The Pagan Madonna

by Harold MacGrath

  CHAPTER XXI

  A good deal of orderly commotion took place the following morning.Cunningham's crew, under the temporary leadership of Cleve, proceeded tomake everything shipshape. There was no exuberance; they went at thebusiness quietly and grimly. They sensed a shadow overhead. The revolt ofthe six discovered to the others what a rickety bridge they were crossing,how easily and swiftly a jest may become a tragedy.

  They had accepted the game as a kind of huge joke. Everything had beenprepared against failure; it was all cut and dried; all they had to do wasto believe themselves. For days they had gone about their various dutiesthinking only of the gay time that would fall to their lot when they leftthe _Wanderer_. The possibility that Cleigh would not proceed in themanner advanced by Cunningham's psychology never bothered them until now.Supposing the old man's desire for vengeance was stronger than his lovefor his art objects? He was a fighter; he had proved it last night.Supposing he put up a fight and called in the British to help him?

  Not one of them but knew what the penalty would be if pursued and caught.But Cunningham had persuaded them up to this hour that they would not evenbe pursued; that it would not be humanly possible for Cleigh to surrenderthe hope of eventually recovering his unlawful possessions. And now theybegan to wonder, to fret secretly, to reconsider the ancient saying thatthe way of the transgressor is hard.

  On land they could have separated and hidden successfully. Here at sea thewireless was an inescapable net. Their only hope was to carry on.Cunningham might pull them through. For, having his own hide to consider,he would bring to bear upon the adventure all his formidable ingenuity.

  At eleven the commotion subsided magically and the men vanished below, butat four-thirty they swarmed the port bow, silently if interestedly. Ifthey talked at all it was in a whispering undertone.

  The mutinous revellers formed a group of their own. They appeared to havebeen roughly handled by the Cleighs. The attitude was humble, theexpression worriedly sorrowful. Why hadn't they beat a retreat? Thepsychology of their madness escaped them utterly. There was one grain ofluck--they hadn't killed young Cleigh. What fool had swung that bottle?Not one of them could recall.

  The engines of the _Wanderer_ stopped, and she rolled lazily in thebillowing brass, waiting.

  Out of the blinding topaz of the sou'west nosed a black object, illusory.It appeared to ride neither wind nor water.

  From the bridge Cleigh eyed this object dourly, and with a swollen hearthe glanced from time to time at the crates and casings stacked below. Heknew that he would never set eyes upon any of these treasures again. Whenthey were lowered over the side that would be the end of them. Cunninghammight be telling the truth as to his intentions; but he was promisingsomething that was not conceivably possible, any more than it was possibleto play at piracy and not get hurt.

  At Cleigh's side stood the son, his head swathed in bandages. All day longhe had been subjected to splitting headaches, and his face looked tiredand drawn. He had stayed in bed until he had heard "Ship ahoy!"

  "Are you going to start something?" he asked.

  Cleigh did not answer, but peered through the glass again.

  "I don't see how you're going to land him without the British. On theother hand, you can't tell. Cunningham might bring the stuff back."

  Cleigh laughed, but still held the glass to his eye.

  "When and where are you going to get married?"

  "Manila. Jane wants to go home, and I want a job."

  Cleigh touched his split lips and his bruised cheekbone, for he had had topay for his gallantry; and there was a spot in his small ribs that rackedhim whenever he breathed deeply.

  "What the devil do you want of a job?"

  "You're not thinking that I'm going back on an allowance? I've hadindependence for seven years, and I'm going to keep it, Father."

  "I've money enough"--brusquely.

  "That isn't it. I want to begin somewhere and build something for myself.You know as well as I do that if I went home on an allowance you'd beginright off to dominate me as you used to, and no man is going to do thatagain."

  "What can you do?"

  "That's the point--I don't know. I've got to find out."

  Cleigh lowered the glass.

  "Let's see; didn't you work on a sugar plantation somewhere?"

  "Yes. How'd you find that out?"

  "Never mind about that. I can give you a job, and it won't be soft,either. I've a sugar plantation in Hawaii that isn't paying the dividendsit ought to. I'll turn the management over to you. You make good thesecond year, or back you come to me, domination and all."

  "I agree to that--if the plantation can be developed."

  "The stuff is there; all it needs is some pep."

  "All right, I'll take the job."

  "You and your wife shall spend the fall and winter with me. In Februaryyou can start to work."

  "Are you out for Cunningham's hide?"

  "What would you do in my place?"

  "Sit tight and wait."

  Cleigh laughed sardonically.

  "Because," went on Dennison, "he's played the game too shrewdly not tohave other cards up his sleeve. He may find his pearls and return theloot."

  "Do you believe that? Don't talk like a fool! I tell you, his pearls arein those casings there! But, son, I'm glad to have you back. And you'vefound a proper mate."

  "Isn't she glorious?"

