were mingled in
confusion. Scott's Waverlies were scattered about on every shelf. It
was as if the library had been once arranged by a careful student,
and afterward abandoned to some slovenly, trivial-minded person, who
had left the solid part undisturbed. The one wall which did not
support book-shelves was pasted over with newspaper clippings, which
were mostly political articles or items concerning distinguished men.
On this side of the apartment was a secretary divided into small
drawers, some of whose labels are here quoted: "War Measures,"
"Reconstruction," "Currency."
A step close to the door and a suspension of the sound notified John
that some person was near him.
"Say," began John, "how much longer am I to stay in here?"
"How do I know?" said Durgenson. "I didn't put you in there."
"But you sent for me to come here," returned John.
"I have been abused. That woman has a fashion of locking the door
every time she leaves me. I will not endure it much longer. You must
inform me soon what you wish of me, or I will kick out the window and
go."
"I don't blame you a bit," said Durgenson. "That's just what I'd do
if I was in your place. That woman is a little out of her head.
That's what makes her act so. She's making game of you. I didn't want
you to stop here, you remember. If you'd gone up town as I asked you
to, I'd have been telling you what you wanted to know by this time.
I'd slam through the window and light out. I wouldn't let anybody
interfere with my liberty. You go up there where I said, and I'll be
up directly."
As footsteps in an adjoining room drew near, Durgenson quickly
retreated. The key turned, the door opened and the woman entered,
followed by another lady, at sight of whom John sprang to his feet
with an exclamation of joy.
"Why, Mrs Boyle!" cried John, shaking the hand of the newcomer. "You
do not know how glad I am to see you!"
"He has been very suspicious of me ever since he came here," said
Mrs. Boyle's companion. "He thought I meant to do him some harm."
"Afraid of Mrs. Baldwin?" said Mrs. Boyle. "You needn't be, John. Do
whatever she tells you to don't be afraid of the consequences."
"I will trust any one whom you recommend," said John. "Pardon my
impatience, but I am very anxious to know why Mr. Durgenson sent for
me."
"Mr. Durgenson did not send for you," replied Mrs. Baldwin.
"He said he did," returned John. "He said he knew something to my
advantage with he wished to tell me. He instructed me to go to No.
109---- Street, where we would hold a consultation."
"He wanted to get you away," said Mrs. Baldwin. "I know his tricks.
That is why I locked the door when I left you."
"Will you tell me one thing," asked John, "what is the meaning of
those strange cries which I heard?"
"In good time," answered Mrs. Baldwin. "Before I explain much to you,
you must answer some questions. Where were you brought up?"
"The first that I can remember," replied John, "I lived with a man
named Norris in the township of Terry, Branch County. He took me from
the poor-house. I cannot remember my father or my mother."
"We have made careful inquiries about you," said Mrs. Baldwin, "and
we are satisfied that we know your family history. Will you please
bare your foot? Which one, Mrs. Boyle?"
"That one," said Mrs. Boyle, pointing to the left one.
"It is very sore," returned John. "I have had a surgical operation
performed on it. Still, I will do as you say."
"What kind of operation?" asked Mrs. Baldwin.
"There were six toes," replied John, "and I had one of them
amputated."
"What," cried Mrs. Baldwin, "amputated? You foolish boy! Do you know
you have lost the most honorable birth-mark there is in Michigan?
What are we to do, now that the proof of your descent is gone? You
saw it, though, Mrs. Boyle?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Boyle. "I will swear to that."
"The doctors at Ann Arbor will testify to the same thing," said John,
"and the scar where the toe was will always stay on my foot."
"I will tell you some things which, perhaps, you would like to know,"
said Mrs. Baldwin, as John was replacing the bandages on his foot.
"Your grandfather was a man of wealth and influence."
"Is he dead?" asked John excitedly.
"You must not interrupt me," said Mrs. Baldwin. "Your mother went to
Detroit to school, and while there became acquainted with a young
German named Lehmann. Mr. Lehmann and your grandfather, meeting
accidentally, quarreled over politics. Your grandfather, on finding
out that the young gentleman who wished to marry his daughter, was
the one with whom he had disagreed, told him never to enter his
house. A while after that your mother, in spite of the quarrel,
married Mr. Lehmann. Your grandfather was, of course, very indignant,
and they were never reconciled. Your parents went to Chicago to live.
Your father, who was talented and highly educated gave music lessons.
They claim he had real musical genius. A concert which he gave won
high praise from the Chicago papers. Shortly after this your father
and mother started to go to Milwaukee, where he was advertised to
play. Both of them were killed in the accident which happened to the
train. Not much notice was taken of your father's death at the time,
but six months afterward some of his compositions became famous.
People from all parts of the country visit his grave to pay tribute
to his memory. If you are familiar with the history of music, you
have heard part of my story before."
"Yes," said John, "I have played my father's marches and felt my soul
quiver to the emotions they produced, but I never suspected my
relationship to their author."
