CHAPTER LIII
BY MIC-CO'S POOL
To the dark, old-fashioned house in St. Augustine in which Baron Tregarwas a "paying guest" came one twilight, a man for whom compassionatelyhe had waited. His visitor was sadly white and tired, with heavy linesabout his sullen mouth and the dust of the highway upon his motoringrig. There was no fire in his eyes; rather a stupid apathy which in aman with less strength about the mouth and chin might easily havebecome commonness.
"Tregar," he said with an effort, "you told me to come when I neededyou. I am here. I can not see my way--"
Tregar held out his hand in silence. Only he knew the sacrifice ofinsolent pride that had brought his guest so low.
Ronador took his hand and reddened.
"My father rightly counts upon your loyalty," he choked and walked awayto the window.
Suddenly he wheeled with blazing eyes of agony.
"Why must that old horrible remorse grind and tear!" he cried, "nowwhen I can not bear it! It is keener and crueler now than it was thatday when you found me in the forest. Every new twist of this damnablemess has been a barb tearing the old wound open afresh. And now--I--Ican not even find Miss Westfall. I have motored over the roads invain. The van is gone from the lake shore. It seemed that I must makeone final desperate effort to make her understand--"
With the memory of the eyes of Diane and Philip flashing messages ofutter trust that day beneath the trees, the Baron sighed.
"Ronador," he said kindly, "it would have been in vain."
"And now," Ronador moistened his pallid lips, "there is a rumble of warfrom Galituria."
"Yes," said Tregar sadly, "Themar was a traitor."
"I told him much," said Ronador, great drops of moisture standing forthupon his forehead. "It seemed that I must, to make him understand theurgent need of silencing Granberry forever. He cabled the news toGalituria and sold it. I am ill and discouraged. There is fever in myblood, Tregar, from this climate of eternal summer--a fever in myhead--"
Tregar stroked his beard.
"There is a doctor," he said quietly, "of whom Poynter has told memuch--a doctor who healed Granberry's mind as well as his body. I hadthought to go to him myself--to rest. I, too, am tired, Ronador. Onegoes to a little hamlet and an old man guides by a road to the southinto the Everglades. Let us go there together."
"No!" said Ronador sullenly. "Let us rather go home. I am sick ofthis land of insolent men like Granberry and Poynter, who bend the kneeto no man."
"You would go back then, ill, sullen, resentful, with the news that wemust lay before your father? By Heaven, no!" thundered the Baron withone of his infrequent outbursts. "Let us go back smiling, for all wehave lost, and seek to tell of this child of Theodomir with what gracewe can muster. Poynter is at the bedside of his father. Granberry hasgone to learn the tale of the other candlestick. These men, Ronador,we must see again before we sail. In the meantime, there is Poynter'sphysician."
"Very well," said Ronador, goaded to a sudden consent by a fevered waveof nausea and shaking, "let us go to him."
So came Prince Ronador and the Baron to the island lodge of Mic-co.
Though Ronador in the first disorder of rebellious mind and body, hadfancied himself sicker than he really was, he was suffering more nowthan even Tregar guessed. The last stage of the journey to a man ofless indomitable grit and courage would have been impossible. It wasno sickness of the mind alone. His body was wildly ravaged by a fever.
Through a dizzy blur which distorted every object and which frowninglyhe sought to drive away with clenched hands, he stared at the lodge,stared at Keela, stared at the grave and quiet face of Mic-co. He wasstill staring vaguely about him when night curtained the lilied pooland the stars flashed brightly overhead.
"I am not ill, Tregar!" he insisted curtly. "Let me rest by the pool.There is peace here and I am tired. We traveled rapidly--"
Nevertheless, for all his feverish denial, his desperate attempts tokeep to the thread of desultory talk were pitiful. He frowned heavily,began his sentences slowly and trailed off incoherently to a halt andsilence.
The Baron turned compassionately away from him to Mic-co with aquestion.
"Names," said Mic-co, "are nothing to me, Baron Tregar. They aremerely a part of that great world from which I live apart. I am aHeidelberg man, since you feel sufficiently interested to inquire.Though my choice of a profession was merely a careless desire to knowsome one thing well, I have never regretted it."
"I--I beg your pardon," stammered the Baron and glanced keenly atMic-co.
"It is a habit of mine," hinted Mic-co, "to take what confidence a manmay offer and let him withhold what he will."
"There is nothing to withhold!" flashed Ronador with sudden fierceness."Why do you speak of it?"
Mic-co thought of a white-faced young fellow who had stubbornly refusedto accept his hospitality, one morning beneath the live oaks, until hemight name aloud his offenses in the sight of God and Man. This manbefore him, sweeping rapidly into the black gulf of delirium, was of adifferent caliber.
