“If you have finished luncheon,” he said, “come with me into the gardens across the plaza. We’ll leave word of our whereabouts with the hotel people, so that Mr. Sinclair will not think I have abducted you.”
She paled slightly, and seemed to hesitate, but only for an instant. “Why not?” she said, dropping the white double veil she always wore in public.
Power rather looked for some biting retort when he spoke of abducting her, and her unexpected meekness was somewhat disconcerting. Each was tongue-tied, and they walked away together in silence. A good many eyes followed them as they left the hotel, for the girl’s slender, lissome figure and noticeably elegant carriage would have attracted the attention of more censorious critics than a gathering of Spanish-Americans, while the wealth of brown hair which crowned her shapely head and column-like neck was adequately set off by a smart hat. Power, too, evoked some comment. People who saw him for the first time invariably asked who he was. A man who has twice established an empire, even among Indians, cannot possibly lack distinction, no matter how effectually the outfitting tailor may democratize him.
They entered the gardens, and Power led Marguerite to a seat under a tree whose spreading branches, broad-leafed and flower-laden, supplied grateful shade. If he could have peered beneath that heavy veil, he would have seen that his companion was obviously ill at ease; but there was no trace of nervousness in her voice when she said, with a laugh:
“This, I suppose, is the local Garden of Eden.”
“Why?” he inquired.
“Because we are reclining under a Paradise tree.”
“I don’t see any serpents, and I cannot bring myself to regard you as either a cherub or a seraph.”
“How unkind of you! Here have I been behaving angelically all day, just because you will soon see the last of me, and that is my reward.”
“I believe the sex of angels is a matter of fierce dispute in certain circles. I wouldn’t dare form an opinion, and, just now at any rate, I am vexed by a different problem. If this tree is really the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, its influence will be helpful, because we should be moved to candor. I brought you here to ask you some questions of vital importance to myself. Are you promised to any man in marriage?”
“No. Is it likely?”
Not often did the bitter consciousness of her marred beauty rise thus bluntly to her lips; but she blurted it out now involuntarily. In this supreme moment it came as a protest against the edict of the gods. Even while she trembled in the belief that a happiness she had not dared to think of sanely was about to be vouchsafed to her, she could not restrain her terror lest the disillusionment of her scarred face might cost her the love of the one man on earth she wanted to marry. It was the heartfelt cry of a woman denied her birthright. “Male and female created he them.” The sorry trick of fate which had tarnished the fair tabernacle that enshrined so many gifts had never before exhibited its true malice. In a word, Marguerite Sinclair was a woman, and the great crisis of her life had found her unprepared and nearly hysterical.
Power, of course, was splendidly deaf to her satire and its cause.
“I should say it was the most likely thing imaginable,” he replied. “I wish – ” He broke off abruptly. “You and I should have no reservations,” he went on, after a pause, “and it would not be quite honest if I voiced the banal notion I had in mind. Yet I must tell you something of my history. You know, I suppose, that I am going to ask you to marry me; but, before you answer, you must hear the plea, the defense, of a man who committed a crime and had to pay the penalty.”
“You committed no crime, Derry,” and the girl’s utterance was so low and sweet that it swept through his inmost being like a chord of exquisite music. Some seconds elapsed before he understood that she had used a name which could not have come to her knowledge without a far more intimate acquaintance with his past life than he believed possible.
“Derry!” he repeated blankly. “How have you found out that those I once held dear called me ‘Derry’?”
She forced herself to speak calmly; though her hands were clenched in sheer physical effort to quell the riot in heart and brain.
