The Pagan Madonna

by Harold MacGrath

  CHAPTER V

  Father and son! For a while Jane had the sensation of walking uponunsubstantial floors, of seeing unsubstantial objects. The encounter didnot seem real, human. Father and son, and they had not rushed into eachother's arms! No matter what had happened in the past, there should havebeen some human sign other than astonishment. At the very least two orthree years had separated them. Just stared for a moment, and passed on!

  Hypnotism is a fact; a word or a situation will create this peculiar stateof mind. Father and son! The phrase actually hypnotized Jane, and sheremained in the clutch of it until hours later, which may account for theamazing events into which she permitted herself to be drawn. Father andson! Her actions were normal; her mental state was not observable; butinwardly she retained no clear recollection of the hours that intervenedbetween this and the astonishing climax. As from a distance, she heard thevoice of the son:

  "Looks rum to you, no doubt. But I can't tell you the story--at least notnow. It's the story of a tomfool. I had no idea he was on this side. Ihaven't laid eyes on him in seven years. Dinner at seven. I'll have thatgermicide sent up to your room."

  The captain nodded abruptly and made off toward the entrance.

  Jane understood. He wanted to be alone--to catch his breath, as it were.At any rate, that was a human sign that something besides astonishment wasstirring within. So she walked mechanically over to the bookstall andhazily glanced at the backs of the new novels, riffled the pages of amagazine; and to this day she cannot recall whether the clerk was a man ora woman, white or brown or yellow, for a hand touched her sleeve lightly,compelling her attention. Dennison's father stood beside her.

  "Pardon me, but may I ask you a question?"

  Jane dropped the fur collaret in her confusion. They both stooped for it,and collided gently; but in rising the man glimpsed the string of glassbeads.

  "Thank you," said Jane, as she received the collaret. "What is it you wishto ask of me?"

  "The name of the man you were with."

  "Dennison; his own and yours--probably," she said with spirit, for shetook sides in that moment, and was positive that the blame for theestrangement lay with the father. The level, unagitated voice irritatedher; she resented it. He wasn't human!

  "My name is Cleigh--Anthony Cleigh. Thank you."

  Cleigh bowed politely and moved away. Behind that calm, impenetrable mask,however, was turmoil, kaleidoscopic, whirling too quickly for the brain tograsp or hold definite shapes. The boy here! And the girl with those beadsround her throat! For the subsidence of this turmoil it was needful tohave space; so Cleigh strode out of the lobby into the fading day, madehis way across the bridge, and sought the Bund. He forgot all about hisappointment with Cunningham.

  He lit a cigar and walked on and on, oblivious of the cries of the'ricksha boys, importunate beggars, the human currents that broke andflowed each side of him. The boy here in Shanghai! And that girl withthose beads round her throat! It was as though his head had become atom-tom in the hands of fate. The drumming made it impossible to thinkclearly. It was the springing up of the electric lights that brought himback to actualities. He looked at his watch.

  He had been tramping up and down the Bund for two solid hours.

  And now came, clearly defined, the idea for which he had been searching.He indulged in a series of rumbling chuckles. You will have heard such asound in the forest when a stream suddenly takes on a merry mood--brokenwater.

  To return to Jane, whom Cleigh had left in a state of growing hypnosis.She was able to act and think intelligently, but the spell lay like a fogupon her will, enervating it. She grasped the situation clearly enough; itwas tremendous. She had heard of Anthony Cleigh. Who in America had not?Father and son, and they had passed each other without a nod! Had she notbeen a witness to the episode, she would not have believed such aperformance possible.

  Through the fog burst a clear point of light. This was not the first timeshe had encountered Anthony Cleigh. Where had she seen him before, andunder what circumstance? Later, when she was alone, she would dig into herstorehouse of recollection. Certainly she must bring back that episode.One thing, she had not known him as Anthony Cleigh.

  Father and son, and they had not spoken! It was this that beatpersistently upon her mind. What dramatic event had created such acondition? After seven years! These two, strong mentally and physically,in a private war! She understood now how it was that Dennison had beenable to tell her about Monte Carlo, the South Sea Islands, Africa, Asia;he had been his father's companion on the yacht.

  Mechanically she approached the lift. In her room all her actions weremore or less mechanical. From the back of her mind somewhere came theorder to her hands. She took down the evening gown. This time the subtleodour of lavender left her untouched. To be beautiful, to wish that shewere beautiful! Why? Her hair was lovely; her neck and arms were lovely;but her nose wasn't right, her mouth was too large, and her eyes missedbeing either blue or hazel. Why did she wish to be beautiful?