By the pool Ronador leaped suddenly, his face quite colorless savewhere the flame of fever burned in his cheeks.
"That Voice!" he said, standing in curious attitude of listening. "Youhear it, Tregar? Always--always it comes so in the quietest hours.Tell him! Tell him! Why should I tell him? What is he to me? I maynot purchase relief at the price of any man's respect. Only Tregarknows. Hush!--In God's name, hush! Thou shalt not kill! Thou shaltnot kill!" He seemed, without conscious effort, to be repeating thewords of this Voice with which he held this terrible communion, andwaved Tregar back with an imperious gesture of defiance. Facing Mic-cohe flung out his arm.
"I am a murderer in the sight of God and Man!" he choked. "I murderedmy cousin Theodomir for a dream of empire. I can not forget--Oh, God!I can not forget. The Voice bids me tell!"
He dropped wildly to his knees, his eyes imploring.
"Oh, God!" he prayed with pallid lips, "hear this, my prayer. I havepaid in black hours of bitter suffering. I have played and lost andthe fire of life is but ashes in my hand. Give me peace--peace!"
He stayed so long upon his knees that Tregar touched him gently on theshoulder.
"Ronador," he said gently. "Come. You are very ill and know not whatyou say."
Ronador staggered blindly to his feet. Once more he waved the Baronaside and took up his terrible dialogue with the inner Voice.
"The Voice! The Voice!" he whispered. "Thou shalt not kill! Thoushalt not kill! You lie!" he cried in a sudden outburst of terriblefierceness. "He was not a fool. He loved men more than the mockeryand cant of courts. He loved--he trusted me--and I betrayed him. Whoknew when he fled wildly away from the pomp and inequalities he hated?I! Who watched for his secret letters? I! Who came to America whenhis letter of homesick pleading came? I! I! I! Who killed him whenconscience and duty would have sent him back to the court of hisfather? I, his cousin whom he loved above all men. You lie. I didlove him. I was drunk with the royal glitter ahead. I craved it evenas he hated it. Thou shalt not kill! Thou shalt not kill! Mercy!Mercy! I can not bear it."
He fell groveling upon the floor and crawled to Mic-co's feet.
"The Voice bids me tell!" he whispered, clutching fearfully at Mic-co'shand. "Twice, since, I would have killed to keep this thing of thecandlestick from creeping back and back until that thing of long agolay uncovered and I disgraced! . . . Theodomir hid in the Seminolevillage. No--no, you must listen--the Voice bids me tell or lose myreason. I came there at his bidding--his marriage to the Indian girlhad been unhappy. He was homesick and this fair land of liberty had arotten core. I struck him down and fled. You will heal and fight theVoice--"
Mic-co bent and raised the groveling figure.
"Peace!" he said, his face very white. "We will heal and quiet theVoice forever. Come!" Gently he led the sick man away.
"He will sleep
now, I think," he said a little later. "A drug is bestwhen a Voice is mocking?--"
The Baron leaned forward and caught Mic-co's arm in a grasp of iron.
"Who are you," he whispered, "that you suffer with him now? You arewhite and shaking. Who are you that you know the tongue of my country?"
Mic-co sighed.
"I," said he sadly, "am that man he thought to kill!"
White-faced, the Baron stared at the snowy beard and hair and the fine,dark eyes.
"Theodomir!" he whispered brokenly. "Theodomir! It--it can not be."
He fell to pacing the floor in violent agitation.
"The eyes are quieter," he said at length with an effort, "but the hairand heard so white! I would not have guessed--I would not haveguessed!" Again he stared.
"Are you man or saint," he cried at last, "that you can forgive as Ihave seen your eyes forgive to-night?"
"May a man look upon such remorse as that," asked Mic-co, "and notforgive? I loved him greatly. Had I loved him less--had I loved herless--that Indian wife who had no love in her heart for me, this hairof mine would not have turned snow-white when the Indians were fanningthe flickering spark of life into a blaze again."
"There is peace in your face," said Tregar a little bitterly, "and noneof the old fretful discontent. Have you no single thought of regretfor that fair land of ours you left?"
"For that fatherland of rugged mountain and silver waterfall--yes!"cried Theodomir with sudden fire. "For the festering core ofimperialism that darkens its beauty with sable wing--no! No singlethought of regret. How pitiful and absurd our Lilliputian game ofempire! What man is better than another? Tolstoi and Buddha, they arethe men who knew. Was not my wildest error," he demanded revertingafresh to the other's reproach, "that homesick letter that brought himto my side? Peace came to me, Tregar, in building this lodge, inworking in the field and hunting, in doctoring these primitive peoplewho saved my life, in teaching the child of my Indian wife--"
"The child of your wife! You mean your daughter?"