“I am not as other women,” she said; “so I say shamelessly that I loved you practically from the hour we first met. Do you remember? You looked at me, and then turned your eyes away resolutely, lest you should hurt my feelings by seeming to gaze at my scarred features. I knew that night that you were a man scourged by the wrath of Heaven, and my sympathies went out to you; for, in my own small way, I realized what you felt. But your affliction was of the spirit, and mine of the flesh, and I could afford to laugh at my malaise except – except on an occasion like this, when a man says he wants to marry me, but says nothing of love. No, please! Hear me out. I am really answering your question, in a woman’s way, perhaps, but candidly, with a frankness that should blight romance. When we parted at Valparaiso, my thoughts dwelt with you. You are the one man I have ever cared for, in that way. During these weary years I have hugged the delusion that some day you would tell me that you loved me. Well, I admit that love was implied when you spoke of marriage; but you have often been annoyed or amused by my distorted method of looking at things, and you should not resent it now when it happens to describe the situation exactly – because you yourself almost began by saying that you wished we had met before another woman came into your life. Yes, I know – at any rate, I can guess – why you were buried alive for seven years. My action may sound contemptible; but a woman in love does not stop to weigh niceties of behavior. When I could get no news of you by other means, I wrote to a school friend at Denver. Among the people she met when making inquiries were a Dr. Stearn and a Mr. Benson. They did not tell her much; but feminine gossip is far-reaching, and sometimes it probes deeply. I know you loved Nancy Willard. I know how you were separated from her. I know you met her again in Newport. I know you blamed yourself for the death of your mother. I know that your friends thought you were mad, but pitied you, because yours was a grievous plight. You see now how I peeped and pried into your life. Oh! it was mean and despicable of me. It is not for you to plead and make excuse. That is my wretched task. Is it any sort of vindication to tell you that my heart ached because of that far-away look ever in your eyes while we voyaged south? You have not forgotten that I said you resembled a man walking in his sleep? Well, I wanted to find out what sort of folly or suffering had induced that trance. My poor little heart sang with joy when you stepped ashore at Carmen, and I saw that your obsession had gone, that you had come to life again, that no pale specters stood between us. Now you have heard my confession, it is for you to take time – before – you commit yourself – to vows – which you may regret.”
It was as much as she could do to utter those concluding words. The tears she might not repress were stealing silently down her cheeks, and small, dark patches showed where the tightly drawn veil touched the corners of her mouth. The hotel porch was visible between two clumps of tropical shrubbery, and, when a mule-drawn street-car moved out of the way, Power saw Sinclair’s tall, thin figure standing in the doorway. Evidently, his glance was searching the gardens for the missing pair, and the departure of the tram rendered them visible. He raised a hand, and opened and closed it twice. Power waved comprehension, and Sinclair vanished. Perhaps he had a shrewd notion of the subject of their talk, and was minded not to disturb them till the last moment.
“I take it your father means that we still have ten minutes at our disposal,” said Power.
The girl nodded. If she spoke then, she would have screamed.
“You have relieved me of a highly disagreeable task,” he went on composedly. “Of course, I accept none of the unkind and unjust strictures you passed on yourself. This has been a strange wooing; but it is the best apology for the real thing I can contrive in the conditions. Some day, soon, I shall take you in my arms and tell you that I love you. When that day dawns, I shall be hindered by no ghosts; none other, that is, than a lurking fear lest such a wreck of a man may not be deemed worthy of the pure, sweet love of a woman like you. Good God! Can it be possible that so great a happiness is entering into my broken life?”
Then the delirium of joy vanquished the girl’s fears, and she contrived to say haltingly:
“Derry, do you really care for me? Do you think that such a poor scarecrow as I can make you forget all that you have endured?”
He laughed, and the blithe ring of his mirth was so eloquent of his real feelings that the blood raced in her veins like quicksilver.
“We must begin by refusing to call each other hard names,” he cried. “In truth, I regard myself as a tolerably compact wreck, while ‘scarecrow,’ as applied to you, would make a cat laugh. Suppose we stick to ‘Derry’ and ‘Meg’ until the wonder passes, and we venture among those endearing terms in which our language is so rich. But, if you must have my opinion about your face – if you won’t be happy till you get it – I want to tell you now that before I kiss your lips I shall kiss that dear, scarred cheek, because I know well that, by God’s providence, when the Indians thrust you into the flames of your ranch, a mark was set on you that reserved you for me. Were it not for that, you could never have waited for me during the long years since we traveled together on the Panama. Why, Meg, there is no woman to compare with you in all this great city! But, look here! Confound my impudence! Man-like, I blandly ignore my own defects. How about my limp?”
“Derry, in my eyes, there is no man in all the world to compare with you.”