  Always to be poor, to be hanging on the edge of things, never enough ofthis or that--genteel poverty. She had inherited the condition, as had hermother before her--gentlefolk who had to count the pennies. Her twosisters--really handsome girls--had married fairly well; but one lived inSt. Louis and the other in Seattle, so she never saw them any more.

  Tired. That was it. Tired of the war for existence; tired of the followingodours of antiseptics; tired of the white walls of hospitals, the sight ofpain. On top of all, the level dullness of the past, the leaden horror ofthese months in Siberia. She laughed brokenly. Gardens scattered all overthe world, and she couldn't find one--the gardens of imagination! Romanceeverywhere, and she never could touch any of it!

  Marriage. Outside of books, what was it save a legal contract to cook andbear children in exchange for food and clothes? The humdrum! She flung outher arms with a gesture of rage. She had been cheated, as always. She hadcome to this side of the world expecting colour, movement, adventure. TheOrient of the novels she had read--where was it? Drab skies, drab people,drab work! And now to return to America, to exchange one drab job foranother! Nadir, always nadir, never any zenith!

  Her bitter cogitations were interrupted by a knock on the door. She threwon her kimono and answered. A yellow hand thrust a bottle toward her. Itwould be the wash for the jade. She emptied the soap dish, cleaned it,poured in the germicide, and dropped the jade necklace into the liquid.She left it there while she dressed.

  Dennison Cleigh, returning to the States to look for a job! Nothing shehad ever read seemed quite so fantastic. She paused in her dressing tostare at some inner thought which she projected upon the starred curtainof the night beyond her window. Supposing they had wanted to flingthemselves into each other's arms and hadn't known how? She had had aglimpse or two of Dennison's fierce pride. Naturally he had inherited itfrom his father. Supposing they were just stupid rather than vengeful?Poor, foolish human beings!

  She proceeded with her toilet. Finishing that, she cleansed the jadenecklace with soap and water, then realized that she would not be able towear it, because the string would be damp. So she put on the glass beadsinstead--another move by the Madonna of the Pagan. Jane Norman was to haveher fling.

  Dennison was in the lobby waiting for her. He gave a little gasp ofdelight as he beheld her. Of whom and of what did she remind him? Somebodyhe had seen, somebody he had read about? For the present it escaped him.Was she handsome? He could not say; but there was that in her face thatwas always pulling his glance and troubling him for the want of knowingwhy.

  The way she carried herself among men had always impressed him. Fearlessand friendly, and with deep understanding, she created respect wherevershe went. Men, toughened and coarsened by danger and hardship, somehowunderstood that Jane Norman was not the sort to make love to because onehappened to be bored. On the other hand, there was something in her thatcalled to every man, as a candle calls to the moth; only there were noburnt wings; there seemed to be some invi
sible barrier that kept thecircling moths beyond the zone of incineration.

  Was there fire in her? He wondered. That copper tint in her hair suggestedit. Magnificent! And what the deuce was the colour of her eyes? Sometimesthere was a glint of topaz, or cornflower sapphire, gray agate; they werethe most tantalizing eyes he had ever gazed into.

  "Hungry?" he greeted her.

  "For fourteen months!"

  "Do you know what?"

  "What?"

  "I'd give a year of my life for a club steak and all the regularfixings."

  "That isn't fair! You've gone and spoiled my dinner."

  "Wishy-washy chicken! How I hate tin cans! Pancakes and maple syrup!What?"

  "Sliced tomatoes with sugar and vinegar!"

  "You don't mean that!"

  "I do! I don't care how plebeian it is. Bread and butter and slicedtomatoes with sugar and vinegar--better than all the ice cream that everwas! Childhood ambrosia! For mercy's sake, let's get in before all thewings are gone!"

  They entered the huge dining room with its pattering Chinese boys--enteredit laughing--while all the time there was at bottom a single identicalthought--the father.

  Would they see him again? Would he be here at one of the tables? Would abreak come, or would the affair go on eternally?

  "I know what it is!" he cried, breaking through the spell.

  "What?"

  "Ever read 'Phra the Phoenician'?"

  "Why, yes. But what is what?"

  "For days I've been trying to place you. You're the British heroine!"

  She thought for a moment to recall the physical attributes of thisheroine.

  "But I'm not red-headed!" she denied, indignantly.

  "But it is! It is the most beautiful head of hair I ever laid eyes on."

  "And that is the beginning and the end of me," she returned with a littlecatch in her voice.

  The knowledge bore down upon her that her soul was thirsty for this kindof talk. She did not care whether he was in earnest or not.

  "The beginning, but not the end of you. Your eyes are fine, too. They keepme wondering all the time what colour they really are."

  "That's very nice of you."

  "And the way you carry yourself!"

  "Good gracious!"

