NEW YORK
The Duke-errant had prepared himself for the first glimpse of the
battlements of lower New York, but as the _Bermudian_ came up the bay
that rosy spring afternoon, the western sun gilding the upper half of
the castellated towers which rose from a sea of moving shadows, it
seemed a dream city, the fortress of a fairy tale. His fingers tingled
to express this frozen music, to relieve it from its spell of
enchantment, and phrases of Debussy's "Cathedrale Engloutie" came
welling up within him from almost forgotten depths.
"_Parbleu!_ She's grown some, Pete, since I saw her last!"
This from his grotesque companion who was not moved by concord of sweet
sounds. "They've buried the Trinity clean out of sight."
"The Trinity?" questioned Peter solemnly.
"Bless your heart----" laughed Coast, "I'd say so----But I mean, the
church----And that must be the Woolworth Building yonder. Where's yer
St. Paul's and Kremlin now? Some village,--what?"
"Gorgeous!" muttered Peter.
"Hell of a thing to tackle single-handed, though, eh, boh?"
Something of the same thought was passing through Peter's mind but he
only smiled.
"I'll find a job," he said slowly.
"Waitin'!" sneered Coast. "Fine job that for a man with your learnin'.
'Hey, waiter! Some butter if you please,'" he satirized in mincing
tones, "'this soup is cold--this beef is underdone. Oh, _cawn't_ you
give me some service here!' I say, don't you hear 'em--people that never
saw a servant in their own home town. Pretty occupation for an old war
horse like me or a globe-trotter like you. No. None for me. I'll fry my
fish in a bigger pan. _Allons!_ Pete. I like you. I'll like you more
when you grow some older, but you've got a head above your ears that
ain't all bone. I can use you. What d'ye say? We'll get ashore, some
way, and then we'll show the U. S. A. a thing or two not written in the
books."
"We'll go ashore together, Jim. Then we'll see."
"Righto! But I'll eat my hat if I can see you balancin' dishes in a
Broadway Chop House."
Peter couldn't see that either, but he didn't tell Jim Coast so. Their
hour on deck had struck, for a final meal was to be served and they went
below to finish their duties. That night they were paid off and
discharged.
The difficulties in the way of inspection and interrogation of Peter
Nichols, the alien, were obviated by the simple expedient of his going
ashore under cover of the darkness and not coming back to the ship--this
at a hint from the sympathetic Armitage who gave the ex-waiter a
handclasp and his money and wished him success.
Midnight found Peter and Jim Coast on Broadway in the neighborhood of
Forty-second Street with Peter blinking comfortably up at the electric
signs and marveling at everything. The more Coast drank the deeper was
his cynicism but Peter grew mellow. This was a wonderful new world he
was exploring and with two thousand dollars safely tucked on the inside
of his waistcoat, he was ready to defy the tooth of adversity.
In the morning Peter Nichols came to a decision. And so over the coffee
and eggs when Coast asked him what his plans were he told him he was
going to look for a job.
Coast looked at him through the smoke of his cigar and spoke at last.
"I didn't think you'd be a quitter, Pete. The world owes us a
livin'--you and me----Bah! It's easy if you'll use your headpiece. If
the world won't give, I mean to take. The jobs are meant for little
men."
"What are you going to do?"
"An enterprisin' man wouldn't ask such a question. Half the people in
the world takes what the other half gives. You ought to know what half
_I_ belong to."
"I'm afraid I belong to the other half, Jim Coast," said Peter quietly.
"_Sacre--!_" sneered the other, rising suddenly. "Where you goin' to
wait, Pete? At the Ritz or the Commodore? In a month you'll be waitin'
on _me_. It'll be _Mister_ Coast for you then, _mon garcon_, but you'll
still be Pete." He shrugged and offered his hand. "Well, we won't
quarrel but our ways split here."
"I'm sorry, Jim. Good-by."
He saw Coast slouch out into the street and disappear m the crowd moving
toward Broadway. He waited for a while thinking deeply and then with a
definite plan in his mind strolled forth. First he bought a second-hand
suit case in Seventh Avenue, then found a store marked "Gentlemen's
Outfitters" where he purchased ready-made clothing, a hat, shoes,
underwear, linen and cravats, arraying himself with a sense of some
satisfaction and packing in his suitcase what he couldn't wear, went
forth, found a taxi and drove in state to a good hotel.
