Romance Island

by Zona Gale

  CHAPTER III

  ST. GEORGE AND THE LADY

  St. George lunched leisurely at his hotel. Upon his return fromWestchester he had gone directly to McDougle Street to be assuredthat there was a house numbered 19. Without difficulty he had foundthe place; it was in the row of old iron-balconied apartment housesa few blocks south of Washington Square, and No. 19 differed in noway from its neighbours even to the noisy children, without toys,tumbling about the sunken steps and dark basement door. St. Georgecontented himself with walking past the house, for the mereassurance that the place existed dictated his next step.

  This was to write a note to Mrs. Medora Hastings, Miss Holland'saunt. The note set forth that for reasons which he would, if hemight, explain later, he was interested in the woman who hadrecently made an attempt upon her niece's life; that he had seen thewoman and had obtained an address which he was confident would leadto further information about her. This address, he added, hepreferred not to disclose to the police, but to Mrs. Hastings orMiss Holland herself, and he begged leave to call upon them ifpossible that day. He despatched the note by Rollo, whom heinstructed to deliver it, not at the desk, but at the door of Mrs.Hastings' apartment, and to wait for an answer. He watched withpleasure Rollo's soft departure, recalling the days when he had senta messenger boy to some inaccessible threshold, himself stamping upand down in the cold a block or so away to await the boy's return.

  Rollo was back almost immediately. Mrs. Hastings and Miss Hollandwere not at home. St. George eyed his servant severely.

  "Rollo," he said, "did you go to the door of their apartment?"

  "No, sir," said Rollo stiffly, "the elevator boy told me they wasout, sir."

  "Showing," thought St. George, "that a valet and a gentleman is avery poor newspaper man."

  "Now go back," he said pleasantly, "go up in the elevator to theirdoor. If they are not in, wait in the lower hallway until theyreturn. Do you get that? Until they return."

  "You'll want me back by tea-time, sir?" ventured Rollo.

  "Wait," St. George repeated, "until they return. At three. Or six.Or nine o'clock. Or midnight."

  "Very good, sir," said Rollo impassively, "it ain't always wise,sir, for a man to trust to his own judgment, sir, asking yourpardon. His judgment," he added, "may be a bit of the ape left inhim, sir."

  St. George smiled at this evolutionary pearl and settled himselfcomfortably by the open fire to await Rollo's return. It was afterthree o'clock when he reappeared. He brought a note and St. Georgefeverishly tore it open.

  "Whom did you see? Were they civil to you?" he demanded.

  "I saw a old lady, sir," said Rollo irreverently. "She didn't say aword to me, sir, but what she didn't say was civiler than manypeople's language. There's a great deal in manner, sir," declaimedRollo, brushing his hat with his sleeve, and his sleeve with hishandkerchief, and shaking the handkerchief meditatively over thecoals.

  St. George read the note at a glance and with unspeakable relief.They would see him. A refusal would have delayed and annoyed himjust then, in the flood-tide of his hope.

  "My Dear Mr. St. George," the note ran. "My niece is not at home, and I can not tell how your suggestion will be received by her, though it is most kind. I may, however, answer for myself that I shall be glad to see you at four o'clock this afternoon. "Very truly yours, "MEDORA HASTINGS."

  Grateful for her evident intention to waste no time, St. Georgedressed and drove to the Boris, punctually sending up his card atfour o'clock. At once he was ushered to Mrs. Hastings' apartment.