“Then we are profoundly satisfied with one another, and I really don’t see what we have to bother about otherwise. I am going now to tell your father that we have arranged to be married as soon as I arrive in England, which will be not more than two months from this day. I think he likes me, and will endure me as a son-in-law. If I obeyed my own impulses, I should not leave you again. I suppose that common sense urges me to visit New York and Colorado, just to look into my business affairs. In fact, in view of our marriage, I simply must go there. But I shall hurry, never fear. Come along, Meg. I’m wide awake now. You have exorcised the evil spirit that possessed me; but I shall be in a new fever till next we meet, and there is no more parting in this life.”
Thus was love reborn in Power’s heart. The pity of it was that he did not yield to the tiny god’s ardent whispers, and refuse to relinquish his chosen bride, even for a brief space. But, as he said, common sense demanded his presence in America, and common sense has shattered many dreams.
CHAPTER XVI
POWER DRIVEN INTO WILDERNESS
Power arrived at New York in mid-winter. He found that crowded hive humming, as usual, with life and its activities, but in a new and perplexing way. The Waldorf Hotel had become the Waldorf-Astoria, and, while doubling its name, had increased fourfold in size. Its main corridor had the bustle and crush of a busy street; but every face had an aspect of aloofness, almost of hostility. The old, intimate life of America had vanished. None paid heed to the newcomer. The spick-and-span occupants of the reception bureau evidently regarded him as Room Number So-and-so. Confused and mystified by the well-dressed throng of the hotel’s patrons, he failed to notice, at first, that it was composed of individuals, or groups, as unknown to one another as he was to the mass; that, in very truth, it was
“… no other than a moving rowOf Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go.”He reached the hotel early in the evening, and was fortunate in being able to secure a suite of rooms. Soon wearying of the traffic in that world’s fair which caustic New York has nicknamed “Rubberneck Alley,” he bought a newspaper, and retired to his apartments. But the day’s record held no interest for him. He knew little of the men and women who figured therein; even less of the events which called for big type and immense headlines.
But his eye was caught by an announcement of a performance that night of Gounod’s “Faust” at the Metropolitan Opera House. He resolved to go there, never dreaming that the odds were hundreds to one against the chance of obtaining a seat; for New York had just entered the lists against the other capitals of the world, and was determined to capture the leading place in the grand-opera tourney.
He telephoned the office, “Kindly get me a stall for the Metropolitan this evening.”
And, behold! a blasé clerk was actually stirred out of boredom by the surprising statement received from the box-office that a stall had just been returned, and he could have it now if he closed at once. So Power never knew what a trick Fortune had played him, since there can be little doubt that the impression made by the marvelous music and extraordinarily human appeal of “Faust” insensibly prepared him for the tragic events of the coming day. Imagine a man of musical bent, who had dwelt seven years among veritable savages, renewing his acquaintance with the muses by hearing the most poignant of stage love-stories told in Gounod’s impassioned strains and interpreted by famous singers and a superb orchestra!
The exquisite tenderness of the doomed lover’s first address to Marguerite thrilled his inmost being.
“Ne permettrez-vous pas, ma belle demoiselle,Qu’en vous offre le bras, pour faire le chemin?”He was struck by the coincidence that the woman to whom he was pledged should be named Marguerite! Faire le chemin! Yes, they would soon be taking the long road of life together. What assured happiness seemed to breathe from each perfect note; yet what horror and despair would be the outcome of the man’s ardor and the maid’s shy diffidence! When Marguerite told Faust that she was ni demoiselle, ni belle, Power could hardly fail to recollect that his own Marguerite, not without cruel cause, was ever tortured by the fear that her disfigurement might some day turn him from her with loathing. Even the slaying of Valentine as the direct outcome of his sister’s frailty seemed, to the overwrought imagination of one member of the audience, to bear an uncanny analogy to his mother’s death. There remained one other point of contact between the story of the opera and Power’s own life; but, fortunately for him, or his surcharged emotions might not have withstood the strain, he could not recognize as yet that last and most terrible similarity.
