[1]The incident here described is taken almost unchanged from the recent story of Macedonia.
[1]The incident here described is taken almost unchanged from the recent story of Macedonia.
[1]The incident here described is taken almost unchanged from the recent story of Macedonia.
Maryska heard the priest's cries, but she did not see the manner of his death. Had it not happened so swiftly and with such dramatic finality, the men would have made some stir to save him; but, as though guessing their intention, a group of soldiers with rifles across their arms pressed about the window, and made it very clear that they would shoot upon next to no provocation at all. Alussein Pasha had ridden on at this time to the lower road overlooking Scutari, and would return when the good work was done. He would declare that the villagers had brought it all on themselves, and his report would be a model of tearful orthodoxy. Meanwhile, there were very few of the male inhabitants to bring anything upon anybody; the women alone remained, and they were dragged from their houses, some by the hair of their heads, some forced by thrust of swords, a few going without protest, as though they dreamed. Of the latter were the younger girls, mere children of fourteen or fifteen years, who stood in a little group before the priest'shouse, and looked at the soldiers, uncertain—nay, ignorant—of their meaning. Maryska saw these anon; and Louis also. He had been chewing his cigarette very busily since the priest died, and there were few lines upon the paper. As for Faber, he merely stood motionless by the window. The scene held him spellbound with an influence he knew to be evil.
"What have they done with the priest? Why do you not answer me, Mr. Faber?"
She touched him upon the arm, and he looked down upon a child's face from which a woman's eyes stared up at him wonderingly. What answer could he make to her?
"You must just run away and think nothing about it, Maryska," he said quietly. "We can none of us do anything. I wish to God we could."
"Are you not going to speak for the children, then?"
"The children! Oh, they're all right; they won't hurt the children."
"That is not true," she said, for the instinct of the woman guided her surely. "Someone must speak for the children. Will not you, father?"
The appeal touched Paleologue, and he threw away the stump of his cigarette and leaned out of the window. They heard him talking rapidly with the Turks upon the side-walk, and presently shouting something to an officer before the guest-house opposite. Whatever he said moved the soldiers to derision and the children themselves to hope. They knew that he was their friend, and their round eyes watched his every gesture.
"What's the man saying?" Faber asked. Louis hardly seemed to know.
"I guess it's a bad business, boss, a d——d bad business."
"You don't mean to say——"
"I do every word of it."
"We must see this thing through, Paleologue. I'm going out."
"You can't go out. What's the good of doing stunts? They'll shoot, sure."
He tried to hold back the impetuous man, appealing and swearing in a breath. From below, the children watched the scene with a look of bewilderment and despair. The unknown strangers were quarrelling, then! What hope of mercy had they if this went on? This must have been in their minds when Maryska, climbing nimbly as a cat, slipped by her father and leaped down among the Turks. She was kissing and hugging some of the children and telling them in a tongue they understood that all would be well with them; doing this, and defying the snarling troopers before a man could have counted ten. Then the men at the window lost sight of her, the throng closing about her as water filling the vortex of a falling stone.
"Good God, man, aren't you going now?"
Paleologue licked his lips, a little astonished, perhaps, not to find a cigarette between them. He caught up a great planter's hat and clapped it on the side of his head; then, without a word, he clambered over the casement and pushed his way among the soldiers. Of course, Faber was upon his heels, treading so close onhis tracks that they stumbled into the press together and were instantly swallowed up by it. Instructed to deal patiently with the strangers, none of the sentries fired upon them, but all swarmed about them and tried to pull them back. The village itself had by this time become a Golgotha, from whose wretched houses came the groans of butchered men and the screams of women in an agony of fear and shame. Their terrible cries were echoed up and down the streets from many a group which stooped about an infamy; while at the far end near the church, flames spurted from an isolated house, and the wood burned with a detonation heard closely upon the still air. The outposts of the legions of hell had begun their work; they would do it thoroughly enough before their chief returned to call them off.
"Where's my daughter? What have you done with her?" Paleologue's voice rose to a shrill pitch as he pushed and fought his way into the crowd and was thrust forward and still forward by the wiry American at his heels. Faber had never imagined such a scene as this, nor could he have believed it possible. The heat and clamour of the street, the sweat of the fighting men; here and there a girl caught in a man's arms and held firmly as a wild beast holds its prey; smoke of the burning house coming down upon the wind—the crazy organ still rolling out its dirge-like waltzes. All this and the fierce oaths of the maladroitly butchered—the horrid, gashed corpses in the gutters—the rearing, terrified horses of Alussein's lieutenants; and, above it all, the serene sky and the desolate mountains lifting their scarred summits in savage menace. Whatan inferno, what a hell of human creation! And into this the girl Maryska had plunged, headlong as a bold swimmer into a raging sea which has engulfed a child.
He found himself imitating Paleologue by and by, and calling her name aloud. The attempts of the sentries to get the pair of them back to the house were met by thrust upon thrust; a good square push from the shoulder here and a dive into an opening there. Gradually they won their way up the street, but could not find her; and upon that a sense of desperation drove them to some imprudence, and they began to deal in blows. Such madness might have brought a swift penalty but for the fire which the priest's death had kindled. The God of Ranovica, designing that these people should perish to bear witness to their faith, willed also that Ranovica should fall with them, and that the priest should be the instrument. From his body the flames had run to the crazy house; from the house to the church, and thence to the narrow street, which instantly became aglow. Faber found himself pressing forward amid showers of sparks, and still crying "Maryska—Maryska!" as though the child's voice could be heard amid the din. Turks pressed about him shielding their faces with sun-browned arms and cursing the "spawn of dogs" by which the visitation had come upon them. He was driven in and out of courtyards, tossed hither and thither by the human wave, whose crest was the whirling scimitars of the destroyers. In the end he found himself out upon the hillside, flaming Ravonica below him, and the still air alive with the cries of its people. Paleologue had disappeared; there was notrace of Maryska, and he himself had hardly a rag upon his back.
He sat down upon a great boulder, and presently heard a familiar voice. It was that of his valet, Frank.
"Mr. Faber, is that you, sir?"
"I guess it is, Frank."
"Thank God for that, sir! Our baggage is done for, sure and certain. The house is afire from top to bottom, sir."
"Never mind the baggage, Frank. Have you seen Mr. Paleologue?"
