Curiously weary of a sudden, he sat down, resting his head on one hand. The Tracer watched him, bent partly over his desk. From moment to moment he tore minute pieces from the blotter, or drew imaginary circles and arabesques on his pad with an inkless pen.
“Perhaps I could help you, after all — if you’d let me try,” he said quietly.
“Dou you mean — me?” asked Burke, without raising his head.
“If you like — yes, you — or any man in trouble — in perplexity — in the uncertain deductions which arise from an attempt at self-analysis.”
“It is true; I am trying to analyze myself. I believe that I don’t know how. All has been mere impulse — so far. No, I don’t know how to analyze it all.”
“I do,” said the Tracer.
Burke raised his level, unbelieving eyes.
“You are in love,” said the Tracer.
After a long time Burke looked up again. “Do you think so?”
“Yes. Can I help you?” asked the Tracer pleasantly.
The young man sat silent, frowning into space; then:
“I tell you plainly enough that I have come here to argue with two men at the end of a pistol; and — you tell me I’m in love. By what logic—”
“It is written in your face, Mr. Burke — in your eyes, in every feature, every muscle’s contraction, every modulation of your voice. My tables, containing six hundred classified superficial phenomena peculiar to all human emotions, have been compiled and scientifically arranged according to Bertillon’s system. It is an absolutely accurate key to every phase of human emotion, from hate, through all its amazingly paradoxical phenomena, to love, with all its genera under the suborder — all its species, subspecies, and varieties.”
He leaned back, surveying the young man with kindly amusement.
“You talk of pistol range, but you are thinking of something more fatal than bullets, Mr. Burke. You are thinking of love — of the first, great, absorbing, unreasoning passion that has ever shaken you, blinded you, seized you and dragged you out of the ordered path of life, to push you violently into the strange and unexplored! That is what stares out on the world through those haunted eyes of yours, when the smile dies out and you are off your guard; that is what is hardening those flat, clean bands of muscle in jaw and cheek; that is what those hints of shadow mean beneath the eye, that new and delicate pinch to the nostril, that refining, almost to sharpness, of the nose, that sensitive edging to the lips, and the lean delicacy of the chin.”
He bent slightly forward in his chair.
“There is all that there, Mr. Burke, and something else — the glimmering dawn of desperation.”
“Yes,” said the other, “that is there. I am desperate.”
“Exactly. Also you wear two revolvers in a light, leather harness strapped up under your armpits,” said the Tracer, laughing. “Take them off, Mr. Burke. There is nothing to be gained in shooting up Mr. Smiles or converting Mr. Gandon into nitrates.”
“If it is a matter where one man can help another,” the Tracer added simply, “it would give me pleasure to place my resources at your command — without recompense—”
“Mr. Keen!” said Burke, astonished.
“Yes?”
“You are very amiable; I had not wished — had not expected anything except professional interest from you.”
“Why not? I like you, Mr. Burke.”
The utter disarming candor of this quiet, elderly gentleman silenced the younger man with a suddenness born of emotions long crushed, long relentlessly mastered, and which now, in revolt, shook him fiercely in every fiber. All at once he felt very young, very helpless in the world — that same world through which, until within a few weeks, he had roved so confidently, so arrogantly, challenging man and the gods themselves in the pride of his strength and youth.
But now, halting, bewildered, lost amid the strange maze of byways whither impulse had lured and abandoned him, he looked out into a world of wilderness and unfamiliar stars and shadow shapes undreamed of, and he knew not which way to turn — not even how to return along the ways his impetuous feet had trodden in this strange and hopeless quest of his.
“How can you help me?” he said bluntly, while the quivering undertone rang in spite of him. “Yes, I am in love; but how can any living man help me?”
“Are you in love with the dead?” asked the Tracer gravely. “For that only is hopeless. Are you in love with one who is not living?”
“Yes.”
“You love one whom you know to be dead?”
“Yes; dead.”
“How do you know that she is dead?”