As it was, his rapt interest in the opera attracted the attention of his neighbors in the stalls. As a girl whispered to her attendant cavalier:
“That man near us – the man with the piercing eyes and worn face – seems to regard ‘Faust’ as history rather than allegory.”
“Perhaps he sees the allegory,” was the answer, and the girl shrugged her pretty shoulders. She was young, and dwelt in a sheltered garden. To her, “Faust” was only an opera. It had nothing to do with the realities of life; which, if she were asked for a definition, consisted mainly of so ordering one’s time as to miss no important social function.
Next morning, though aware of a nervous system still in a curious state of exaltation and strain after his overnight experiences, Power yielded quickly to the stimulating effect of the keen, cold air and bright sunshine of a typical winter’s day on the North Atlantic seaboard. After breakfast he walked to his bank, and was received as one risen from the dead. Financial institutions, even the soundest and most conservative, have a special flair for clients who allow vast sums of money to accumulate, year by year, at rates of interest which suit the bank’s own purposes.
When Power had been welcomed heartily by the manager – his friend of former days, now promoted – the latter said cheerfully:
“Well, since you have actually returned from Mars, or whatever planet you may have been visiting, I suppose you want to look into your account?”
“It seems a reasonable thing to do, especially as I am thinking of marrying,” agreed Power.
The official gave some instruction to the general office, and a passbook was produced. There were, of course, hardly any entries on the debit side, and payments from mine and ranch had been made half-yearly; so one small book contained the whole of the seven years’ statement. Power, unaccustomed as yet to the methods of financial bookkeeping, turned to the latest column, and saw a row of figures. He looked perplexed, whereat the manager smiled.
“Well,” came the question, “I fancy you find yourself well able to maintain a wife?”
Power’s eyes seemed to be fascinated by the item which had first attracted them.
“Y-yes,” he said hesitatingly; “but I had a notion that I was very much better off.”
Then it was the manager’s turn to be puzzled. He rose, came round the table at which the two were seated, and adjusted his eyeglasses.
“Better off!” he exclaimed. “Why, you are a very rich man, Mr. Power. Don’t you see – ” He broke into a loud laugh as he discovered the entry which this queer-mannered client was gazing at. “Man alive,” he cried, “that is the last half-year’s interest on your capital! The current rate is rather low, two and one-half per cent. Here,” and he pointed to the top of the page, “is a summary of your deposit – four million dollars, all in hard cash. If you mean to begin investing, I must ask you to go slow. Even in your own interests, that is advisable. Heavy purchases of stock tend to bull the market, and it is a little inclined to go that way at the moment. I’ll give you a list of gilt-edged securities which will, of course, nearly double your annual revenue from invested capital alone. You had better show it to some other adviser, and, when you have selected your stocks, let me begin operating. I can carry the whole thing through in a couple of months without letting Wall Street know that a big buyer is in the market.”
Power was rather stunned by the amount of his wealth, and an odd thought darted through his brain that if, in the world of today, no tempter could bribe another Doctor Faustus with the offer of renewed youth, the fiend might pour gold into his chosen victim’s pockets. Almost could he feel the mocking phantom at his shoulder; though, indeed, there was none other in the room than the courteous banker.
“Great Scott!” the latter was saying. “What a bonanza that mine of yours is! And Bison is growing quite a town. I paid it a flying visit last summer. Have you been there recently? I imagine not, since your cablegram came from Buenos Aires.”
Bison was a word to evoke shadows; but it sufficed to drive one away just then.
“Ah, Bison!” said Power, standing up. “I must go west at once. I have not even made known to MacGonigal my presence in America. He is well, I hope?”
“Fatter than ever. There is some talk of his running for governor.”
“And Jake, the man in charge of the ranch? Did you hear of him when you were in Colorado?”
“Yes, indeed. He is married.”
“Married! Jake!”
“More than that, his wife, a pretty little woman, told me she had to threaten a divorce in order to stop him from mounting the little Jakes on what he calls ‘plugs’ before the kiddies were well out of the perambulator.”
A clerk announced through a speaking-tube that someone wanted the banker. The conventional, “Ask him to wait one minute,” warned Power that this was no hour for gossip.
“I can have some money now?” he inquired.
“As much as you like.”