* * * * *
New York assimilates its immigrants with surprising rapidity. Through
this narrow funnel they pour into the "melting pot," their racial
characteristics already neutralized, their souls already inoculated with
the spirit of individualism. Prepared as he was to accept with a good
grace conditions as he found them, Peter Nichols was astonished at the
ease with which he fitted into the niche that he had chosen. His room
was on the eighteenth floor, to which and from which he was shot in an
enameled lift operated by a Uhlan in a monkey-cap. He found that it
required a rather nice adjustment of his muscles to spring forth at
precisely the proper moment. There was a young lady who presided over
the destinies of the particular shelf that he occupied in this enormous
cupboard, a very pretty young lady, something between a French Duchess
and a lady's maid. Her smile had a homelike quality though and it was
worth risking the perilous catapulting up and down for the mere pleasure
of handing her his room key. Having no valuables of course but his money
which he carried in his pockets there was no danger from unprincipled
persons had she been disposed to connive at dishonesty.
His bedroom was small but neat and his bathroom was neat but small,
tiled in white enamel, containing every device that the heart of a clean
man could desire. He discovered that by dropping a quarter into various
apertures he could secure almost anything he required from tooth paste
to razor blades. There was a telephone beside his bed which rang at
inconvenient moments and a Bible upon the side table proclaimed the
religious fervor of this extraordinary people. A newspaper was sent in
to him every morning whether he rang for it or not, and every time he
did ring, a lesser Uhlan brought a thermos bottle containing iced water.
This perplexed him for a time but he was too much ashamed of his
ignorance to question. You see, he was already acquiring the first
ingredient of the American character--omniscience, for he found that in
New York no one ever admits that he doesn't know everything.
But it was all very wonderful, pulsing with life, eloquent of
achievement. He was in no haste. By living with some care, he found that
the money from his ruby would last for several months. Meanwhile he was
studying his situation and its possibilities. Summing up his own
attainments he felt that he was qualified as a teacher of the piano or
of the voice, as an instructor in languages, or if the worst came, as a
waiter in a fashionable restaurant--perhaps even a head-waiter--which
from the authority he observed in the demeanor of the lord of the hotel
dining room seemed almost all the honor that a person in America might
hope to gain. But, in order that no proper opportunity should slip by,
he scanned the newspapers in the hope of finding something that he could
do.
As the weeks passed he made the discovery that he was being immensely
entertained. He was all English now. It was not in the least difficult
to make acquaintances. Almost everybody spoke to everybody without the
slightest feeling of restraint. He learned the meaning of the latest
American slang but found difficulty in applying it, rejoiced in the
syncopation of the jazz, America's original contribution to the musical
art, and by the end of a month thought himself thoroughly acclimated.
But he still surprised inquiring glances male and female cast in his
direction. There was something about his personality which, disguise it
as he might under American-made garments and American-made manners,
refused to be hidden. It was his charm added to his general good nature
and adaptability which quickly made Peter Nichols some friends of the
better sort. If he had been willing to drift downward he would have cast
in his lot with Jim Coast. Instead, he followed decent inclinations and
found himself at the end of six weeks a part of a group of young
business men who took him home to dine with their wives and gave him the
benefit of their friendly advice. To all of them he told the same story,
that he was an Englishman who had worked in Russia with the Red Cross
and that he had come to the United States to get a job.
It was a likely story and most of them swallowed it. But one clever girl
whom he met out at dinner rather startled him by the accuracy of her
intuitions.
"I have traveled a good deal, Mr. Nichols," she said quizzically, "but
I've never yet met an Englishman like you."
"It is difficult for me to tell whether I am to consider that as
flattery or disapproval," said Peter calmly.
"You talk like an Englishman, but you're entirely too much interested in
everything to be true to type."
"Ah, really----"
"Englishmen are either bored or presumptuous. You're neither. And
there's a tiny accent that I can't explain----"
"Don't try----"
"I must. We Americans believe in our impulses. My brother Dick says
you're a man of mystery. I've solved it," she laughed, "I'm sure you're
a Russian Grand Duke incognito."
Peter laughed and tried bravado.
"You are certainly all in the mustard," he blundered helplessly.
And she looked at him for a moment and then burst into laughter.
These associations were very pleasant, but, contrary to Peter's
expectations, they didn't seem to be leading anywhere. The efforts that
he made to find positions commensurate with his ambitions had ended in
blind alleys. He was too well educated for some of them, not well enough
educated for others.
More than two months had passed. He had moved to a boarding house in a
decent locality, but of the two thousands dollars with which he had
entered New York there now remained to him less than two hundred. He
was beginning to believe that he had played the game and lost and that
within a very few weeks he would be obliged to hide himself from these
excellent new acquaintances and go back to his old job. Then the tide of
his fortune suddenly turned.