  St. George entered her drawing-room incuriously. Three years ofentering drawing-rooms which he never thereafter was to see hadrobbed him of that sensation of indefinable charm which for many astrange room never ceases to yield. He had found far too many tablesupholding nothing which one could remember, far too many picturesthat returned his look, and rugs that seemed to have been selectedarbitrarily and because there was none in stock that the ownerreally liked. He was therefore pleasantly surprised and puzzled bythe room which welcomed him. The floor was tiled in curious blocks,strangely hieroglyphed, as if they had been taken from old tombs.Over the fireplace was set a panel of the same stone, which, by thethickness of the tiles, formed a low shelf. On this shelf and ontables and in a high window was the strangest array of objects thatSt. George had ever seen. There were small busts of soft rose stone,like blocks of coral. There was a statue or two of some indefinablewhite material, glistening like marble and yet so soft that it hadbeen indented in several places by accidental pressure. There werefans of strangely-woven silk, with sticks of carven rock-crystal,and hand mirrors of polished copper set in frames of gems that hedid not recognize. Upon the wall were mended bits of purpletapestry, embroidered or painted or woven in singular patterns offlora and birds that St. George could not name. There were rolls ofparchment, and vases of rock-crystal, and a little apparatus, mostdelicately poised, for weighing unknown, delicate things; and jarsand cups without handles, all baked of a soft pottery having a naplike the down of a peach. Over the windows hung curtains of lace,woven by hands which St. George could not guess, in patterns of suchfreedom and beauty as western looms never may know. On the floor andon the divans were spread strange skins, some marked like peacocks,some patterned like feathers and like seaweed, all in a soft furthat was like silk.

  Mingled with these curios were the ordinary articles of a cultivatedhousehold. There were many books, good pictures, furniture withsimple lines, a tea-table that almost ministered of itself, awork-basket filled with "violet-weaving" needle-work, and a gossipyclock with well-bred chimes. St. George was enormously attracted bythe room which could harbour so many pagan delights without itselffalling their victim. The air was fresh and cool and smelled of thewindow primroses.

  In a few moments Mrs. Hastings entered, and if St. George had beenbewildered by the room he was still more amazed by the appearanceof his hostess. She was utterly unlike the atmosphere of herdrawing-room. She was a bustling, commonplace little creature, withan expressionless face, indented rather than molded in features. Herplump hands were covered with jewels, but for all the richness ofher gown she gave the impression of being very badly dressed; thingsof jet and metal bobbed and ticked upon her, and her side-combs werecontinually falling about. She sat on the sofa and looked at theseat which St. George was to have and began to talk--all withouttaking the slightest heed of him or permitting him to mention the_Evening Sentinel_ or his errand. If St. George had been paintedpurple he felt sure that she would have acted quite the same.Personality meant nothing to her.

  "Now this distressing matter, Mr. St. George," began Mrs. Hastings,"of this frightful mulatto woman. I didn't see her myself--no, I hadstopped in on the first floor to visit my lawyer's wife who was illwith neuralgia, and I didn't see the creature. If I had been with myniece I dare say it wouldn't have occurred. That's what I always sayto my niece. I always say, 'Olivia, nothing _need_ occur to vex one.It always happens because of pure heedlessness.' Not that I accusemy own niece of heedlessness in this particular. It was the elevatorboy who was heedless. That is the trouble with life in a greatcity. Every breath you draw is always dependent on somebody else'sdoing his duty, and when you consider how many people habituallyneglect their duty it is a wonder--I always say that to Olivia--itis a wonder that anybody is alive to _do_ a duty when it presentsitself. 'Olivia,' I always say, 'nobody needs to die.' And I reallybelieve that they nearly all do die out of pure heedlessness. Well,and so this frightful mulatto creature: you know her, I understand?"

  Mrs. Hastings leaned back and consulted St. George through hertortoise-shell glasses, tilting her head high to keep them on hernose and perpetually putting their gold chain over her ear, whichperpetually pulled out her side-combs.

  "I saw her this morning," St. George said. "I went up to theReformatory in Westchester, and I spoke with her."

  "Mercy!" ejaculated Mrs. Hastings, "I wonder she didn'
t tear youreyes out. Did they have her in a cage or in a cell? What was thecreature about?"

  "She was in a missionary meeting at the moment," St. Georgeexplained, smiling.

  "Mercy!" said Mrs. Hastings in exactly the same tone. "Some trick, Iexpect. That's what I warn Olivia: 'So few things nowadays are donethrough necessity or design.' Nearly everything is a trick. Everyinvention is a trick--a cultured trick, one might say. Murder is atrick, I suppose, to a murderer. That's why civilization is bad formorals, don't you think? Well, and so she talked with you?"