"You," continued Mrs. Baldwin, "or we think it was you, their child,
was left during their absence with Mrs. Boyle, who kept with her
another boy name Wrengell. After the accident Mr. Durgenson, who
married your mother's cousin, came to Mrs. Boyle and saying that he
and Mr. Lehmann had been friends, offered to care for you, but he did
not state that you were relatives. Mrs. Boyle had become attached to
you, and she declined to let you go. She said Mr Lehmann had left you
with her, and she felt justified in keeping you. You were not quite
two years old then. One night, when you and the other little boy, who
was older than you, had been playing in the kitchen and running out
doors, Mr. Boyle missed you. She asked the boy where you were, and he
told her that you had gone out doors. Thinking it queer that you, a
child, who would naturally be afraid in the dark, should stay so long
she went out and called you. She was worried when you did not answer.
She called the neighbors and roused the police, but she could not
find you. A man named Dabney had been sawing wood in a yard close
by."
"What," exclaimed John, "not Panicky!"
"Yes," said Mrs. Baldwin. "He goes by the name of Panicky. He had
coaxed you to him and given you some candy. Mrs Boyle visited his
house the next morning and did not find him at home. Late in the day
she saw him, when she asked him if he had seen you. He answered that
he had not seen you for two days. Mrs. Bole always believed that he
had a hand in kidnapping you.
"She moved to Michigan. A few weeks ago you came to her house, and
she was struck by your strong resemblance to your father. When you
played on your violin, she was almost certain of your identity.
Remembering how Mr. Durgenson had tried to get possession of you
twenty years before, she warned you to have nothing to do with him.
After you sprained your ankle and she saw your foot, she was certain
who you were.
"Your grandfather met with an accident in Jackson County, when the
story of your mother's elopement was again told through the country.
Mrs. Boyle, hearing it, wrote to us what she knew about the affair. I
got a lawyer to interview Dabney. The lawyer frightened him into
telling that it was he who took you from Mrs. Boyle. He says Mr.
Durgenson hired him to kill you. He did not want to do that, but he
was in sore need of money, and he did take you to his brother's house
out in the country, where you were kept for several weeks, Durgenson
all the while believing you dead. If you had been a rich man's son,
you would have been found. As it was, the police took little pains to
hunt you up. In a little while Dabney, who was careful that you
should not be hurt, took you to Michigan and left you with a relative
of the boy who was living with Mrs. Boyle. That is the way you came
by your name of Wrengell."
"Then," remarked John, "the history of which I have been so much
ashamed is the history of Alf, the fellow who was with Mrs. Boyle. I
have hung my head for the depravity of his parents." He felt a great
thrill of thankfulness as he reflected that Wrengell, his tormentor
at Ann Arbor, with his sand-colored coat, his wicked mouth and his
criminal face was not his relative.
"We told Dabney," said Mrs. Baldwin, "that if he would find you and
identify you, we would pardon him for what he had done and reward him
besides. He was glad to repair the mischief he had accomplished. He
said he had seen you but a short time before, and he could soon find
you. You know how he kept his word."
"Who was my grandfather?" asked John.
"I will show you his picture," replied Mrs. Baldwin. "Come into this
room."
They passed into an apartment which was well, though not luxuriously,
furnished. Mrs. Baldwin pointed to a frame, which enclosed the stern,
intellectual face of Senator Mallard. John felt his legs tremble and
his heart throb. Sinking info a chair, incapable of speech, he
covered his face with his hands, while the tears trickled through his
fingers and ran down his coat-sleeves. Poverty and disgrace, where
were they now? Of his wealth he knew nothing and cared little, but
his lineage was proud enough to satisfy even his ambition.
"Let me see him," he said in a broken voice. "I want to see my
grandfather."
"We will go to him now," said Mrs. Baldwin. "He was thrown from a
buggy in Jackson County, and he cannot recover. His reason is gone."
They crossed to the opposite side of the house and entered a bedroom.
The old statesman, with his face turned toward the door, his head
toward the window, was lying on the bed at the right. He was weakened
by sickness, but there was a vigor in the expression of his
countenance which seemed an unnatural accompaniment of its pallor and
emaciation.
"Thou art a Suebian," he said, looking fixedly at John. "I know thee
by thy lofty stature, thy blue eyes and light hair."
Durgenson came in quietly and stood by the bed.
The old man, suddenly raising himself, pointed his finger at the
cattle-buyer. "Quosque tandem abutere Durgenson patientia nostra!" he
exclaimed, in a tone which made Durgenson draw back. "And didst thou,
Roman, think thyself able to drive the Suebian from his home?
Sueborun gens est longe maxima et bellicosissima Germanorum omnium.
No, Roman, thou canst not do it. The days of Varus are come, but
Varus cannot restore to thee thy legions."
"He's awful crazy," whispered Durgenson to John.
"Roman," cried Mallard, with astonishing force for one in his
weakened condition, "leave the country of the Suebi."
"I don't believe he wants me here," said Durgenson, quitting the
bedroom, "I guess I'd better go."
Mrs. Baldwin followed Durgenson.