  "Better than that. She's the kind that'll always be fussing over you, andthat's the kind a man needs. But mind your eye! Don't take it for granted!Make her want to fuss over you."

  When the oncoming tramp reached a point four hundred yards to thesouthwest of the yacht she slued round broadside. For a moment or two thereversed propeller--to keep the old tub from drifting--threw up afountain; and before the sudsy eddies had subsided the longboat began ajerky descent. No time was going to be wasted evidently.

  The _Haarlem_--or whatever name was written on her ticket--was a picture.Even her shadows tried to desert her as she lifted and wallowed in thelong, burnished rollers. There was something astonishingly impudent abouther. She reminded Dennison of an old gin-sodden female derelict of thestreets. There were red patches all over her, from stem to stern, wherethe last coat of waterproof black had blistered off. The brass of herports were green. Her name should have been Neglect. She was probably fullof smells; and Dennison was ready to wager that in a moderate sea herrivets and bedplates whined, and that the pump never rested.

  But it occurred to him that there must be some basis of fact inCunningham's pearl atoll, and yonder owner was game enough to take asporting chance; that, or he had been handsomely paid for his charter.

  An atoll in the Sulu Archipelago that had been overlooked--that wasreally the incredible part of it. Dennison had first-hand knowledge thatthere wasn't a rock in the whole archipelago that had not been looked overand under by the pearl hunters.

  He saw the tramp's longboat come staggering across the intervening water.Rag-tag and bob-tail of the Singapore docks, crimp fodder--that was whatDennison believed he had the right to expect. And behold! Except that theywere older, the newcomers lined up about average with the departing--ableseamen.

  The transshipping of the crews occupied about an hour. As the longboat'sboat hook caught the _Wanderer's_ ladder for the third time the crates andcasings were carried down and carefully deposited in the stern sheets.

  About this time Cunningham appeared. He paused by the rail for a minuteand looked up at the Cleighs, father and son. He was pale, and hisattitude suggested pain and weakness, but he was not too weak to send uphis bantering smile. Cleigh, senior, gazed stonily forward, but Dennisonanswered the smile by soberly shaking his head. Dennison could not hearCunningham's laugh, but he saw the expression of it.

  Cunningham put his hand on the rail in preparation for the first step,when Jane appeared with bandages, castile soap, the last of her stearateof zinc, absorbent cotton and a basin of water.

  "What's this--a clinic?"
he asked.

  "You can't go aboard that awful-looking ship without letting me give you afresh dressing," she declared.

  "Lord love you, angel of mercy, I'm all right!"

  "It was for me. Even now you are in pain. Please!"

  "Pain?" he repeated.

  For one more touch of her tender hands! To carry the thought of thatthrough the long, hot night! Perhaps it was his ever-bubbling sense ofmalice that decided him--to let her minister to him, with the Cleighs onthe bridge to watch and boil with indignation. He nodded, and she followedhim to the hatch, where he sat down.

  Dennison saw his father's hands strain on the bridge rail, the presage ofa gathering storm. He intervened by a rough seizure of Cleigh's arm.

  "Listen to me, Father! Not a word of reproach out of you when she comesup--God bless her! Anything in pain! It's her way, and I'll not have herreproached. God alone knows what the beggar saved her from last night! Ifyou utter a word I'll cash that twenty thousand--it's mine now--and you'llnever see either of us after Manila!"

  Cleigh gently disengaged his arm.

  "Sonny, you've got a man's voice under your shirt these days. All right.Run down and give the new crew the once-over, and see if they have awireless man among them."

  * * * * *

  Sunset--a scarlet horizon and an old-rose sea. For a little while longerthe trio on the bridge could discern a diminishing black speck off to thesoutheast. The _Wanderer_ was boring along a point north of east, Manilaway. The speck soon lost its blackness and became violet, and thenmagically the streaked horizon rose up behind the speck and obliteratedit.

  "The poor benighted thing!" said Jane. "God didn't mean that he should bethis kind of a man."

  "Does any of us know what God wants of us?" asked Cleigh, bitterly.

  "He wants men like you who pretend to the world that they'regranite-hearted when they're not. Ever since we started, Denny, I've beentrying to recall where I'd seen your father before; and it came a littlewhile ago. I saw him only once--a broken child he'd brought to thehospital to be mended. I happened to be passing through the children'sward for some reason. He called himself Jones or Brown or Smith--I forget.But they told me afterward that he brought on an average of four childrena month, and paid all expenses until they were ready to go forth, if notcured at least greatly bettered. He told the chief that if anybody everfollowed him he would never come back. Your father's a hypocrite, Denny."

  "So that's where I saw you?" said Cleigh, ruminatively. He expanded alittle. He wanted the respect and admiration of this young woman--hisson's wife-to-be. "Don't weave any golden halo for me," he added, dryly."After Denny packed up and hiked it came back rather hard that I hadn'tpaid much attention to his childhood. It was a kind of penance."