“That is not the question. I knew that when I fell in love with her. It is not that which appals me; I ask nothing more than to live my life out loving the dead. I — I ask very little.”
He passed his unsteady hand across his dry lips, across his eyes and forehead, then laid his clinched fist on the table.
“Some men remain constant to a memory; some to a picture — sane, wholesome, normal men. Some men, with a fixed ideal, never encounter its facsimile, and so never love. There is nothing strange, after all, in this; nothing abnormal, nothing unwholesome. Grünwald loved the marble head and shoulders of the lovely Amazon in the Munich Museum; he died unmarried, leaving the charities and good deeds of a blameless life to justify him. Sir Henry Guest, the great surgeon who worked among the poor without recompense, loved Gainsborough’s ‘Lady Wilton.’ The portrait hangs above his tomb in St. Clement’s Hundreds. D’Epernay loved Mlle. Jeanne Vacaresco, who died before he was born. And I — I love in my own fashion.”
His low voice rang with the repressed undertone of excitement; he opened and closed his clinched hand as though controlling the lever of his emotions.
“What can you do for a man who loves the shadow of Life?” he asked.
“If you love the shadow because the substance has passed away — if you love the soul because the dust has returned to the earth as it was—”
“It has not!” said the younger man.
The Tracer said very gravely: “It is written that whenever ‘the Silver Cord’ is loosed, ‘then shall the dust return unto the earth as it was, and the spirit shall return unto Him who gave it.’”
“The spirit — yes; that has taken its splendid flight—”
His voice choked up, died out; he strove to speak again, but could not. The Tracer let him alone, and bent again over his desk, drawing imaginary circles on the stained blotter, while moment after moment passed under the tension of that fiercest of all struggles, when a man sits throttling his own soul into silence.
And, after a long time, Burke lifted a haggard face from the cradle of his crossed arms and shook his shoulders, drawing a deep, steady breath.
“Listen to me!” he said in an altered voice.
And the Tracer of Lost Persons nodded.
CHAPTER XVIII
“When I left the Point I was assigned to the colored cavalry. They are good men; we went up Kettle Hill together. Then came the Philippine troubles, then that Chinese affair. Then I did staff duty, and could not stand the inactivity and resigned. They had no use for me in Manchuria; I tired of waiting, and went to Venezuela. The prospects for service there were absurd; I heard of the Moorish troubles and went to Morocco. Others of my sort swarmed there; matters dragged and dragged, and the Kaiser never meant business, anyway.
“Being independent, and my means permitting me, I got some shooting in the back country. This all degenerated into the merest nomadic wandering — nothing but sand, camels, ruins, tents, white walls, and blue skies. And at last I came to the town of Sa-el-Hagar.”
His voice died out; his restless, haunted eyes became fixed.
“Sa-el-Hagar, once ancient Saïs,” repeated the Tracer quietly; and the young man looked at him.
“You know that?”
“Yes,” said the Tracer.
For a while Burke remained silent, preoccupied, then, resting his chin on his h
and and speaking in a curiously monotonous voice, as though repeating to himself by rote, he went on:
“The town is on the heights — have you a pencil? Thank you. Here is the town of Sa-el-Hagar, here are the ruins, here is the wall, and somewhere hereabouts should be the buried temple of Neith, which nobody has found.” He shifted his pencil. “Here is the lake of Saïs; here, standing all alone on the plain, are those great monolithic pillars stretching away into perspective — four hundred of them in all — a hundred and nine still upright. There were one hundred and ten when I arrived at El Teb Wells.”
He looked across at the Tracer, repeating: “One hundred and ten — when I arrived. One fell the first night — a distant pillar far away on the horizon. Four thousand years had it stood there. And it fell — the first night of my arrival. I heard it; the nights are cold at El Teb Wells, and I was lying awake, all a-shiver, counting the stars to make me sleep. And very, very far away in the desert I heard and felt the shock of its fall — the fall of forty centuries under the Egyptian stars.”
His eyes grew dreamy; a slight glow had stained his face.