“May I ask – I am a child in these matters – if good diamonds are obtainable in New York, and what I ought to pay for a ring – an engagement ring?”
“Our diamonds are not cheap; but they are supposed to be the pick of the market. I think you ought to get a perfect ring for a thousand dollars. By the way, there is quite an accumulation of letters here. Leave your address, and they will be packed and sent to your rooms.”
Power wrote a check at the counter, and was given a bundle of notes. He went to a well-known jewelry establishment recommended by the bank manager, and asked to be shown some engagement rings.
“What size, sir?” inquired an attendant.
“Oh, not anything remarkable, but of the best quality.”
“I mean, sir, what size is the lady’s finger?”
Power laughed. He realized that he must come down out of the clouds, and pay heed occasionally to the minor phases of life.
“I don’t know. She has small hands, and, long, tapering fingers,” he said, smiling at his own fatuity; for the description might have been a line taken bodily out of nineteen novels among every twenty.
“It really doesn’t matter, sir,” said the shopman, eager to please a new customer. “If you choose a suitable ring, the lady can send or bring it here, and it will be adjusted to the right size without any delay or extra charge.”
“But she is in England.”
“Exactly the same conditions apply in our London branch.”
So Power bought a very beautiful ring, which happened to contain seven graduated stones in a single row. The number pleased him, and he was sure Meg would note its significance. He secured the gage thus early so that he might write and tell her about it; while its mere possession and safeguarding would supply an extra stimulus for a speedy crossing of the Atlantic.
Then he strolled up Fifth Avenue, and did not flinch from memories of the last time he had passed through that remarkable thoroughfare. He would be callous, indeed, if his thoughts did not dwell on Nancy, and go back to the sweet lawlessness of their brief companionship. Where was she now? he wondered. A fine lady, no doubt, ruffling it with matronly self-possession among the high-born friends she had won in Paris and London. And that mean-spirited wretch, her father? Dead, in all probability, or eating his heart out in semi-insanity; for Power was beginning to see, with surer, wider vision, that Willard must have known he was a murderer, since no other hand but his had sent a dear and honored woman to her grave.
Then his mind reverted to Marguerite Sinclair, and he was comforted by his knowledge of her frank, joyous, make-the-best-of-everything temperament. He had not deluded himself into the belief that he was marrying her in the flood-tide of passion which had overwhelmed Nancy and himself. Pretense was always hateful to him, and it would be rank hypocrisy to assume that the madness of that first love could ever again surge through heart and brain. Marguerite’s own action in accepting him after she had looked into the pages of his earlier life gave ample assurance that she would be content with his faith and devotion. She was no lovesick maid, but a woman of strong, clear perceptions. He was troubled with no doubt as to the future nor qualm as to the past, and he thanked Providence humbly for having allotted him such a true and honest helpmate for his remaining years.
On returning to the hotel, he found a bulky package in his room. It contained heaps of letters and other documents which had been sent to the bank or forwarded from Bison, and, of course, they were mostly seven years old, or thereabouts. Two, bearing recent postmarks, caught his eye, and he read them first.
One was from Dacre. “You see,” it ran, “I remain on the map. If this reaches you, cable me. My house is yours for as long as you care to stay.”
The other brought a smile to his lips. It was in Spanish, and signed “Bartolomeo Malaspina”:
“Honored Señor [wrote the captain of the Carmen]. – “You asked me to write after seven years. Well, praised be my patron saint, I am still alive, and I hope you are. I have often spoken to my wife of the wretchedness of soul you caused me by disappearing among those accursed Indians; but I must admit, nevertheless, that your short voyage in my ship brought me luck, for I fell in with a liner with a broken shaft caused by colliding with a derelict, and she was drifting into the reefs off Hanover Island when I got a tow-rope on board. It was a fine job to haul her as far as Punta Arenas; but, thanks to the Eleven Thousand Virgins, I managed it, and the salvage made me a rich man. The Carmen, too, ran ashore at Iquique on the homeward voyage, and she was well insured. Write, I pray you, if you have escaped from the cannibals. If not, a year from this date, I shall pay for two masses for the repose of your soul.”
