The Man on the Box

by Harold MacGrath

  II

  INTRODUCES MY HEROINE

  Let me begin at the beginning. The boat had been two days out ofSouthampton before the fog cleared away. On the afternoon of the thirdday, Warburton curled up in his steamer-chair and lazily viewed theblue October seas as they met and merged with the blue October skies. Ido not recollect the popular novel of that summer, but at any rate itlay flapping at the side of his chair, forgotten. It never entered myhero's mind that some poor devil of an author had sweated and laboredwith infinite pains over every line, and paragraph, and page-laboredwith all the care and love his heart and mind were capable of, toproduce this finished child of fancy; or that this same author, even atthis very moment, might be seated on the veranda of his beautifulsummer villa, figuring out royalties on the backs of stray envelopes.No, he never thought of these things.

  What with the wind and the soft, ceaseless jar of the throbbingengines, half a dream hovered above his head, and touched him with agentle, insistent caress. If you had passed by him this afternoon, andhad been anything of a mathematician who could straighten outgeometrical angles, you would have come close to his height had youstopped at five feet nine. Indeed, had you clipped off the heels of hislow shoes, you would have been exact. But all your nice calculationswould not have solved his weight. He was slender, but he was hard andcompact. These hard, slender fellows sometimes weigh more than your menof greater bulk. He tipped the scales at one hundred sixty-two, and helooked twenty pounds less. He was twenty-eight; a casual glance at him,and you would have been willing to wager that the joy of casting hisfirst vote was yet to be his.

  The princess commands that I describe in detail the charms of this ArmyAdonis. Far be it that I should disobey so august a command, being, asI am, the prime minister in this her principality of Domestic Felicity.Her brother has never ceased to be among the first in her dear regard.He possessed the merriest black eyes: his mother's eyes, as I, a boy,remember them. No matter how immobile his features might be, these eyesof his were ever ready for laughter. His nose was clean-cut andshapely. A phrenologist would have said that his head did not lack thebump of caution; but I know better. At present he wore a beard; so thisis as large an inventory of his personal attractions as I am able togive. When he shaves off his beard, I shall be pleased to add furtherparticulars. I often marvel that the women did not turn his head. Theywere always sending him notes and invitations and cutting dances forhim. Perhaps his devil-may-care air had something to do with theenchantment. I have yet to see his equal as a horseman. He would havemade it interesting for that pair of milk-whites which our old friend,Ulysses (or was it Diomedes?) had such ado about.

  Every man has some vice or other, even if it is only being good.Warburton had perhaps two: poker and tobacco. He would get out of bedat any hour if some congenial spirit knocked at the door and whisperedthat a little game was in progress, and that his money was needed tokeep it going. I dare say that you know all about these little games.But what would you? What is a man to do in a country where you may buya whole village for ten dollars? Warburton seldom drank, and, like theauthor of this precious volume, only special vintages.

  At this particular moment this hero of mine was going over the monotonyof the old days in Arizona, the sand-deserts, the unlovely landscapes,the dull routine, the indifferent skirmishes with cattle-men andIndians; the pagan bullet which had plowed through his leg. And now itwas all over; he had surrendered his straps; he was a private citizen,with an income sufficient for his needs. It will go a long way,forty-five hundred a year, if one does not attempt to cover thedistance in a five-thousand motor-car; and he hated all locomotion thatwas not horse-flesh.

  For nine months he had been wandering over Europe, if not happy, atleast in a satisfied frame of mind. Four of these months had beendelightfully passed in Paris; and, as his nomad excursions hadinvariably terminated in that queen of cities, I make Paris thestarting point of his somewhat remarkable adventures. Besides, it wasin Paris that he first saw Her. And now, here he was at last,homeward-bound. That phrase had a mighty pleasant sound; it was to theear what honey is to the tongue. Still, he might yet have been in Parisbut for one thing: She was on board this very boat.

  Suddenly his eyes opened full wide, bright with eagerness.

  "It is She!" he murmured. He closed his eyes again, the hypocrite!