"I have no child," said Theodomir. "The girl you saw to-night is myfoster daughter, the child of my wife and the man for whose whim shebegged me to divorce her."
"No child!" exclaimed the Baron with a sickening flash of realization."My poor Ronador!"
"My kindness to her," said Mic-co, "was at first a discipline. Hermother deserted her and the old chief granted me half her life. Icould not bear the touch of her hands or the look in her eyes for manymonths, but through her, Tregar, at last I learned peace andforgiveness and forbearance, as men should. I built the lodge for herand me. I taught her the ways of her white father. I made myselfproficient in the English tongue that those traders and hunters andnaturalists who stray here might guess nothing of my origin. I shallnever again leave the peace and quiet of this island home. And you andI, Tregar, must quiet that Voice forever!"
"Is that possible?" choked Tregar.
"I think so," said Mic-co. "I think we may some day send him home withthe Voice quieted forever and the remorse and suffering healed. Had Ithought he was strong enough to bear it, I would have told himto-night."
"Let me tell you," said Tregar with strong emotion, "how I found him inthe forest, when years back I came to know this secret I have tried sohard to keep for him. I had been hunting with the King and lost my wayin the forests of Grimwald. I found him there in the thickestpart--naked, slashing his body wildly with a knife in an agony ofremorse and penance and the most terrible grief I have ever witnessed.Before he well knew what he was about he had blurted forth the wholepitiful story--that he had killed his cousin in a moment ofpassion--that he must scourge and torture his body to discipline hissoul. I--I shall not forget his face."
"Poor fellow!" said Mic-co. "My poor cousin!"
They wheeled suddenly at a choking sound in the doorway. Some wildmemory of the Grimwald had surged through the fevered brain of the sickman. His clothes were gone, his body slashed cruelly in a dozenplaces. He had torn down the buckskin curtain at his window and boundit about his body in the fashion of earlier ages. How long he hadstood there in the doorway they did not know. Now as they turned, herushed forward and flung himself with a great heart-broken sob at thefeet of his cousin.
"Theodomir! Theodomir!" he cried.
Tregar turned away from the sound of his terrible sobbing.
CHAPTER LIV
ON THE WESTFALL LAKE
Hurrying clouds curtained the silver shield of a full moon and foundthemselves fringed gloriously with ragged light. It was a lake ofwhite, whispering ghosts locking spectral branches in the wind, ofslumbering lilies rustled by the drift of a boat; a lake of checkeredlights and shadows fitfully mirroring stars at the mercy of themoon-flecked clouds. On the western shore of the wide, wind-ruffledsheet of water, on a wooded knoll, glimmered the lights of the village.
To Diane, stretched comfortably upon the cushions of the boat, whichhad drifted idly about since early twilight, the night's sounds wereindescribably peaceful. The lap and purl of water, the rustle ofbirch, the call of an owl in the forest, the noise of frog and treetoad and innumerable crickets, they were all, paradoxically enough, thewildwood sounds of silence.
With a sigh the girl presently paddled in to shore. As she moored herboat, the moon swept majestically from the clouds and shone full upon asecond boatman paddling briskly by the lily beds. The boat came onwith a musical swirl of water; the bareheaded boatman waved his handlazily to the girl standing motionless upon the moonlit wharf, and aslazily floated in.
"Hello!" he called cheerfully.
The moon, doomed to erotic service, was again upon the head of Mr.Poynter.
"It's the milkman's boat!" explained Philip smiling. "He's a mightydecent chap."
Diane's face was as pale as a lily.
"How did you know?" she asked, but her eyes, for Philip, were welcomeenough.
"I saw Carl," said he, dexterously rounding to a point at her feet."He told me."
He lazily rocked the boat, met her troubled glance with frank serenityand said with his eyes what for the moment his laughing lips withheld.
"Come, row about a bit," he said gently. "There's a lot to tell--"
"The other candlestick?"
"That," said Philip as he helped her in, "and more."
The boat shot forth into the moonlit water.
"And your father, Philip?"
"Better," said Philip and feathered his oars conspicuously in a momentof constraint. Then flushing slightly, he met her glance with hisusual frank directness. "Dad and I had quarreled, Diane," he saidquietly, "and he was fretting. And now, though the fundamental causeof grievance still remains, we're better friends. Ames, the doctor,said that helped a lot." He was silent. "A dash of Spanish," he beganthoughtfully, "a dash of Indian, and the blood of the old southerncavaliers--it's a ripping combination for loveliness, Diane!"