"Suebian," said Mallard, "I have the key to the past For years I
tried in vain to master its secrets. Now they come to me without any
effort on my part. Time, you know, circles around us and every year
draws a coil. My head has whirled and unwound the coil, unwound two
thousand years. I have learned every incident in the history of the
Suebi, incidents to which historians have never referred."
"Here is a violin," said Mrs. Baldwin, as she approached with the
instrument which she named. "Play for your grandfather."
When John's music had ceased, Mallard said, "I hear Orpheus playing
on his golden harp to win Eurydice from the king of the dead.
Cerberus has sunk to sleep, and the fiery wheel on which Ixion is
bound stands still. No, my head has whirled and carried me back too
far. That strain never floated in the land of the dead or over the
Thessalian hills. Thou art a Suebian."
"The rigor of thy clime hath saddened thee," said the old man at the
conclusion of another air by John. "This is the wail of the terrible
north wind, lying flat on his face and piling mountains of ice on thy
desolate islands and across the mouths of thy slow rivers. Thou
couldst not translate his language until he drove mirth from thee."
By Mrs. Baldwin's direction John again took his bow and played.
"Strange things are in thy forest of Bacinis," said Mallard. "In thy
wanderings through the wood thou hast seen visions of the
unattainable and hast overtaken the sublime. I, too, have seen
sublimity, but I could not catch it. I thought to grapple it and hold
it up to the gaze of men, and, when I reached out my hand for it, it
was gone. Give it to me, that I may unfold it before the senate."
"You have already unfolded it before the senate a hundred times,"
replied John.
"No," said Mallard sadly. "I fear I may not get it. It is not of
earth and is vaster than earth. Words narrow it and imprison it, and
I have no expression but words. Martha, there are feathers in this
bed, for I smell them."
"No," answered Mrs. Baldwin, "of course there are not. You are lying
on a mattress."
"That is not what I meant," said the Senator, "there are chickens,
live chickens in this bed. There! See that one running to the foot."
"I will drive them out," said Mrs. Baldwin, who disappeared through
the door and speedily returned with a broom. "Shoo, shoo," she cried,
striking the bed vigorously with the household utensil.
"Stop," commanded Mallard, "Do not hurt them. They have all gone.
Suebian, come nearer. I will tell thy fortune."
John advanced and held out his hand.
"No," said Mallard. "Bunglers tell fortunes by the hand. I tell them
by the foot. Strip off these bandages."
The Senator stirred around uneasily, getting the quilt which was over
him partly displaced, when it became apparent that he had twelve
toes, six on each foot. John, while he was undoing the bandages,
looked with regret at the mutilation which he had caused, and
reflected that he would give much to replace the lost member in its
normal state. He turned his chair toward the bed, presenting the limb
with its scabbed extremity as his grandfather had desired.
"Here are the archives of the past and the indices of the future,"
said the statesman. "Six toes, and every toe a book. Here are Liber
Primus, Liber Secundus, Liber Tertius, Liber Quartus, Liber Quintus,
and, what is this? Liber Sextos is gone; dids't thou willingly part
with it?"
"I would I had it back," said John earnestly.
"Liber Sextus is a grand book," said Mallard, "it tells the story of
the Suebi and the Roman Usurpation. Still, I can read it when it is
absent as well as when it is present. The Roman will contend against
thee. Entangle him in the marshes, and remain thyself on the hills.
If my head would only keep stationary, I could decipher all; but just
as I am introduced to an epoch, it whirls again, and events fly out
of my sight."
"He is getting tired," said Mrs. Baldwin. "We had better go and let
him rest."
"Farewell, Suebian," said Mallard, when he saw them leaving his
presence. "Be firm in resisting the Roman."
"Do you have watchers for him nights?" asked John as he, Mrs. Baldwin
and Mrs. Boyle were in the room which contained the large picture of
his grandfather.
"No," replied Mrs. Baldwin, "we did for a while, until he said so
much against it. He could not bear to have any one in his room when
he wanted to go lo sleep. When you wish to go to bed, I will show you
your room."
"I will retire now," said John.
Mrs. Baldwin led the way up the stairs to a bedroom in the north
extremity of the house. Through the window John could see the
glimmering lights of the wakeful city, which at the horizon appeared
to join the star-dotted spread of the heavens. His happiness had come
in a deluge, which he was ill-fitted quietly to withstand. There was
no obstacle to his union with Manie. None could sneer at the
parentage of Martin Lehmann's son and Senator Mallard's grandson. He
undressed and went to bed, but the exuberance of his spirits forbade
him to be still. For an hour or two he resisted the inclination to
rise. Finally, however, it grew too strong to be suppressed, when he
sprang up and put on his clothes. Few lights were now visible in the
city. John sat in a chair, or paced back and forth until the sunbeams
fell on the clustered roofs at the north.
He softly descended the stairs to take a look at his grandfather,
who, he thought, might not be awake. Cautiously pushing open the
bedroom door, which was ajar, he peered inside. Mallard's white face
was turned toward him, the eyes were closed, the lips were parted as
if in sleep, but never more would they charm a wondering senate or
move to the accents of popular eloquence.