"He was down among the soldiers five minutes ago, sir."
"And the young lady?"
Frank could not answer.
"She went away with some of the young women—I think toward the church, sir."
"Was that long ago?"
"About five minutes before they fired it; I'm sure it wasn't more."
"Well, look at the church now, anyway. This is an awful business, Frank."
"I suppose in their way it's what they call war, sir. But it's a terrible business."
"Ah!" said Faber. "I suppose it would be. You don't happen to have a cigar on you, Frank?"
"I've got a few cigarettes, sir."
"Then pass one up. We'll go and look for Mr. Paleologue presently; I guess he's taken the lower road. We should find both of them there."
"I hope we shall do so, sir."
He passed the cigarettes and the matches, and his master lighted one and sat and smoked in silence. It may be that he asked himself what he, John Faber, was doing out there upon this bleak hillside when he might have been on board his yacht in the harbour of Antivari. Such reflections had occurred to him on several occasions when some absurd venture had brought him very near to that haven where millions are the poorest credentials; but they were unduly ironical to-day, and not a little persistent. Why had he come to Ranovica? Because that little wide-eyed woman, who made such a curious appeal to him, had insisted upon his coming. It was very true, and he would not fence with it. He might lose his life for Maryska even yet; and that would be a grotesque finale enough. Meanwhile, a certain doubt about her remained and troubled him with a graver thought. Why had he not discovered her in the village? No man could venture into that inferno now, for the whole place was just a flame upon the hillside; but he had been up and down the street with Paleologue, and they had seen nothing of her. He thought it curious if nothing more. They should have discovered her immediately when the fire broke out.
Alussein Pasha rode up presently and his little staff with him. He had treated Faber with some deference from the beginning, and now that the fury of the sack was over he became almost grotesquely polite, gabbling in appalling German and expressing as well as he could his regret for the state in which he discovered the stranger. In return, Faber asked him of his friend—gesture serving where names failed—andthe matter being understood, the Pasha told off a lieutenant and two men who invited the "infidel" to follow them. Ranovica had burned itself to a cinder by this time, and if it was not possible to pass down the narrow street, at least the precincts of the houses might be searched. Faber trudged after the men and came to the ruined church, now but a shell and a few blackened beams. A young Turkish soldier walked to and fro here; but the gulley of the road before the church was blocked by corpses, and near by them lay the figure of Louis de Paleologue. He had been shot through the head just as he reached the porch, and he lay face downwards, an unlighted cigarette between his lips and his kindly eyes wide open.
Faber knelt and turned the dead man over. He felt his pulse, and even laid his head upon his chest to listen for the beating of his heart. There had been horrors enough in Ranovica this day; but they had to do with a strange and savage people, of whom he knew nothing. He remembered that this man had taken his mother to America when she had no other friend in the world. Had he not come to Europe to reward him for what he had done as few have been rewarded, whatever the service? And this was the end of it—this prone figure, still and fearful—this, and the Turks who looked down upon the scene with Oriental indifference—this, and the sentry who leered behind their backs and made no attempt to hide his satisfaction. Faber caught the fellow grinning, and recognized him for one of the men who had turned on him earlier in the day when Paleologue floored the officer. The rifle in his hand had come from thearsenal at Charleston. Surely destiny spoke loudly enough here.
He borrowed a burned and tattered cloak from one of the dead in the gutter, and covered his friend's face reverently. Where to go, what to do next, he knew not; nor in what manner he should seek Maryska. The truth had gripped him with fingers of iron.
This was war—and of war was he not the disciple?
III
The Turks left the village about three in the after-noon. It was understood that they had other work of the kind, but more to the northward, and removed from the observant eye of their neighbours, the Montenegrins, who would surely avenge this day. Before they left, they were able to restore to Faber the mules which had brought his party to Ranovica. The beasts had been taken up the hillside during the conflagration, and would have been led much further afield but for the Pasha's desire to curry favour with the American. He knew that this was the man who made the rifles with which the infidel dogs must be destroyed; urgent messages from Constantinople had warned him to show deference to so useful an ally, and he obeyed his instructions with a display of manners quite pleasing. It was otherwise when the dead artist and his daughter were mentioned. Constantinople had said nothing about them, and it really seemed to Faber that the flat-faced, good-humoured Alussein could be a genius of understanding or the dullest blockhead at his pleasure.
So away the Turk went, just when the sun was beginning to dip down over the Adriatic and all the wilderness to glow beneath the shimmer of its deepening rays. A hillside, normally grey and cold, shone rose-pink and purple in the waxing splendour of the hour. The burned village became but the blacker for the gift, a charred log lying in a cup of the burnished rocks. Out of it, when every ruin had been twice searched, every heap of ashes turned for possible plunder, out of it went the baggy breeches and the little white horses and the fierce and bristling men, as cool and laconic as though this were but an episode and to-morrow would furnish another. Romancers' tales of troops drunk with lust and slaughter could not be told of them. All that passed, women's fearful struggles to escape their embraces, the shrieks of men whose hearts were being torn out, the gasps of the dying and the livid faces of the dead—all this was already forgotten, and would hardly be remembered when a week had gone. Had not the Prophet commanded them so to do, and was not he a discerning person withal?
Faber had taken a meal with Alussein upon the hillside about midday, and after that he had patrolled the village with Frank at his side, waiting and hoping for the coming of Maryska. To return to Ragusa without her would have been an infamy he could not contemplate; and yet he feared to meet her or to tell her the truth which must be told. When at last he did discover her, some hours had passed, and it was quite dark. The hillside with its savage boulders had given up the most part of the refugees then, and they hadcome down to the village to wander amid the ruins of their poor homes and to fill the street with their wailing. It was at this time also that another band of Albanians came up the valley to their comrades' rescue; alas, so many hours too late, but yet in time to help the desperate refugees and to bring them food and succour. Fires were now lighted by the valley road, and the women and children grouped about them. The most timid crept down from the rocks above; girls dishevelled and weeping, men who had fled with gashed limbs to the harbourage of caves, children whose parents lay dead beneath the ashes—all came at the summons of the shrill goat's horn. Meanwhile, none thought of burying the dead—none except Faber, who would not leave the body of Louis de Paleologue where it was, and returned with two lusty Albanians at his heels to do what could be done in the matter.
It was then that he found Maryska.