  "No, Mrs. Hastings," said St. George, "she did not say one word. Butshe wrote something, and that is what I have come to bring you."

  "What was it--some charm?" cried Mrs. Hastings. "Oh, nobody knowswhat that kind of people may do. I'll meet any one face to face, butthese juggling, incantation individuals appal me. I have a brotherwho travels in the Orient, and he tells me about hideous things theydo--raising wheat and things," she vaguely concluded.

  "Ah!" said St. George quickly, "you have a brother--in the Orient?"

  "Oh, yes. My brother Otho has traveled abroad I don't know how manyyears. We have a great many stamps. I can't begin to pronounce allthe names," the lady assured him.

  "And this brother--is he your niece, Miss Holland's father?" St.George asked eagerly.

  "Certainly," said Mrs. Hastings severely; "I have only one brother,and it has been three years since I have seen him."

  "Pardon me, Mrs. Hastings," said St. George, "this may be mostimportant. Will you tell me when you last heard from him and wherehe was?"

  "I should have to look up the place," she answered, "I couldn'tbegin to pronounce the name, I dare say. It was somewhere in theSouth Atlantic, ten months or more ago."

  "Ah," St. George quietly commented.

  "Well, and now this frightful creature," resumed Mrs. Hastings, "do,pray, tell me what it was she wrote."

  St. George produced the paper.

  "That is it," he said. "I fancy you will not know the street. It is19 McDougle Street, and the name is simply Tabnit."

  "Yes. And is it a letter?" his hostess demanded, "and whatever doesit say?"

  "It is not a letter," St. George explained patiently, "and this isall that it says. The name is, I suppose, the name of a person. Ihave made sure that there is such a number in the street. I haveseen the house. But I have waited to consult you before goingthere."

  "Why, what is it you think?" Mrs. Hastings besought him. "Do youthink this person, whoever it is, can do something? And whatever canhe do? Oh dear," she ended, "I do want to act the way poor dear Mr.Hastings would have acted. Only I know that he would have gonestraight to Bitley, or wherever she is, and held a revolver at thatmulatto creature's head, and _commanded_ her to talk English. Mr.Hastings was a very determined character. If you could have seen thepoor dear man's chin! But of course I can't do that, can I? Andthat's what I say to Olivia. 'Olivia, one doesn't _need_ a man'sjudgment if one will only use judgment oneself.' What is it youthink, Mr. St. George?"

  Before St. George could reply there entered the room, behind a lowannouncement of his name, a man of sixty-odd years, nervous,slightly stooped, his smooth pale face unlighted by little deep-seteyes.

  "Ah, Mr. Frothingham!" said Mrs. Hastings in evident relief, "youare just in time. Mr. St. John was just telling me horrible thingsabout this frightful mulatto creature. This is Mr. St. John. Mr.Frothingham is my lawyer and my brother Otho's lawyer. And so Itelephoned him to come in and hear all about this. And now do go on,Mr. St. John, about this hideous woman. What is it you think?"

  "How do you do, Mr. St. John?" said the lawyer portentously. Hisgreeting was almost a warning, and reminded St. George of the way inwhich certain brakemen call out stations. St. George responded asblithely to this name as to his own and did not correct it. "Andwhat," went on the lawyer, sitting down with long unclosed handslaid trimly along his knees, "have you to contribute to this mostremarkable occurrence, Mr. St. John?"

  St. George briefly narrated the events of the morning and placed theslip of paper in the lawyer's hands.

  "Ah! We have here a communication in the nature of a confession,"the lawyer observed, adjusting his gold pince-nez, head thrown back,eyebrows lifted.

  "Only the address, sir," said St. George, "and I was just saying toMrs. Hastings that some one ought to go to this address at once andfind out whatever is to be got there. Whoever goes I will verygladly accompany."

  Mr. Frothingham had a fashion of making ready to speak andsoliciting attention by the act, and then collapsing suddenly withno explosion, like a bad Roman candle. He did this now, and whateverhe meant to say was lost to the race; but he looked very wise thewhile. It was rather as if he discarded you as a fit listener, thanthat he discarded his own comment.