Dick Sheldon, the brother of the girl who was "all in the mustard,"
aware of Peter's plight, had stumbled across the useful bit of
information and brought it to Peter at the boarding house.
"Didn't you tell me that you'd once had something to do with forestry in
Russia?" he asked.
Peter nodded. "I was once employed in the reafforestation of a large
estate," he replied.
"Then I've found your job," said Sheldon heartily, clapping Peter on the
back. "A friend of Sheldon, Senior's, Jonathan K. McGuire, has a big
place down in the wilderness of Jersey--thousands of acres and he wants
a man to take charge--sort of forestry expert and general
superintendent, money no object. I reckon you could cop out three
hundred a month as a starter."
"That looks good to me," said Peter, delighted that the argot fell so
aptly from his lips. And then, "You're not spoofing, are you?"
"Devil a spoof. It's straight goods, Nichols. Will you take it?"
Peter had a vision of the greasy dishes he was to escape.
"Will I?" he exclaimed delightedly. "Can I get it?"
"Sure thing. McGuire is a millionaire, made a pot of money somewhere in
the West--dabbles in the market. That's where Dad met him. Crusty old
rascal. Daughter. Living down in Jersey now, alone with a lot of
servants. Queer one. Maybe you'll like him--maybe not."
Peter clasped his friend by the hands.
"Moloch himself would look an angel of mercy to me now."
"Do you think you can make good?"
"Well, rather. Whom shall I see? And when?"
"I can fix it up with Dad, I reckon. You'd better come down to the
office and see him about twelve."
Peter Sheldon, Senior, looked him over and asked him questions and the
interview was quite satisfactory.
"I'll tell you the truth, as far as I know it," said Sheldon, Senior
(which was more than Peter Nichols had done). "Jonathan K. McGuire is a
strange character--keeps his business to himself----. How much he's
worth nobody knows but himself and the Treasury Department. Does a good
deal of buying and selling through this office. A hard man in a deal but
reasonable in other things. I've had his acquaintance for five years,
lunched with him, dined with him--visited this place in Jersey, but I
give you my word, Mr. Nichols, I've never yet got the prick of a pin
beneath that man's skin. You may not like him. Few people do. But
there's no harm in taking a try at this job."
"I shall be delighted," said Nichols.
"I don't know whether you will or not," broke in Sheldon, Senior,
frankly. "Something's happened lately. About three weeks ago Jonathan K.
McGuire came into this office hurriedly, shut the door behind him,
locked it--and sank into a chair, puffing hard, his face the color of
putty. He wouldn't answer any questions and put me off, though I'd have
gone out of my way to help him. But after a while he looked out of the
window, phoned for his car and went again, saying he was going down into
Jersey."
"He was sick, perhaps," ventured Peter.
"It was something worse than that, Mr. Nichols. He looked as though he
had seen a ghost or heard a banshee. Then this comes," continued the
broker, taking up a letter from the desk. "Asks for a forester, a good
strong man. You're strong, Mr. Nichols? Er--and courageous? You're not
addicted to 'nerves'? You see I'm telling you all these things so that
you'll go down to Black Rock with your eyes open. He also asks me to
engage other men as private police or gamekeepers, who will act under
your direction. Queer, isn't it? Rather spooky, I'd say, but if you're
game, we'll close the bargain now. Three hundred a month to start with
and found. Is that satisfactory?"
"Perfectly," said Peter with a bow. "When do I begin?"
"At once if you like. Salary begins now. Fifty in advance for expenses."
"That's fair enough, Mr. Sheldon. If you will give me the directions, I
will go to-day."
"To-morrow will be time enough." Sheldon, Senior, had turned to his desk
and was writing upon a slip of paper. This he handed to Peter with a
check.
"That will show you how to get there," he said as he rose, brusquely.
"Glad to have met you. Good-day."
And Peter felt himself hand-shaken and pushed at the same time, reaching
the outer office, mentally out of breath from the sudden, swift movement
of his fortunes. Sheldon, Senior, had not meant to be abrupt. He was
merely a business man relaxing for a moment to do a service for a
friend. When Peter Nichols awoke to his obligations he sought out
Sheldon, Junior, and thanked him with a sense of real gratitude and
Sheldon, Junior, gave him a warm handclasp and Godspeed.
* * * * *
The Pennsylvania Station caused the new Superintendent of Jonathan K.