One of the Albanians carried a lantern, and the rays of it discovered her, kneeling against the broken railings of the church porch, but with face averted from the dead. She did not appear to have been weeping. Her eyes were big and round; her head bare, her hair dishevelled. What she had suffered at the soldiers' hands might not be imagined; but its memories had been obliterated by this sudden realization of the greater loss. All that humanity had been to her lay still and ghastly in that fearsome gutter. Father, brother, friend—he who had gone hand in hand with her through the wild wilderness of the world, he would lead her no more. The night had dropped a black curtain between her and the eternal hope of youth.Womanhood had revealed itself, its secrets thrust upon her by the bloody hands of monsters; but the drugged soul of the child could find no place in her mind for that. He was dead. Why, then, did she live?
She shrank from the light, but did not cover her eyes. Discerning Faber, she leaped toward him as an animal unchained, and bared her breast with frenzied fingers. "Shoot me, stranger—shoot me through the heart!" she cried. He caught her outstretched hand, and she fell almost lifeless into his arms. Oblivion, the greater mercy, saved her reason in the critical hour. She was in a delirium when they made a rude palanquin and carried her down to Antivari. She awoke therefrom upon the afternoon of the second day after in a cabin upon Faber's yacht; and then, for the first time, they believed that she would live.
A STRANGE VOYAGE
I
TheWanderer, carrying Sir Jules Achon and his party, lay in Ragusa harbour when the fugitives came down from the hills. The two boats were moored almost side by side in the offing, and hardly had Faber set foot aboard when he sent a message to Gabrielle, begging her help in an emergency. Half an hour later she met him at the head of the gangway ladder, and he led her at once into the gorgeous saloon of theSavannah, as his own boat was named.
"Is this the emergency?" she asked laughingly, as she pointed to the wonderful decoration of the cabin. He told her as bluntly that it was not.
"I've got a patient on board," he said. "Will you help me?"
"You know that I will—very gladly. Is he here now?"
"It's not he—it's she. That's why I sent for one of her own sex. God help a foreign woman in this part of the world! This is a mere baby. She calls me an 'old, old man.' So I guess she's interesting."
He betrayed no emotion of any kind. His anxiety concerning the child, his perception of the irony of fate directing his footsteps into such strange paths, thebaser curiosity which had sent him into the hills, were masked successfully by that clear-cut face. Gabrielle imagined that his act was an impulse of charity, and she was pleased that he had made her the instrument of it.
"Where is this precious derelict, and what has happened to her?"
"She's in the pink saloon. Don't speak of it lightly. She's lost her father, and has not a friend in the world. I knew she would find her way to your heart. Shall we go and see her? The doctor's there now, I guess. We'll have to get our orders."
He led the way to the cabin, and they went in. It was a beautiful room, and his servants already had smothered it in flowers. A young Austrian doctor from Ragusa was trying to give the head stewardess his instructions, and failing as dismally. He turned with relief to Gabrielle, whose German was pretty if not eloquent. The cabin was to be kept as quiet as possible; the patient must be watched zealously in case of sudden collapse. He understood that this was a case of shock, and could know nothing until consciousness returned. His suggestion that a nurse should be fetched from one of the military hospitals was refused almost ungraciously by the English girl he so plainly admired. Gabrielle would play the part herself. She had already removed her furs, and was busy about the cabin where artistic fingers could do so much. It was quite needless for the doctor to repeat his instructions as he was prepared to; she dismissed both him and her host with a wave of the hand which said "begone" as no tongue could have uttered the word.
It was nine o'clock at night before Faber saw her again. His dinghy had gone across to theWandererwith a message explaining the circumstances, but he himself remained on deck, waiting for news that might be a new echo of this pitiful tragedy. But a few days ago he had entered that beautiful place and discovered the little nomad whose life now hung upon a thread. He had wished to bring happiness to her father and herself, but had failed beyond repair. Money did not help him in the wilds of Albania, nor could money buy one jot or tittle of content for the child of the man he had discovered in the cavern. Had not he himself paid for the journey to Ranovica—a whim which cost the life of a man to whom he owed his very existence? And now the child was his legacy. He stood at the taffrail wondering what unnameable secret she had carried down from the hills.
Perhaps he remembered the multitude of women who had so suffered since God Almighty created a battlefield; but understanding had never come in that way hitherto. Little Maryska—he would have given a good deal of his lavish fortune to have saved her life that night. His heart bounded when Gabrielle came out of the cabin at last to bring him better news of the invalid.
"She is conscious and would see you. I think you had better go down."
"Do you approve my going?"
She looked at him in a curious way.
"She has asked for you, Mr. Faber."
"Why, then, I'll go right now. Have you eaten that dinner yet?"
"As much as I want. I must go now and get my things from the yacht."
"But you'll come back, sure?"
"I think I must—there's no one else."
"That's right down fine of you. I knew you'd do it when you understood."
She looked him full in the face and smiled.
"There are some things no woman can misunderstand. I shall not be very long. Please let her talk as little as possible."
"Ah!" he said, fallen to a grave manner. "I fear this is a bad business altogether."
She did not ask him why, nor had she any clue to his meaning. The whole affair was a mystery which could have but a human solution. She made light of the romantic story concerning Louis de Paleologue, and believed, with a feminine instinct for the obvious, that vulgar flirtation had been the impulse of Faber's journey. All this hurt her pride, but could not be the just subject of complaint. Tenaciously she clung to the idea that she might yet use this master intellect for the schemes which had lifted her father and herself from the slough of monotony to a little place in the story of the world. This very accident, this revelation of a man's weakness, might be a precious opportunity, however deeply her vanity suffered. If she succeeded, her triumph must be the greater; if she failed——But failure was a word which Gabrielle Silvester refused to add to her vocabulary.
So she went over to theWandererto tell her father of the sick girl, and to add, almost in a whisper, "I believe there's a good deal in it." To which Silvesterreplied that he was sorry to hear it, "for," said he, "there is no man alive who could do so great a work if he would come over to us."
II
Faber went straight down to Maryska's cabin and found her crouching upon a pillow. The long, jet black hair had been taken down, and lay in a tangled skein about her; she was very pale, and her eyes glowed as with a fever. Evidently she had been listening for his footsteps, for she turned instantly when he came in and fixed her eyes upon him.
"It's Mr. Faber," she said, but without satisfaction.