  "You look as if you had come down from Olympus and had lost the wayback."

  "Captain, you're a dear! I've just been wild to have a man say foolishthings to me." She knew that she might play with this man; that he wouldnever venture across the line. "Men have said foolish things to me, butalways when I was too busy to bother. To-night I haven't anything in thiswide world to do but listen. Go on."

  He laughed, perhaps a little ruefully.

  "Is there any fire in you, I wonder?"

  "Well?"--tantalizing.

  "Honestly, I should like to see you in a rage. I've been watching you forweeks, and have found myself irritated by that perpetual calm of yours.That day of the riot you stood on the curb as unconcerned as though youhad been witnessing a movie."

  "It is possible that it is the result of seeing so much pain and misery. Ihave been a machine too long. I want to be thrust into the middle of somefairy story before I die. I have never been in love, in a violent rage. Ihaven't known anything but work and an abiding discontent. Red hair----"

  "But it really isn't red. It's like the copper beech in the sunshine, fullof glowing embers."

  "Are you a poet?"

  "On my word, I don't know what I am."

  "There is fire enough in you. The way you tossed about our boys and theJaps!"

  "In the blood. My father and I used to dress for dinner, but we alwayscarried the stone axe under our coats. We were both to blame, but only amiracle will ever bring us together. I'm sorry I ran into him. It bringsthe old days crowding back."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Oh, I'll survive! Somewhere there's a niche for me, and sooner or laterI'll find it."

  "He stopped me in the lobby after you left. Wanted to know what name youwere using. I told him rather bluntly--and he went on. Something in hisvoice--made me want to strike him!"

  Dennison balanced a fork on a finger.

  "Funny old world, isn't it?"

  "Very. But I've seen him somewhere before. Perhaps in a little while itwill come back.... What an extraordinarily handsome man!"

  "Where?"--with a touch of brusqueness.

  "Sitting at the table on your left."

  The captain turned. The man at the other table caught his eye, smiled, androse. As he approached Jane noticed with a touch of pity that the manlimped oddly. His left leg seemed to slue about queerly just before ittouched the floor.

  "Well, well! Captain Cleigh!"

  Dennison accepted the proffered hand, but coldly.

  "On the way back to the States?"

  "Yes."

  "The _Wanderer_ is down the river. I suppose you'll be going home onher?"

  "My orders prevent that."

  "Run into the old boy?"

  "Naturally," with a wry smile at Jane. "Miss Norman, Mr. Cunningham. Wherethe shark is, there will be the pilot fish."

  The stranger turned his eyes toward Jane's. The beauty of those dark eyesstartled her. Fire opals! They seemed to dig down into her very soul, asif searching for something. He bowed gravely and limped back to histable.

  "I begin to understand," was Dennison's comment.

  "Understand what?"

  "All this racket about those beads. My father and this man Cunningham inthe same town generally has significance. It is eight years since I sawCunningham. Of course I could not forget his face, but it's ratherremarkable that he remembered mine. He is--if you tear away theromance--nothing more or less than a thief."

  "A thief?"--astonishedly.

  "Not the ordinary kind; something of a prince of thieves. He makes itpossible--he and his ilk--for men like my father to establish privatemuseums. And now I'm going to ask you to do me a favour. It's just ahunch. Hide those beads the moment you reach your room. They are yours asmuch as any one's, and they may bring you a fancy penny--if my hunch isworth anything. Hang that pigtail, for getting you mixed up in this! Idon't like it."

  Jane's hand went slowly to her throat; and even as her fingers touched thebeads, now warm from contact, she became aware of something electricalwhich drew her eyes compellingly toward the man with the face of Ganymedeand the limp of Vulcan. Four times she fought in vain, during dinner, thatdrawing, burning glance--and it troubled her. Never before had a man's eyeforced hers in this indescribable fashion. It was almost as if the man hadsaid, "Look at me! Look at me!"

  After coffee she decided to retire, and bade Dennison good-night. Once inher room she laid the beads on the dresser and sat down by the window torecast the remarkable ending of this day. From the stars to the room, fromthe room to the stars, her glance roved uneasily. Had she fallen upon anadventure? Was Dennison's theory correct regarding the beads? She rose andwent to the dresser, inspecting the beads carefully. Positively glass!That Anthony Cleigh should be seeking a string of glass beads seemedarrant nonsense.

  She hung the beads on her throat and viewed the result in the mirror. Itwas then that her eye met a golden glint. She turned to see what hadcaused it, and was astonished to discover on the floor near the moldingthat poor Chinaman's brass hand warmer. She picked it up and turned backthe jigsawed lid. The receptacle was filled with the ash of punk andcharcoal.

  There came a knock on the door.