McGuire to blink and gasp. He paused, suit case in hand, at the top of
the double flight of stairs to survey the splendid proportions of the
waiting room where the crowds seemed lost in its great spaces. In Europe
such a building would be a cathedral. In America it was a railway
station. And the thought was made more definite by the Gregorian chant
of the train announcer which sounded aloft, its tones seeking concord
among their own echoes.
This was the portal to the new life in which Peter was to work out his
own salvation and the splendor of the immediate prospect uplifted him
with a sense of his personal importance in the new scheme of things of
which this was a part. He hadn't the slightest doubt that he would be
able to succeed in the work for which he had been recommended, for apart
from his music--which had taken so many of his hours--there was nothing
that he knew more about or loved better than the trees. He had provided
himself the afternoon before with two books by American authorities and
other books and monographs were to be forwarded to his new address.
As he descended the stairs and reached the main floor of the station,
his glance caught the gaze of a man staring at him intently. The man was
slender and dark, dressed decently enough in a gray suit and soft hat
and wore a small black mustache. All of these facts Peter took note of
in the one glance, arrested by the strange stare of the other, which
lingered while Peter glanced away and went on. Peter, who had an
excellent memory for faces, was sure that he had never seen the man
before, but after he had taken a few steps, it occurred to him that in
the stranger's eyes he had noted the startled distention of surprise and
recognition. And so he stopped and turned, but as he did so the fellow
dropped his gaze suddenly, and turned and walked away. The incident was
curious and rather interesting. If Peter had had more time he would have
sought out the fellow and asked him why he was staring at him, but
there were only a few moments to spare and he made his way out to the
concourse where he found his gate and descended to his train. Here he
ensconced himself comfortably in the smoking car, and was presently shot
under the Hudson River (as he afterwards discovered) and out into the
sunshine of the flats of New Jersey.
He rolled smoothly along through the manufacturing and agricultural
districts, his keenly critical glances neglecting nothing of the waste
and abundance on all sides. He saw, too, the unlovely evidences of
poverty on the outskirts of the cities, which brought to his mind other
communities in a far country whose physical evidences of prosperity were
no worse, if no better, than these. Then there came a catch in his
throat and a gasp which left him staring but seeing nothing. The feeling
was not nostalgia, for that far country was no home for him now. At last
he found himself muttering to himself in English, "My home--my home is
here."
After a while the mood of depression, recurrent moments of which had
come to him in New York with diminishing frequency, passed into one of
contemplation, of calm, like those which had followed his nights of
passion on the Dnieper, and at last he closed his eyes and dozed.
Visions of courts and camps passed through his mind--of brilliant
uniforms and jeweled decorations; of spacious polished halls,
resplendent with ornate mirrors and crystal pendant chandeliers; of
diamond coronets, of silks and satins and powdered flunkies. And then
other visions of gray figures crouched in the mud; of rain coming out of
the dark and of ominous lights over the profile of low hills; of
shrieks; of shells and cries of terror; of his cousin, a tall, bearded
man on a horse in a ravine waving an imperious arm; of confusion and
moving thousands, the creak of sanitars, the groans of men calling upon
mothers they would never see. And then with a leap backward over the
years, the vision of a small man huddled against the wall of a courtyard
being knouted until red stains appeared on his gray blouse and then
mingled faintly in the mist and the rain until the small man sank to the
full length of his imprisoned arms like one crucified....
Peter Nichols straightened and passed a hand across his damp forehead.
Through the perspective of this modern civilization what had been
passing before his vision seemed very vague, very distant, but he knew
that it was not a dream....
All about him was life, progress, industry, hope--a nation in the
making, proud of her brief history which had been built around an ideal.
If he could bring this same ideal back to Russia! In his heart he
thanked God for America--imperfect though she was, and made a vow that
in the task he had set for himself he should not be found wanting.
Twice he changed trains, the second time at a small junction amid an
ugliness of clay-pits and brickyards and dust and heat. There were
perhaps twenty people on the platform. He walked the length of the
station and as he did so a man in a gray suit disappeared around the
corner of the building. But Peter Nichols did not see him, and in a
moment, seated in his new train in a wooden car which reminded him of
some of the ancient rolling stock of the St. Petersburg and Moscow
Railroad, he was taken haltingly and noisily along the last stage of his
journey.