He took a chair and drew it to her bedside.
"Well, Maryska, are you feeling better, my dear?"
She paid not the slightest heed to the question. Sitting up in bed, she closed her gown about her chest and breathed a little heavily. Then she said, without warning:
"Where is my father?"
He bent his head, fearing to meet her gaze.
"My dear little girl, you'll remember all about that presently."
There was a long pause upon this.
"Yes," she said at last, and still apparently unmoved; "I do remember. Why did you let him die, Mr. Faber?"
"I, Maryska? I had nothing to do with it. If he had taken my advice he would not have left the Pasha's side. I was quite a long way off when it happened."
She insisted, looking at him with pathetic eyes.
"If you had not come to Ragusa, he would not have left me. I am sorry you came. Shall I be kept here long?"
"Do you mean in this ship?"
"Yes, of course. Is it your ship, then?"
"It's my ship—at least, I've hired it. Don't you like it, my dear?"
She looked round about her critically.
"You are not very rich," she said at last. "We came from America in a much larger ship than this. He was with me then."
Her eyes filled suddenly with tears, and she saw no longer either the cabin or the man. Faber covered the outstretched hand, and stroked it softly.
"My poor little girl! You must make your home with me now."
She shook her head.
"You are not rich; it would be different with you," she said; and then, in just the childish tone she had used at the Cantina, she exclaimed, "I don't believe you have much money."
He laughed, and reassured her.
"I've a great deal more than you or I will ever want, Maryska."
It was evident that the wolf-child was suspicious. The gipsy instincts were awake.
"Will you give me some money if I want any?"
"I'll give you as much as you ask me for."
"Five crowns, say—would you give me five crowns?"
"Of course I would."
"Here and now?" and she held out her hand.
He was nonplussed for the moment, but he took a bank-note from his pocket, and thrust it into her tiny fist.
"There, I guess there are fifty crowns and more there, Maryska. You shall have another when you want it."
The hand closed upon the bank-note like a vise. None the less, her thoughts were not wholly of the money.
"If my father had been here he would have been very glad of this. He will never know now."
"I don't believe that. He'll know that you've become my little daughter, Maryska. He'll understand that all right. My home's yours now. I want you to understand that right here."
She shook her head, the long hair smoothed back from her forehead.
"He will never know. I cannot speak to him. I have tried so hard and he does not hear me."
"Believe no such thing, my dear. He hears every word you say. He knows that you will be happy with me."
She looked up inquiringly.
"With you, Mr. Faber? Why should I stay with you?"
"Because I mean to make a home for you."
"Will you make it upon this ship?"
"Why, you couldn't live always upon a ship."
She became practical.
"I would sooner live in Ragusa; but not in the Cantina, because he would not be there with us. Itis very cheap, and if you had the money we could live very well upon a crown a day and the wine. I have had no wine since I came away; the lady would not give me any. If you have any money left and would send for some wine——" She looked up beseechingly, with a look which reminded him of the little wild wolf who had run to the wine-shop the night he discovered her father. He hardly knew how to satisfy her.
"I'll send down anything the doctor orders for you. If he says wine——"
"Oh!" she cried, flown into a passion in an instant. "I could kill you—I could kill you for that!" And without another word she turned her face to the wall and still clutching her money tenaciously, she made it plain that she had done with him.
"All right, Maryska," he said, rising, "you shall have the wine all right. I don't care that for the doctors; I'll see to it myself."
She did not answer him, and lay so still that she might have been dead.
III
Gabrielle returned immediately after the interview was terminated, and with her Harry Lassett, who by no means liked the circumstances of her visit, and had come to verify them. She went at once to Maryska's cabin, but Lassett remained on deck to sample the green cigars, and incidentally to cross-question their owner. He talked upon a number of subjects with the assurance of twenty-three years and the experience of ten.
"I've heard a lot of things about you from Gabrielle. Of course, you know I'm engaged to her."
Faber finished the operation of striking a match and then lighted his cigar.
"Why, is that so? My congratulations. When is it to be?"
"Oh, I dunno; marriage is a considerable proposition. Besides, I'm going out to Australia next winter—cricket, you know."
"Ah! you play ball, then? Is there much to it?"
Harry grinned.
"Nothing. I'm an amateur, you know—that is, if you know anything about the game at all. We can't take any money for our services, so we have to charge expenses. And jolly well we're worth it—some of us," he added with conviction.
Faber nodded, as though he understood perfectly.
"I guess you deliver the goods. There's something of that sort in my country, only we don't call 'em amateurs. Anyway, the name doesn't hurt. You'll be married when you come back, I suppose?"
"Ah! there youcherchez la femme. Gabrielle isn't struck with marriage—not very much. She's full of this tomfool business about peace on earth and goodwill toward Wilhelm. It makes me sick to listen to it. The yacht loaded up with cranks, and every one of them trying to get something out of Sir Jules. It's almost as good a game as Throgmorton Street, if you can find the mugs, chiefly those with handles. I tell you, I'm just fed up with it."
"You don't get thin on it, sure. How long does Sir Jules propose to stop here? Has he said that?"
"He'll stop on the off chance of another interview with the Emperor on his return from Corfu."
"The first one wasn't satisfactory, then?"
"Oh, lots of pats on the back and that sort of thing—plenty of butter, but not much bread. By the way, do you think there's anything in the business, or is it just fancy?"
"I think there's a great deal. Sir Jules Achon is about the deepest thinker in this line I've yet struck. But he wants a man with him—he wants a hustler. Europe listens when you beat the drum, but it's got to be a mighty big drum nowadays. He's merely playing with fiddle-sticks."
"That's because his drummer is on the sick list. I hear he's a regular roarer—Rupert Trevelle, who hustled Balfour into the Blue Ensign Club. He was to have been here, but he's down with neuritis or something. They say that's why we're all drifting about the Adriatic doing nothing but patting each other's back. It will be different when Trevelle gets going."
"Then set him going right quick. Does Miss Silvester take to it kindly? Is she dead earnest?"
"That's just what I want to know. I'll tell you what, though—she won't be when she's married to me. No peace at any price in my house, I'm d——d if there is."
"Don't believe in it, eh?"