  "I don't know but I ought to go myself," rambled Mrs. Hastings,"perhaps Mr. Hastings would think I ought. Suppose, Mr. Frothingham,that we both go. Dear, dear! Olivia always sees to my shopping andflowers and everything executive, but I can't let her go into thesefrightful places, can I?"

  There was a rustling at the far end of the room, and some oneentered. St. George did not turn, but as her soft skirts touched andlifted along the floor he was tinglingly aware of her presence. Evenbefore Mrs. Hastings heard her light footfall, even before the clearvoice spoke, St. George knew that he was at last in the presence ofthe arbiter of his enterprise, and of how much else he did not know.He was silent, breathlessly waiting for her to speak.

  "May I come in, Aunt Dora?" she said. "I want to know to what placeit is impossible for me to go?"

  She came from the long room's boundary shadow. There was about her asense of white and gray with a knot of pale colour in her hat and anorchid on her white coat. Mrs. Hastings, taking no more account ofher presence than she had of St. George's, tilted back her head andlooked at the primroses in the window as closely as at anything, andabsently presented him.

  "Olivia," she said, "this is Mr. St. John, who knows about thatfrightful mulatto creature. Mr. St. George," she went on, correctingthe name entirely unintentionally, "my niece, Miss Holland. And I'msure I wish I knew what the necessary thing to be done _is_. That iswhat I always tell you, you know, Olivia. 'Find out the necessarything and do it, and let the rest go.'"

  "It reminds me very much," said the lawyer, clearing his throat, "ofa case that I had on the April calendar--"

  Miss Holland had turned swiftly to St. George:

  "You know the mulatto woman?" she asked, and the lawyer passed bythe April calendar and listened.

  "I went to the Bitley Reformatory this morning to see her," St.George replied. "She gave me this name and address. We have beensaying that some one ought to go there to learn what is to belearned."

  Mr. Frothingham in a silence of pursed lips offered the paper. MissHolland glanced at it and returned it.

  "Will you tell us what your interest is in this woman?" she askedevenly. "Why you went to see her?"

  "Yes, Miss Holland," St. George replied, "you know of course thatthe police have done their best to run this matter down. You know itbecause you have courteously given them every assistance in yourpower. But the police have also been very ably assisted by everynewspaper in town. I am fortunate to be acting in the interests ofone of these--the _Sentinel_. This clue was put in my hands. I cameto you confident of your cooeperation."

  Mrs. Hastings threw up her hands with a gesture that caught away thechain of her eye-glass and sent it dangling in her lap, and herside-combs tinkling to the tiled floor.

  "Mercy!" she said, "a reporter!"

  St. George bowed.

  "But I never receive reporters!" she cried, "Olivia--don't youknow? A newspaper reporter like that fearful man at Palm Beach, whoput me in the Courtney's ball list in a blue silk when I never wearcolours."

  "Now really, really, this intrusion--" began Mr. Frothingham, hislong, unclosed hands working forward on his knees in undulations, asa worm travels.

  Miss Holland turned to St. George, the co
lour dyeing her face andthroat, her manner a bewildering mingling of graciousness andhauteur.

  "My aunt is right," she said tranquilly, "we never have received anynewspaper representative. Therefore, we are unfortunate never tohave met one. You were saying that we should send some one toMcDougle Street?"

  St. George was aware of his heart-beats. It was all so unexpectedand so dangerous, and she was so perfectly equal to thecircumstance.

  "I was asking to be allowed to go myself, Miss Holland," he saidsimply, "with whoever makes the investigation."

  Mrs. Hastings was looking mutely from one to another, her foreheadin horizons of wrinkles.