  Permit me to introduce you to my heroine. Mind you, she is not _my_creation; only Heaven may produce her like, and but once. She is wellworth turning around to gaze at. Indeed I know more than one finegentleman who forgot the time of day, the important engagement, or thetrend of his thought, when she passed by.

  She was coming forward, leaning against the wind and inclining to theuncertain roll of the ship. A gray raincoat fitted snugly the youthfulrounded figure. Her hands were plunged into the pockets. You may besure that Mr. Robert noted through his half-closed eyelids theseinconsequent details. A tourist hat sat jauntily on the fine lightbrown hair, that color which has no appropriate metaphor. (At least, Ihave never found one, and I am _not_ in love with her and _never_ was.)Warburton has described to me her eyes, so I am positive that they wereas heavenly blue as a rajah's sapphire. Her height is of no moment.What man ever troubled himself about the height of a woman, so long ashe wasn't undersized himself? What pleased Warburton was the exquisiteskin. He was always happy with his comparisons, and particularly whenhe likened her skin to the bloomy olive pallor of a young peach. Theindependent stride was distinguishingly American. Ah, the charm ofthese women who are my countrywomen! They come, they go, alone,unattended, courageous without being bold, self-reliant without beingrude; inimitable. In what an amiable frame of mind Nature must havebeen on the day she cast these molds! But I proceed. The young woman'schin was tilted, and Warburton could tell by the dilated nostrils thatshe was breathing in the gale with all the joy of living, filling herhealthy lungs with it as that rare daughter of the Cyprian Isle mighthave done as she sprang that morn from the jeweled Mediterranean spray,that beggar's brooch of Neptune's.

  Warburton's heart hadn't thrilled so since the day when he first donnedcadet gray. There was scarce any room for her to pass between his chairand the rail; and this knowledge filled the rascal with exultation.Nearer and nearer she came. He drew in his breath sharply as the cornerof his foot-rest (aided by the sly wind) caught her raincoat.

  "I beg your pardon!" he said, sitting up.

  She quickly released her coat, smiled faintly, and passed on.

  Sometimes the most lasting impressions are those which are printed mostlightly on the memory. Mr. Robert says that he never will forget thatfirst smile. And he didn't even know her name then.

  I was about to engage your attention with a description of the villain,but on second thought I have decided that it would be rather unfair.For at that moment he was at a disadvantage. Nature was punishing himfor a few shortcomings. The steward that night informed Warburton, inanswer to his inquiries, that he, the villain, was dreadfully seasick,and was begging him, the steward, to scuttle the ship and have donewith it. I have my doubts regarding this. Mr. Robert is inclined toflippancy at times. It wasn't seasickness; and after all is said anddone, it is putting it harshly to call this man a villain. I recant.True villainy is always based upon selfishness. Remember this, my wiseones.

  Warburton was somewhat subdued when he learned that the sufferinggentleman was _her_ father.

  "What did you say the name was?" he asked innocently. Until now hehadn't had the courage to put the question to any one, or to prowlaround the purser's books.

  "Annesley; Colonel Annesley and daughter," answered the unsuspectingsteward.

  Warburton knew nothing then of the mental tragedy going on behind thecolonel's state-room door. How should he have known? On the contrary,he believed that the father of such a girl must be a most knightly andcourtly gentleman. He _was_, in all outward appearance. There had beena time, not long since, when he had been knightly and courtly in allthings.

  Surrounding every upright ma
n there is a mire, and if he step notwisely, he is lost. There is no coming back; step by step he must go onand on, till he vanishes and a bubble rises over where he but latelystood. That he misstepped innocently does not matter; mire and evilhave neither pity nor reason. To spend what is not ours and then to tryto recover it, to hide the guilty step: this is futility. From thealpha men have made this step; to the omega they will make it, with thesame unchanging futility. After all, it _is_ money. Money _is_ the rootof all evil; let him laugh who will, in his heart of hearts he knows it.

  Money! Have you never heard that siren call to you, call seductivelyfrom her ragged isle, where lurk the reefs of greed and selfishness?Money! What has this siren not to offer? Power, ease, glory, luxury;aye, I had almost said love! But, no; love is the gift of God, money isthe invention of man: all the good, all the evil, in the heart of thisgreat humanity.