"Does any good Britisher really believe in it? Wars made us what we are. Would Nelson have gone to a law court? And what price would Drake receive in a county court action for singeing the Spanish King's beard? Itell you it's all d——d nonsense, and some of 'em must know it to be so. When I am married to Gabrielle——But here she comes, my boy, so mum's the word. There's time enough for arguments—eh, what?"
Faber smiled and stood up to get another chair. Gabrielle was very serious, and looked gracious in her perplexity. She had a strange tale to tell of her patient, and recited it in a kind of astonished despair which amused her host very much.
"Do you know," she exclaimed, "the child drinks wine like an alderman. Whatever am I to do?"
"What?" cried Harry. "You're rotting, Gabrielle, you're not serious."
"It's true, every word of it. She says that she is doing it by your orders, Mr. Faber. Is it really so?"
"How much has she taken? I sent a bottle down. It's only the light stuff they drink hereabouts. You can hardly call it wine."
"She has drunk the whole bottle. I was never more astonished in my life."
"We shall have to humour her a bit. Of course, it must be stopped. And that reminds me—I want a home for her in England. Will you and your father give her one?"
"She'll do for the 'horrid' example at your temperance meetings, Gabrielle. Better take her."
"I think," said Gabrielle, "you had better see my father. You know that he is undecided about this call to Yonkers."
"He won't be undecided about it when I've had my say. Is the patient all right now? Do you think well of her?"
"I think she is terribly distressed, and is hiding it from all of us."
"A brave little girl! I guessed as much. We must get her away from this place as soon as possible. When does Sir Jules propose to sail?"
"Not until the Emperor leaves Corfu. He said so at lunch."
"He'll weigh before then; the Emperor doesn't mean to see him a second time. Anyway, you won't leave her, Miss Silvester, I go pat on that."
She averted her eyes from both of them, and looked away to the other yacht.
"I don't think I ought to leave her. The better way will be for you to see my father. She's sleeping now. We might go over to theWandererat once, if you liked——"
"And make it an excuse for a jolly little supper on deck," said Harry voraciously. He had done little but eat and sleep since they left London.
IV
Gordon Silvester was as astonished as Gabrielle by the proposition which Faber made to him, but he listened sympathetically none the less.
"This would mean a definite refusal to Yonkers," he said, and Faber agreed that it was so.
"I'll tell you what, Mr. Silvester. This affair has cut pretty deep down into some of my old-fashioned notions, and is costing me more than I care to tell any man. I came across to Europe to pay a debtI owed to one who was my mother's friend. I meant to reward him pretty liberally. And what have I succeeded in doing after all? You know the story. Paleologue lies dead up at Ranovica—the child's on my yacht to judge me for what I've done. Henceforth, she is going to stand to me as my own daughter. I shall spare no expense to educate and train her. She'll have the best that money can buy; all that gives a woman a chance in the world. If you will, you and your daughter shall be my agents in this. Live where you please, take the best house the agents can find for you, spend all the money you can spend on making her what I would wish her to be. You say the pastorate has tired you out, and that you would like to devote yourself to literature. Here's the chance of your life time! Don't tell me that you will let it go begging."
Silvester knocked out the ashes of his pipe with some deliberation. He was very much excited by the offer, but at some pains to conceal his surprise at it. Many schemes ran through his head—alas! none of them had to do with Maryska de Paleologue.
"Of course," he said, "I could devote myself entirely then to the I.A.L. It would be a great opportunity. I can imagine no finer."
"There is one finer, Mr. Silvester."
"Of what are you thinking?"
"Of a woman's soul—just the heart and the soul of a little waif from the hills. She's a finer opportunity, for she's flesh and blood. Your geese are all swans, Mr. Silvester. You'll know as much when they fly."
"I fear you are as hostile to us as ever. Yet itseems to me—I say it with all reserve—that these days should have done something for us."
Faber thrust his hand deep into his pocket, and bit into his cigar.
"They've taught me nothing, except to say 'kismet.' Who knows truly how a man's destiny works? I shall make Maryska de Paleologue one of the richest women in Europe—well, there I come in. Money's stronger than most things, and it's going to be stronger than a man's death on this occasion. Wait until the story is written, then we'll draw the moral."
"Do you wish me to go to England at once?"
"To-morrow, in my yacht, if you can. I go to Berlin to sign up a contract for rifles, but I expect to be in London in a fortnight's time. You should have your house then. There'll be no difficulty when you show them the money. I leave all that to you and to Miss Gabrielle. She's got to be the good angel in this affair. I'm counting on her right through."
"You may well do that. She is a wonderful organizer; no talk, no fuss. I am sure they would have liked her in America if we had gone to Yonkers. As it is, I really don't know what to say to those people."
"Oh, tell them to go to hell!" said Faber, while he struck a match sharply and relighted his cigar.
V
TheSavannahweighed at dawn, and all that day they steamed by the glorious isles of the matchless Adriatic. Their destination was Venice, whence Faber would go via Munich to Berlin. The others were totravel direct by the Simplon to London—all but Harry Lassett, who meant to put in a few days at Montana before he returned.
They carried a young doctor from Ragusa, but he soon discovered that he had little to do save to take a fee, a performance which he accomplished with truly professional grace. Maryska had a heart of iron, it appeared, and a constitution to match it. Whatever the unnameable night had taught her of life or of men, she held the damnable secret with the tenacity of a race born to such acts and schooled in the creeds of ferocity. Very silent, suspicious of all, agitated and given to fits of trembling when alone, those with her could not read that riddle of a child's dreams aright. To Gabrielle she remained an enigma, seemingly wanting in gratitude and anxious to escape every occasion for it. Gordon Silvester she treated as though he did not exist; Harry Lassett was a problem in manhood to awake distrust and find her eyes furtive. John Faber she trusted wholly.
They had allowed her to come on deck during the heat of the day, and she lay there in a hammock swung between hatches. An untamed restlessness found her starting at every sound. She would sit up and watch the passers-by as though afraid of them; or stare at the crew with deeply black eyes, as though seeking a friend among them. Her requests that Faber should be sent to her were unceasing. In his turn, he liked to hear her talk. He would watch those eloquent eyes, and forget that she had called him "an old, old man" in the early days of their acquaintance.
"Will you come and sit beside me, Mr. Faber, justa little while? I do not want the others to come. I will not have them near me."
"But, Maryska, my dear, they just want to be kind to you, that's all. Don't you like Miss Gabrielle, now?"