  "I'm sure, Olivia, I think you ought to be careful what you say,"she plaintively began. "Mr. Hastings never allowed his name to go inany printed lists even, he was so particular. Our telephone had aprivate number, and all the papers had instructions never to mentionhim, even if he was murdered, unless he took down the noticehimself. Then if anything important did happen, he often did take itdown, nicely typewritten, and sometimes even then they didn't useit, because they knew how very particular he was. And of course wedon't know how--"

  St. George's eyes blazed, but he did not lift them. The affront wasunstudied and, indeed, unconscious. But Miss Holland understood howgrave it was, for there are women whose intuition would tell themthe etiquette due upon meeting the First Syndic of Andorra or anoble from Gambodia.

  "We want the truth about this as much as Mr. St. George does," shesaid quickly, smiling for the first time. St. George liked hersmile. It was as if she were amused, not absent-minded nor yet aprey to the feminine immorality of ingratiation. "Besides," shecontinued, "I wish to know a great many things. How did the mulattowoman impress you, Mr. St. George?"

  Miss Holland loosened her coat, revealing a little flowery waist,and leaned forward with parted lips. She was very beautiful, withthe beauty of perfect, blooming, colourful youth, without line orshadow. She was in the very noon of youth, but her eyes did notwander after the habit of youth; they were direct and steady and abit critical, and she spoke slowly and with graceful sanity in avoice that was without nationality. She might have been thecultivated English-speaking daughter of almost any land of highcivilization, or she might have been its princess. Her face showedher imaginative; her serene manner reassured one that she had not,in consequence, to pay the usury of lack of judgment; she seemedreflective, tender, and of a fine independence, tempered, however,by tradition and unerring taste. Above all, she seemed alive,receptive, like a woman with ten senses. And--above all again--shehad charm. Finally, St. George could talk with her; he did notanalyze why; he only knew that this woman understood what he said inprecisely the way that he said it, which is, perhaps, the fifthessence in nature.

  "May I tell you?" asked St. George eagerly. "She seemed to me a verywonderful woman, Miss Holland; almost a woman of another world. Sheis not mulatto--her features are quite classic; and she is not afanatic or a mad-woman. She is, of her race, a strangely superiorcreature, and I fancy, of high cultivation; and I am convinced thatat the foundation of her attempt to take your life there is sometremendous secret. I think we must find out what that is, first, foryour own sake; next, because this is the sort of thing that is worthwhile."

  "Ah," cried Miss Holland, "delightful. I begin to be glad that ithappened. The police said that she was a great brutal negress, and Ithought she must be insane. The cloth-of-gold and the jewels didmake me wonder, but I hardly believed that."

  "The newspapers," Mr. Frothingham said acidly, "became very muchinvolved in their statements concerning this matter."

  "This 'Tabnit,'" said Miss Holland, and flashed a smile of prettydeference at the lawyer to console him for her total neglect of hiscomment, "in McDougle Street. Who can he be?--he _is_ a man, Isuppose. And where is McDougle Street?"

  St. George explained the location, and Mrs. Hastings fretfullycommented.

  "I'm sure, Olivia," she said, "I think it is frightfully unwomanlyin you--"

  "To take so much interest in my own murder?" Miss Holland asked inamusement. "Aunt Dora, I'm going to do more: I suggest that you andMr. Frothingham and I go with Mr. St. George to this address inMcDougle Street--"

  "My dear Olivia!" shrilled Mrs. Hastings, "it's in the very heart ofthe Bowery--isn't it, Mr. St. John? And only think--"

  It was as if Mrs. Hastings' frustrate words emerged in the fantasticguise of her facial changes.

  "No, it isn't quite the Bowery, Mrs. Hastings," St. Georgeexplained, "though it won't look unlike."

  "I wish I knew what Mr. Hastings would have done," his widowmourned, "he always said to me: 'Medora, do only the necessarything.' Do you think this _is_ the necessary thing--with all thefrightful smells?"

  "It is perfectly safe," ventured St. George, "is it not, Mr.Frothingham?"

  Mr. Frothingham bowed and tried to make non-partisanship seem atasteful resignation of his own will.

  "I am at Mrs. Hastings' command," he said, waving both hands, once,from the wrist.

  "You know the place is really only a few blocks from WashingtonSquare," St. George submitted.

  Mrs. Hastings brightened.