Not quite so pale, Diane glanced demurely at the moon.
"Yes, I know," nodded Philip with slightly impudent assurance; "but themoon is kind to lovers."
"Tell me," begged Diane with a bright flush, "about the secondcandlestick."
Somewhat reluctantly, with the moon urging him to madness, Philipobeyed. To Diane his words supplied the final link in the chain ofmystery.
"And Satterlee's yacht," finished Philip, leaning on his oars, "waslaid up in Hoboken for repairs. Carl phoned his attorneys."
"You spoke of seeing Carl?"
"Yes. He was with his father then. Telegraphed me Monday. I have yetto see such glow and warmth in the faces of men. They're going back toMic-co's lodge together for a while. Odd!" he added thoughtfully."I've known Satterlee for years, a quiet chap of wonderful kindlinessand generosity. But I've heard Dad tell mad tales of his recklesswhims when he was younger."
"And the first paper?"
"Satterlee had almost forgotten it. It's so long ago. If he thoughtat all of its discovery it was to doubt any other fate for it than
awaste-paper basket or a fire. Anything else was too preposterous. Buthe brooded a lot over the other. The most terrible results of hisfoolhardy whim Carl pledged me not to tell him. Says the blame is allhis and he'll shoulder it. What little we did reveal, horrifiedSatterlee inexpressibly. You see he'd found the candlesticks in aruined castle. They were sadly battered and he consigned them to aqueer old wood-carver to patch up. In the patching, the shallow wellscame to light, packed with faded, musty love letters from some youngSpanish gallant to somebody's inconstant wife, and the carver spoke ofthem. Satterlee impetuously bade him halt his work and wrote a wildletter to Ann Westfall begging her to let him hide the truth in thewell of the candlestick with the forlorn hope that one day Carl mightknow. This she granted. Later he had the candlesticks brought to hisapartments to be sealed in his presence. As he took from his pocketthe written account intended for Carl, another paper fluttered to thefloor. It was the deathbed statement of Theodomir which in a whimsicalmoment he had drawn up for the entertainment of your father. Hepromptly consigned it to the other well with a shrug. He was greatlyagitated and thought no more about it."
"A careless act," said Diane, "to be fraught with such terribleresults." Then she told the history of her father's letters.
"A persistent moon!" said Philip, glancing up at its mild radiance."And my head is queer again. Likely that very moon is shining on theminister in the village yonder."
"Likely," said Diane cautiously.
The boat swept boldly toward the western shore.
Diane raised questioning eyes to his.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"I'm sorry," said Philip. "I did mean to tell you before. It'sabduction."
"Abduction!"
"I'm to be married in the village to-night. And I'm awfully afraid thebenevolent old gentleman in the parsonage is waiting. He promised.Diane, I can't pretend to swing this function without you!"
"Philip!" faltered Diane and meeting his level, imploring gaze, laughedand colored deliciously.
"A matrimonial pirate!" said Philip. "That's what I am. I've got tobe."
"Aunt Agatha!" whispered Diane despairingly.
"I'll patch it up with Aunt Agatha," promised Philip. "You forget I'min strong with her now. Didn't I rescue a dime from the fish?"
"And the Seminole girl makes her lover a shirt--it's always customary--"
"You've forgotten," said that young practician with his most charmingsmile, "I've a shirt mended nicely along the sleeve and shoulder by mylady's fingers. Indeed, dear, I have it on! And to-morrow--it'sArcadia for you and me--"
Somehow, with the words came a flood of memory pictures. There wasPhilip by the camp fire in Arcadia whittling his ridiculous wildwoodpipe; Philip aboard the hay-camp and Philip in the garb of a nomadicGreek; Philip unwinding the music-machine for the staring Indians andbuilding himself a tunic with Sho-caw's sewing machine; Philip and amoon above the marsh--
Utter loyalty and unchanging protection! Shaking, the girl covered herface with her hands.
The boat's bow touched the shore; whistling softly, Philip leapedashore and moored it.
"Diane!" he said gently.
The girl raised glistening, glorified eyes to his face and smiled, aradiant smile for all her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
Philip held out his arms.
The silvered sheet of water rippled placidly at their feet. There waswind among the birches. They watched the great moon sail behind acloud and emerge, flooding the sylvan world with light.
"Sweetheart," said Philip suddenly, "I thought that Arcadia was backthere in Connecticut by the river, but it's here too! Dear littlegypsy, it is everywhere that you are!"
"It will be Arcadia--always!" said Diane, "for Arcadia isTogether-land, isn't it, Philip?"
The moon and Philip answered.
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