She thought about it. Then she said: "Is she your wife, Mr. Faber?"
"My!—what an idea! I haven't got a wife. She's engaged to the young man over there."
"Not the one with the wolf's whiskers and the teeth."
"Of course not; he's her father. The other one who's playing with the quoits."
She watched Harry Lassett a little while; her face became grave.
"Heused to play that when last he came from America. He played with me, and then I won money for him from the others. We can't do that here; is that right, Mr. Faber?"
He laughed and took her hand.
"Let me tell you about this money, Maryska. Do you know I'm very rich, my dear? They call me one of the richest men in the world. You mustn't think about money any more. I've got more than you and I will ever spend if we live to be as old as Methuselah. So just change the subject, little lady, and find another."
She made nothing of it, the years of the human chase pursued her. Was she not alone now?Hecould never help her again, and he had been so great a part of her life.
"What is the good of telling me this? It is notmy money, Mr. Faber. I must go and get some for myself when the ship stops. You had no right to take me away from Ragusa—my home was there. Why have you done it?"
He tried to tell her, but it was very difficult. In some moods she was little better than a waif of the streets, who had learned to beg like a mendicant at a church door; in others her birthright gave her a wonderful dignity before which the plebeian in John Faber was dumb.
"I want you to have a new home, Maryska, one that you'll be glad to call your own. That's why I'm taking you to England. Miss Gabrielle there is going to live with you and so's her father. But it will be your own house and everything that's in it yours. You'll like it, sure, when you see it, my dear. I don't think you'll want to go back to Ragusa again."
She listened pensively.
"Will that boy be there?"
"The one who's playing games?"
"Yes, the boy who laughs."
"Oh, I dare say he'll come sometimes. Do you like him, then?"
"I don't know; he is very young, is he not?"
"I haven't asked his age, but I dare say he'll tell you."
"I should not ask him. Men do not like to tell their age. He never would. Why are you paying for this house you speak of? You have no right to pay for anything for me. You know that very well."
The question gave him his opportunity, and he told her as much of the story as she could comprehend.Her father had been the best friend he had ever known. He had taken his mother to America at the crisis of her fortunes. It was an obligation he could never forget. He had meant to do so much in return, but fate was against them both. They must act together henceforth and make the best of their lives they could. She must help him to honour his mother's name. In her turn Maryska replied but vaguely. He had thought that she was not listening, but when he had finished, and following a little interval of silence, she threw herself back upon her cushions and cried wildly, "Jesus Christ! I never had a mother to honour." And that surely was as lamentable a confession as any he had heard from her lips.
VI
They were off Venice upon the following night, and so favoured by fortune that the waxing moon gave them a vista of the hundred isles, beautiful beyond compare.
A still sea hardly stirred a ripple upon the sandy shores of the Lido. Venice herself stood up in a haze of soft light, her spires and domes rising above the vast lagoon of untroubled waters, dim, mysterious, entrancing. Seen from afar, she might have been a great house of dreams; her windows so many stars above a silent lake; her palaces but the dark clouds of a vision. As phantoms about them, ships drifted upon a reluctant tide; sails took shape and glided away, spectres of an instant, into the deeper shadows.There were musical voices crying out of the darkness; notes of song most pleasing; the dwelling reverberations of ancient bells to tell of hours which should have been unnumbered. As they drew nearer still and the Dogana took shape with the vast dome of the Maria della Salute beyond it, then it was as though the centuries spoke with one voice, and all the lustre and the achievement of a thousand years were revealed in a splendid instant. So is it ever for those who approach Venice from the sea and obliterate the black modernity which wrestles with her story. Such is the vision of her which Turner beheld.
Faber watched the spectacle from the boat deck, and was far from displeased to find Gabrielle at his side. There had been few opportunities for confidential talk since they sailed from Ragusa, and she herself had said no word to lead him to believe that the course of her life was about to be changed. Very stately in mien this night, her height accentuated by the place where she stood, her hair a little wild beneath her wrap, eyes very bright and searching, her manner restful, he wondered whence came the "aristocrat" in her lineage, and how a mere manse had sent forth such a missioner. Let the assembly be what it might, Gabrielle Silvester would take a proud place. Intellectually she was far above him in education and artistic perception, but he suffered a sense of inferiority with patience, and admired her the more because she could awaken it. Bertie Morris had said that she was "cold and Saxon." Faber doubted the truth of that.
They discussed many things in an ordinary way.She spoke of the story of Venice and found him skilfully parrying his own ignorance. He knew little of the history of the place—had heard of St. Mark's and of the "Three." The lion's mouth struck him as a fine idea. There ought to be one in every city for cranks and faddists, he said, and a special box for politicians and newspaper men. When she asked him if the vision of the city suggested nothing more, he thrust his hands into his pockets and said that it reminded him of New York Bay.
"Which is to say that all this talk of fine buildings is so much flute blowing. I guess our people wouldn't give New York second best if they spoke the whole truth. You'll never admit as much yourself just because you're full of Eastern prejudices. That's to be expected. A thing which has stood a thousand years has got the moss of the world's approval pretty thick upon it. I take off my hat to Venice, but I'm thinking of New York all the time."
"Of the temples of a mighty industry? Isn't that in the advertisement line? I don't think you can be quite serious, though. It must mean more to you than that."
"Why should it mean more to me. I guess it's brick and marble anyway, and not so very much better because it's old. What we are seeing to-night comes out of heaven—light and atmosphere and the sea for a setting. I could show you a night in New York Bay which is up to anything hereabouts. Why should I spread myself when conviction isn't there? Yonder's a beautiful city—is it worse because there are others?"
Convention bade her smile, but she would yet try to teach him.
"You have no true inspiration," she said; "there will never be another great building in the world until we find the key to the old. If a man's faith could move mountains, he might build such a city as that. But the faith must be there, I am sure of that."
"Meanwhile the world gets along very well on stucco fronts. No one believes very much in anything but money. You yourself are but half convinced, and you want to make a convert of me. Now, isn't that the truth, Miss Gabrielle?"
She was very angry with him.
"You rich men have no ideals. You discredit the ideals of others. If I had your money, I would build such a temple to peace as would compel the world to come in. Oh! think what one might do, the name one might leave, the homes one might save. It is money that hides all this from you, money that hides even the purpose of life itself. You grub in the valleys when imagination should lead you to the hill-top. Your eyes look downwards—how shall anyone teach you to see?"