“Did you ever halt suddenly in the Northern forests, listening, as though a distant voice had hailed you? Then you understand why that far, dull sound from the dark horizon brought me to my feet, bewildered, listening, as though my own name had been spoken.
“I heard the wind in the tents and the stir of camels; I heard the reeds whispering on Saïs Lake and the yap-yap of a shivering jackal; and always, always, the hushed echo in my ears of my own name called across the star-lit waste.
“At dawn I had forgotten. An Arab told me that a pillar had fallen; it was all the same to me, to him, to the others, too. The sun came out hot. I like heat. My men sprawled in the tents; some watered, some went up to the town to gossip in the bazaar. I mounted and cast bridle on neck — you see how much I cared where I went! In two hours we had completed a circle — like a ruddy hawk above El Teb. And my horse halted beside the fallen pillar.”
As he spoke his language had become very simple, very direct, almost without accent, and he spoke slowly, picking his way with that lack of inflection, of emotion characteristic of a child reading a new reader.
“The column had fallen from its base, eastward, and with its base it had upheaved another buried base, laying bare a sort of cellar and a flight of stone steps descending into darkness.
“Into this excavation the sand was still running in tiny rivulets. Listening, I could hear it pattering far, far down into the shadows.
“Sitting there in the saddle, the thing explained itself as I looked. The fallen pillar had been built upon older ruins; all Egypt is that way, ruin founded on the ruin of ruins — like human hopes.
“The stone steps, descending into the shadow of remote ages, invited me. I dismounted, walked to the edge of the excavation, and, kneeling, peered downward. And I saw a wall and the lotus-carved rim of a vast stone-framed pool; and as I looked I heard the tinkle of water. For the pillar, falling, had unbottled the ancient spring, and now the stone-framed lagoon was slowly filling after its drought of centuries.
“There was light enough to see by, but, not knowing how far I might penetrate, I returned to my horse, pocketed matches and candles from the saddlebags, and, returning, started straight down the steps of stone.
“Fountain, wall, lagoon, steps, terraces half buried — all showed what the place had been: a water garden of ancient Egypt — probably royal — because, although I am not able to decipher hieroglyphics, I have heard somewhere that these picture inscriptions, when inclosed in a cartouch like this” — he drew rapidly —
“or this
indicate that the subject of the inscription was once a king.
“And on every wall, every column, I saw the insignia of ancient royalty, and I saw strange hawk-headed figures bearing symbols engraved on stone — beasts, birds, fishes, unknown signs and symbols; and everywhere the lotus carved in stone — the bud, the blossom half-inclosed, the perfect flower.”
His dreamy eyes met the gaze of the Tracer, unseeing; he rested his sunburned face between both palms, speaking in the same vague monotone:
“Everywhere dust, ashes, decay, the death of life, the utter annihilation of the living — save only the sparkle of reborn waters slowly covering the baked bed of the stone-edged pool — strange, luminous water, lacking the vital sky tint, enameled with a film of dust, yet, for all that, quickening with imprisoned brilliancy like an opal.
“The slow filling of the pool fascinated me; I stood I know not how long watching the thin film of water spreading away into the dimness beyond. At last I turned and passed curiously along the wall where, at its base, mounds of dust marked what may have been trees. Into these I probed with my riding crop, but discovered nothing except the depths of the dust.
“When I had penetrated the ghost of this ancient garden for a thousand yards the light from the opening was no longer of any service. I lighted a candle; and its yellow rays fell upon a square portal into which led another flight of steps. And I went down.
“There were eighteen steps descending into a square stone room. Strange gleams and glimmers from wall and ceiling flashed dimly in my eyes under the wavering flame of the candle. Then the flame grew still — still as death — and Death lay at my feet — there on the stone floor — a man, square shouldered, hairless, the cobwebs of his tunic mantling him, lying face downward, arms outflung.
“After a moment I stooped and touched him, and the entire prostrate figure dissolved into dust where it lay, leaving at my feet a shadow shape in thin silhouette against the pavement — merely a gray layer of finest dust shaped like a man, a tracery of impalpable powder on the stones.