But he was aware of the familiar odor of the pine balsam in his
nostrils, and as he rolled through dark coverts the scent of the growing
things in the hidden places in the coolth and damp of the sandy loam. He
saw, too, tea-colored streams idling among the sedges and charred
wildernesses of trees appealing mutely with their blackened stumps like
wounded creatures in pain, a bit of war-torn Galicia in the midst of
peace. Miles and miles of dead forest land, forgotten and uncared for.
There was need here for his services.
With a wheeze of steam and a loud crackling of woodwork and creaking of
brakes the train came to a stop and the conductor shouted the name of
the station. Rather stiffly the traveler descended with his bag and
stood upon the small platform looking about him curiously. The baggage
man tossed out a bundle of newspapers and a pouch of mail and the train
moved off. Apparently Peter Nichols was the only passenger with Pickerel
River as a destination.
And as the panting train went around a curve, at last disappearing, it
seemed fairly reasonable to Peter Nichols that no one with the slightest
chance of stopping off anywhere else would wish to get off here. The
station was small, of but one room and a tiny office containing, as he
could see, a telegraph instrument, a broken chair with a leather
cushion, a shelf and a rack containing a few soiled slips of paper, but
the office had no occupant and the door was locked. This perhaps
explained the absence of the automobile which Mr. Sheldon had informed
him would meet him in obedience to his telegram announcing the hour of
his arrival. Neither within the building nor without was there any
person or animate thing in sight, except some small birds fluttering and
quarreling along the telegraph wires.
There was but one road, a sandy one, wearing marks of travel, which
emerged from the scrub oak and pine and definitely concluded at the
railroad track. This, then, was his direction, and after reassuring
himself that there was no other means of egress, he took up his black
suitcase and set forth into the wood, aware of a sense of beckoning
adventure. The road wound in and out, up and down, over what at one time
must have been the floor of the ocean, which could not be far distant.
Had it not been for the weight of his bag Peter would have enjoyed the
experience of this complete isolation, the fragrant silences broken only
by the whisper of the leaves and the scurrying of tiny wild things among
the dead tree branches. But he had no means of knowing how far he would
have to travel or whether, indeed, there had not been some mistake on
Sheldon, Senior's, part or his own. But the directions had been quite
clear and the road must of course lead somewhere--to some village or
settlement at least where he could get a lodging for the night.
And so he trudged on through the woods which already seemed to be
partaking of some of the mystery which surrounded the person of Jonathan
K. McGuire. The whole incident had been unusual and the more interesting
because of the strange character of his employer and the evident fear he
had of some latent evil which threatened him. But Peter Nichols had
accepted his commission with a sense of profound relief at escaping the
other fate that awaited him, with scarcely a thought of the dangers
which his acceptance might entail. He was not easily frightened and had
welcomed the new adventure, dismissing the fears of Jonathan K. McGuire
as imaginary, the emanations of age or an uneasy conscience.
But as he went on, his bag became heavier and the perspiration poured
down his face, so reaching a cross-path that seemed to show signs of
recent travel he put the suitcase down and sat on it while he wiped his
brow. The shadows were growing longer. He was beginning to believe that
there was no such place as Black Rock, no such person as Jonathan K.
McGuire and that Sheldon, Senior, and Sheldon, Junior, were engaged in a
conspiracy against his peace of mind, when above the now familiar
whisperings of the forest he heard a new sound. Faintly it came at first
as though from a great distance, mingling with the murmur of the
sighing wind in the pine trees, a voice singing. It seemed a child's
voice--delicate, clear, true, as care-free as the note of a
bird--unleashing its joy to the heavens.
Peter Nichols started up, listening more intently. The sounds were
coming nearer but he couldn't tell from which direction, for every leaf
seemed to be taking up the lovely melody which he could hear quite
clearly now. It was an air with which he was unfamiliar, but he knew
only that it was elemental in its simplicity and under these
circumstances startlingly welcome. He waited another long moment,
listening, found the direction from which the voice was coming, and
presently noted the swaying of branches and the crackling of dry twigs
in the path near by, from which, in a moment, a strange figure emerged.
At first he thought it was a boy, for it wore a pair of blue denim
overalls and a wide-brimmed straw hat, from beneath which the birdlike
notes were still emitted, but as the figure paused at the sight of him,
the song suddenly ceased--he saw a tumbled mass of tawny hair and a pair
of startled blue eyes staring at him.
"Hello," said the figure, after a moment, recovering its voice.
"Good-afternoon," said Peter Nichols, bowing from the waist in the most
approved Continental manner. You see he, too, was a little startled by
the apparition, which proclaimed itself beneath its strange garments in
unmistakable terms to be both feminine and lovely.