He smoked on patiently. Presently, he said:
"There's something in the Bible about the blind leading the blind. I'll tell you what. You are trying to convince yourself about this peace nonsense, and in the end you may succeed. When you do, I'll build your temple for you; it's a promise between us, and shall be kept. The heretic building the church for the faithful; I like the idea of that, don't you?"
"You will never build it," she said. "I have cometo know that now. You have not the imagination to build; nothing teaches you in spirit."
And then she exclaimed with very real conviction:
"You are a man without pity for humanity—all your story is told in that."
He accepted the savage assault with a smile that was unchanging. Candour in women pleased him; as his wife, this woman would carry him far upon an unfamiliar road his ambition had often sought. In the vulgar phrase, she would bring culture.
"I may be without pity for humanity," he said, "but humanity's had a good many dollars out of my pocket. Do you know how much humanity I employ at Charleston, I wonder? Well, all told, I dare say there are some nine thousand hands, all eating and drinking at the expense of the man whom nothing touches in spirit. When I'm dead, maybe I'll write as good an epitaph as your friends who blow other people's trumpets and give their money for the archangels who don't exist. Anyway, I'll let the record stand, and as to this temple of yours, I'll build it all right, and you shall have it as a wedding present. Can I say fairer than that?"
She looked up quickly, her face flushed.
"Why do you speak of a wedding present?"
"Because I must make haste to do what I ought to have done long ago, and congratulate you—of course, I did not know."
She laughed rather hardly. Very wonderful castles were falling all about her, and a woman's chagrin did not help her.
"We were both very ignorant," she said helplessly.
He watched her closely. "A very old friend, Mr. Lassett, isn't he?"
"I have known him all my life."
"Ah, that is the sure way of knowing him better. Did I hear he was a cricketer? I thought he said something of the kind."
"He is one of the greatest cricketers England has had. Anything else?"
"Why, no; well, I congratulate you. You'll be married, I suppose, before we meet again."
She was surprised at this.
"Are you not coming to see Maryska?"
"When she asks for me, yes; but I know the sex. She'll have forgotten my name in a month's time; it is the privilege of women."
"And in that case——"
"Oh," he said, "I shall be in America building my temple. It's steel mostly, and butters a good deal of humanity's bread."
She was very much perplexed.
"Maryska will never like that. I am sure she will be very unhappy without you."
"I don't agree," he said, and bade her listen.
The sound of young voices came up to them from the cabin. Harry Lassett was talking to Maryska, and when she answered him, there was a little ripple of girlish laughter, which seemed to say that she had found a friend.
"I don't agree," Faber repeated, and then with some sternness, he added: "Mr. Lassett is teaching her cricket, I suppose. Well, that's a game I'd rather she didn't learn!"
GOODWILL TOWARD MEN
I
Faber arrived in Berlin three days after the yacht had put into Venice. The cordiality of his reception in the German capital surprised him. Known both as the inventor and the manufacturer of the famous "Faber" magazine rifle, the greatest instrument of war the twentieth century had yet seen, he found himself a celebrity most welcome to the Germans. Rarely had there been so much "hoching" for a comparatively private individual. Remarkable personages in remarkable uniforms overwhelmed him by their hospitality; he was made familiar with superb "vons" in accoutrement more superb. The gay city—by far the gayest in Europe at the present time—delighted him by its capacity for enjoyment and its freedom from social cant. The women flirted with him outrageously. He had never been made so much of since fortune first smiled upon him.
Bertie Morris came from Paris on the fourth day, and brought him all the news in exchange for his own. Bertie was not surprised that Faber's first question should be about little Claudine d'Arny, and what had happened to her since the tragedy of her father'sdeath. He had come to Berlin prepared to give a good account of his stewardship in that affair, and he was very proud of what he had done. They were at dinner when the narration took place, and the restaurant of the Metropole Hotel glowed with light and colour, and the glitter of fine uniforms. There were officers everywhere; women whose gowns neither Paris nor Vienna might shame. They moved in an atmosphere of soft tints; the warmth of crimson carpets and the spotless white of polished walls setting off their "creations" to perfection. The air was heavy with the scent of crimson roses, which were on every table, despite the season.
Faber had a table in the corner of the room, and he allowedhors-d'œuvreand soup to be served before he interrupted the journalist in his occupation of criticising the company with that running and often ironical commentary in which writing people delight. When the prettiest women had been "sized-up," famous people reduced to pulp, and the European situation dismissed in twenty words, Bertie was ready to speak of Claudine. He was too good an actor to bring her on the scene before.
"She arrived at Cannes yesterday," he said at last. "I chose the Riviera Palace because it's the kind of hotel where she'll meet the most people, and forget the quickest. Of course, Issy-Ferrault is going. It was difficult enough to do your business, but I did it bluntly in a business way. 'Marry Claudine d'Arny,' I said, 'and she'll have a guaranteed income of one hundred and twenty-five thousand francs a year.' His own douceur was to be another hundred and twenty-fivethousand paid on the day the contract was signed. I put it to him as plainly as if I had a picture to sell. In the end, he bought her with no more scruple than if she had been a horse."
"Blustering first; I suppose, and talking of his ancestry."
"I don't think—there was about an hour and a half of it. Issy-Ferrault came out of the history box like pepper out of a pot. You'd have thought they made France and that Charlemagne was a bagman. When he was through with his talking, I just put the cinch on him with the remark that he wasn't writing history books but contracts. He pumped me like a tax-gatherer to learn the why and wherefore of it all; but the most I could tell him was that an old friend of Claudine's was determined to see her through and that good hard dollars expressed the measure of his determination. There I left it, and that's what he signed upon. He'll go to Cannes and marry her directly public opinion will let him do it. They are to live in London, I understand. He's a good sportsman and is out after the English shooting and fishing, so I told him to get a house in the shires, and he promised to do so. Claudine's money will tie him up all right—and as for that, I should think a girl with those eyes could hold most men. You may take it, Faber, that the matter is settled—as, of course, it was bound to be—after your generosity."
Faber brushed the suggestion aside as one which hardly concerned him. He was pleased by the news and his pride stirred at the suggestion of power, the reality of which he began to understand. Who buta man of vast fortune could have repaired such a tragedy as that? He looked Destiny full in the face and laughed at its omens.