“Upward and around me I passed the burning candle; vast figures in blue and red and gold grew out of the darkness; the painted walls sparkled; the shadows that had slept through all those centuries trembled and shrank away into distant corners.
“And then — and then I saw the gold edges of her sandals sparkle in the darkness, and the clasped girdle of virgin gold around her slender waist glimmered like purest flame!”
Burke, leaning far across the table, interlocked hands tightening, stared and stared into space. A smile edged his mouth; his voice grew wonderfully gentle:
“Why, she was scarcely eighteen — this child — there so motionless, so lifelike, with the sandals edging her little upturned feet, and the small hands of her folded between the breasts. It was as though she had just stretched herself out there — scarcely sound asleep as yet, and her thick, silky hair — cut as they cut children’s hair in these days, you know — cradled her head and cheeks.
“‘As though . . . scarcely sound asleep as yet.’”
“So marvelous the mimicry of life, so absolute the deception of breathing sleep, that I scarce dared move, fearing to awaken her.
“When I did move I forgot the dusty shape of the dead at my feet, and left, full across his neck, the imprint of a spurred riding boot. It gave me my first shudder; I turned, feeling beneath my foot the soft, yielding powder, and stood aghast. Then — it is absurd! — but I felt as a man feels who has trodden inadvertently upon another’s foot — and in an impulse of reparation I stooped hastily and attempted to smooth out the mortal dust which bore the imprint of my heel. But the fine powder flaked my glove, and, looking about for something to compose the ashes with, I picked up a papyrus scroll. Perhaps he himself had written on it; nobody can ever know, and I used it as a sort of hoe to scrape him together and smooth him out on the stones.”
The young man drew a yellowish roll of paper-like substance from his pocket and laid it on the table.
“This is the same papyrus,” he said. “I had forgotten that I carried it away with me until I found it in my shooting coat while packing to sail for New York.”
The Tracer of Lost Persons reached over and picked up the scroll. It was flexible still, but brittle; he opened it with great care, considered the strange figures upon it fo
r a while, then turned almost sharply on his visitor.
“Go on,” he said.
And Burke went on:
“The candle was burning low; I lighted two more, placing them at her head and feet on the edges of the stone couch. Then, lighting a third candle, I stood beside the couch and looked down at the dead girl under her veil-like robe, set with golden stars.”
He passed his hand wearily over his hair and forehead.
“I do not know what the accepted meaning of beauty may be if it was not there under my eyes. Flawless as palest amber ivory and rose, the smooth-flowing contours melted into exquisite symmetry; lashes like darkest velvet rested on the pure curve of the cheeks; the closed lids, the mouth still faintly stained with color, the delicate nose, the full, childish lips, sensitive, sweet, resting softly upon each other — if these were not all parts of but one lovely miracle, then there is no beauty save in a dream of Paradise. . . .
“A gold band of linked scarabs bound her short, thick hair straight across the forehead; thin scales of gold fell from a necklace, clothing her breasts in brilliant discolored metal, through which ivory-tinted skin showed. A belt of pure, soft gold clasped her body at the waist; gold-edged sandals clung to her little feet.
“At first, when the stunned surprise had subsided, I thought that I was looking upon some miracle of ancient embalming, hitherto unknown. Yet, in the smooth skin there was no slit to prove it, no opening in any vein or artery, no mutilation of this sculptured masterpiece of the Most High, no cerements, no bandages, no gilded carven case with painted face to stare open eyed through the wailing cycles.
“This was the image of sleep — of life unconscious — not of death. Yet is was death — death that had come upon her centuries and centuries ago; for the gold had turned iridescent and magnificently discolored; the sandal straps fell into dust as I bent above them, leaving the sandals clinging to her feet only by the wired silver core of the thongs. And, as I touched it fearfully, the veil-like garment covering her, vanished into thin air, its metal stars twinkling in a shower around her on the stone floor.”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 273