  "Well, I have some friends in Washington Square," she said, "peoplewhom I think a great deal of, and always have. If you really feel,Olivia--"

  "I do," said Miss Holland simply, "and let us go now, Aunt Dora. Thebrougham has been at the door since I came in. We may as well drivethere as anywhere, if Mr. St. George is willing."

  "I shall be happy," said St. George sedately, longing to cry:"Willing! Willing! Oh, Mrs. Hastings and Miss Holland--_willing_!"

  Miss Holland and St. George and the lawyer were alone for a fewminutes while Mrs. Hastings rustled away for her bonnet. MissHolland sat where the afternoon light, falling through the cornerwindow, smote her hair to a glory of pale colour, and St. George'seyes wandered to the glass through which the sun fell. It was a thinpane of irregular pieces set in a design of quaint, meaninglesscharacters, in the centre of which was the figure of a sphinx,crucified upon an upright cross and surrounded by a border of coiledasps with winged heads. The window glittered like a sheet of gems.

  "What wonderful glass," involuntarily said St. George.

  "Is it not?" Miss Holland said enthusiastically. "My father sent it.He sent nearly all these things from abroad."

  "I wonder where such glass is made," observed St. George; "it islike lace and precious stones--hardly more painted than carved."

  She bent upon him such a sudden, searching look that St. George felthis eyes held by her own.

  "Do you know anything of my father?" she demanded suddenly.

  "Only that Mrs. Hastings has just told me that he is abroad--in theSouth Atlantic," St. George wonderingly replied.

  "Why, I am very foolish," said Miss Holland quickly, "we have notheard from him in ten months now, and I am frightfully worried. Ahyes, the glass is beautiful. It was made in one of the SouthAtlantic islands, I believe--so were all these things," she added;"the same figure of the crucified sphinx is on many of them."

  "Do you know what it means?" he asked.

  "It is the symbol used by the people in one of the islands, myfather said," she answered.

  "These symbols usually, I believe," volunteered Mr. Frothingham,frowning at the glass, "have little significance, standing merelyfor the loose barbaric ideas of a loose barbaric nation."

  St. George thought of the ladies of Doctor Johnson's AmicableSociety who walked from the town hall to the Cathedral in Lichfield,"in linen gowns, and each has a stick with an acorn; but for theacorn they could give no reason."

  He looked long at the glass.

  "She," he said finally, "our false mulatto, ought to stand beforejust such glass."

  Miss Holland laughed. She nodded her head a little, once, every timeshe laughed, and St. George was learning to watch for that.

  "The glass would suit any style of beauty better than steel bars,"she said lightly as Mrs. Hastings came fluttering back. Mrs.Hastings flu
ttered ponderously, as humblebees fly. Indeed, when oneconsidered, there was really a "blunt-faced bee" look about thewoman.

  The brougham had on the box two men in smart livery; the footman,closing the door, received St. George's reply to Mrs. Hastings'appeal to "tell the man the number of this frightful place."

  "I dare say I haven't been careful," Mrs. Hastings kept anxiouslyobserving, "I have been heedless, I dare say. And I always thinkthat what one must avoid is heedlessness, don't you think? Didn'tNapoleon say that if only Caesar had been first in killing the menwho wanted to kill him--something about Pompey's statue being keptclean. What was it--why should they blame Caesar for the condition ofthe public statues?"

  "My dear Mrs. Hastings," Mr. Frothingham reminded her, his longgloved hands laid trimly along his knees as before, "you are in mycare."

  The statue problem faded from the lady's eyes.

  "Poor, dear Mr. Hastings always said you were so admirable atcross-questioning," she recalled, partly reassured.

  "Ah," cried Miss Holland protestingly, "Aunt Dora, this is anadventure. We are going to see 'Tabnit.'"

  St. George was silent, ecstatically reviewing the events of the lastsix hours and thinking unenviously of Amory, rocking somewhere with_The Aloha_ on a mere stretch of green water:

  "If Chillingworth could see me now," he thought victoriously, as thecarriage turned smartly into McDougle Street.