"I've bought most things," he said, "but this is my first deal in husbands. Well, I'm glad the little girl is on the road again. Isn't this Issy-Ferrault rather a hustler in his way? I heard him well spoken of when I was in Paris; they say he's an aeroplane on the road or in the air. Do you know of it?"
"Oh, there's some talk. He was with Blériot a month or two back. The French army does not sleep much nowadays—a pretty wide-awake lot without any whiskers on their ideas. Issy-Ferrault is one of the aviation detachment. I suppose he'll be flying on his own account now if he can keep out of the arms of that black-eyed little girl. But he won't, if I'm any judge of women. She'll stick like the best glue; she's just the sort."
"Then you haven't altered your opinion of her since we left Paris?"
"Guess not; nor of your flaxen-haired Venus either. You don't tell me, by the way, what's become of her."
"She's gone to London to get married."
Bertie opened his eyes very wide.
"To get married! Who's the man?"
"He's a boy—knocks balls about and considers himself famous. Just one of these British boys, nice voice and manners, and legs like the Moses in the pictures. I don't think you would have named him for her choice in twenty guesses, but there it is. They've been billing and cooing on the Adriatic fora week, and now they've gone to do it in London. They're a difficult proposition, Bertie."
Bertie, watching him shrewdly, guessed the same.
"Is she in love with him—real?"
"Ask me something else. She's a woman, and being a woman, many sided. One side likes being kissed on the lips by twenty-two, who must be big-limbed and masculine. The other sides are turned toward various objects—ambition, money, and a woman's common vanities. She's at an age when they turn like a wind vane, and as often. If he catches her in a calm, he'll marry her."
"But if he doesn't—well, that's in the air. You were speaking of Rupert Trevelle a while back. He's over there in the corner yonder. Shall I introduce him?"
Faber looked up and saw a man of about his own age, faultlessly dressed, and accompanied by two pretty women in the smartest gowns. Trevelle, by his looks, should either have been a major of a smart cavalry regiment, or in "the diplomatic." He had jet black hair and a fierce moustache, large manners and a habit of authority. His party, like their own, had just finished dinner, and presently they all found themselves in the lounge where mutual introductions were made.
"My friend, Mr. John Faber, of Charleston, the Baroness von Hartmann, Lady Florentine. This is Mr. Rupert Trevelle, of whom Sir Jules Achon has spoken. So now we all know each other and may get down to business."
Bertie placed chairs for the party, and with oneof his characteristic "Shall we's," he ordered coffee and liqueurs. Faber found himself between Trevelle and the baroness—a woman with a milk-white skin she was at no pains to conceal, and a method of crushing her handkerchief in a fat hand which was quite deadly with young men. She spoke little English, but that was sufficient to convey to the somewhat reserved American an intimation of possible weakness under pleasant conditions and of her own indifference to the absurdities of some modern conventions. Trevelle, on the other hand, had great news, and he bestowed it as gracious manna upon a field of fertile flirtation.
"They are talking of you at the Embassy to-night," he said.
Faber merely retorted, "Why, is that so?" and edged a little farther from the baroness.
"Indeed, it was very much so. You know that you are to have the White Cross of Prussia?"
"That's fine news. Has Sir Jules got anything?"
"Nothing whatever. They don't give white crosses for ideas, more's the pity. Jules Achon is a great man—the world will find it out some day."
"The sooner the better for its credit. What you have to do, Mr. Trevelle, is to educate the people; but I'm telling you nothing new. You know that as well as I do."
"Most certainly I do; I have told Sir Jules so some ten thousand times. He has a great idea, but he must have public opinion behind it. The people make war to-day, not the princes."
"But princes have a say in it, sure."
"They do when the people are willing that they should. At present the popular mind is pretty well where it was fifty years ago. Look at the reputation you bear in Berlin. Why? Because you have made an instrument which allows the German to kill his enemies as he has never been killing them before."
"You are saying, vat?" asked the baroness, impatient of neglect. "You are telling Mister Faber to kill ze enemies?"
"Of his own sex, madame," retorted Trevelle immediately.
"Then he is not like ze Spanish king, who do not kill his enemy because he have killed him already. I should be afraid of this friend of yours; he have nothing but killing in his mind—he live to kill, is it not so?"
"Oh!" said Trevelle, "you must ask the ladies about that."
The baroness shook her head.
"We was all to go to the Alcazar to see the Russian dancers. Why do we stay? I am all hot. I would get far from here—all hot, and yet they say dat in England is joost one good big cold, so cold dat ze nose is freeze off the face. Shall we go to dance, Mr. Trevelle?"
Trevelle said, "Certainly." He had heard of the terrible winter they were having in England, and was glad not to be in London.
"The Thames will be frozen right over," he told them, "the first time since the beginning of the nineteenth century. I suppose there is something in this story of the weakening of the Gulf Stream after twoyears of drought over yonder. Anyway, it's extraordinary. I wonder what would happen if the Channel froze——?"
"Ah!" said Faber, "a good many people would wonder then, and some of them would be in Berlin. I don't think Sir Jules's stock would stand very high if that happened, Mr. Trevelle."
"But you think it quite impossible?"
"Which is to say that I dictate to Nature. Well, I don't think I should do that at my time of life."
They all laughed, and went off to the Alcazar, where a Russian woman danced divinely, and was followed by a red-nosed man, who broke plates to the great delight of an immense audience. Faber was not displeased to find himself with these two pretty women in a box, where all the world could see him; and it occurred to him before he had been there very long that the house had recognised him, and that he was being pointed out to other pretty women in the seats below. Certainly, this visit to Berlin was becoming a famous thing in its way. It compelled him to understand the meaning of that fame he had won for himself and the homage paid both to him and to his house. A glamour of life, unknown hitherto, but very dazzling, could influence even so balanced a judgment and so cynical a student of humanity. Hardly one of the women, rustling in silks and velvets, bedizened in jewels—hardly one of them to whom he might not have thrown the handkerchief, if he would. The knowledge flattered his pride, and set him thinking of Gabrielle Silvester. Well dressed and wonderful as these women were, Gabrielle would have held her ownamong them all. He thought of her as destined to rule amid a glitter of jewels and an incense of roses. There was no house in all Europe she could not grace, he said.