  "But you liked it!"

  "Maybe I only got used to it. Say, Denny, was there a wireless man in thecrew?"

  "No. I knew there wouldn't be. But I can handle the key."

  "Fine! Come along then."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Do? Why, I'm going to have the Asiatic fleets on his heels inside oftwenty-four hours! That's what I'm going to do! He's an unprincipledrogue!"

  "No," interposed Jane, "only a poor broken thing."

  "That's no fault of mine. But no man can play this sort of game with me,and show a clean pair of heels. The rug and the paintings are gone forgood. I swore to him that I would have his hide, and have it I will! Inever break my word."

  "Denny," said Jane, "for my sake you will not touch the wireless."

  "I'm giving the orders!" roared Cleigh.

  "Wait a moment!" said Jane. "You spoke of your word. That first night youpromised me any reparation I should demand."

  "I made that promise. Well?"

  "Give him his eight months."

  She gestured toward the sea, toward the spot where they had last seen the_Haarlem_.

  "You demand that?"

  "No, I only ask it. I understand the workings of that twisted soul, andyou don't. Let him have his queer dream--his boyhood adventure. Are youany better than he? Were those treasures honourably yours? Fie! No, Iwon't demand that you let him go; I'll only ask it. Because you will notdeny to me what you gave to those little children--generosity."

  Cleigh did not speak.

  "I want to love you," she continued, "but I couldn't if there was no mercyin your sense of justice. Be merciful to that unhappy outcast, whoprobably never had any childhood, or if he had, a miserable one. Childrenare heartless; they don't know any better. They pointed the finger ofridicule and contempt at him--his playmates. Imagine starting life likethat! And he told me that the first woman he loved--laughed in his face! Ifeel--I don't know why--that he was always without care, from hischildhood up. He looked so forlorn! Eight months! We need never tell him.I'd rather he shouldn't know that I tried to intercede for him. But forhim we three would not be here together, with understanding. I only askit."

  Cleigh turned and went down the ladder. Twenty times he circled the deck;then he paused under the bridge and sent up a hail.

  "Dinner is ready!"

  The moment Jane reached the deck Cleigh put an arm round her.

  "No other human being could have done it. It is a cup of gall andwormwood, but I'll take it. Why? Because I am old and lonely and want alittle love. I have no faith in Cunningham's word, but he shall go free."

  "How long since you kissed any one?" she asked.

  "Many years." And he stooped to her cheek. To press back the old broodingthought he said with cheerful brusqueness: "Suppose we celebrate? I'llhave Togo ice a bottle of that vintage those infernal ruffians broke overyour head last night."

  Dennison laughed.

  * * * * *

  October.

  The Cleigh library was long and wide. There was a fine old blue Ispahan onthe floor. The chairs were neither historical nor uncomfortable. One camein here to read. The library was on the second floor. When you reachedthis room you left the affairs of state and world behind.

  A wood fire crackled and shifted in the fireplace, the marble hood ofwhich had been taken from a famous Italian palace. The irons stood readyas of yore for the cups of mulled wine. Before this fire sat a little oldwoman knitting. Her feet were on a hassock. From time to time herbird-like glance swept the thinker in the adjacent chair. She wonderedwhat he could see in the fire there to hold his gaze so steadily. Thelittle old lady had something of the attitude of a bird that had beengiven its liberty suddenly, and having always lived in a cage knew notwhat to make of all these vast spaces.

  She was Jane's mother, and sitting in the chair beside her was AnthonyCleigh.

  "There are said to be only five portable authentic paintings by Leonardoda Vinci," said Cleigh, "and I had one of them, Mother. Illegally,perhaps, but still I had it. It is a copy that hangs in the Europeangallery. There's a point. Gallery officials announce a theft only whensome expert had discovered the substitution. There are a number ofso-called Da Vincis, but those are the works of Boltraffio, Da Vinci'spupil. I'll always be wondering, even in my grave, where that crook,Eisenfeldt, had disposed of it."

  Mrs. Norman went on with her knitting. What she heard was as instructiveand illuminating to her as Chinese would have been.

  From the far end of the room came piano music; gentle, dreamy, brokenoccasionally by some fine, thrilling chord. Dennison played well, but hehad the habit of all amateurs of idling, of starting something, andrunning away into improvisations. Seated beside him on the bench was Jane,her head inclined against his shoulder. Perhaps that was a good reason whyhe began a composition and did not carry it through to its conclusion.

  "That was a trick of his mother's," said Cleigh, still addressing thefire. "All the fine things in him he got from her. I gave him hisshoulders, but I guess that's about all."

  Mrs. Norman did not turn her head. She had already learned that she wasn'texpected to reply unless Cleigh looked at her
directly.

  "There's a high wind outside. More rain, probably. But that's October inthese parts. You'll like it in Hawaii. Never any of this brand of weather.I may be able to put the yacht into commission."

  "The sea!" she said in a little frightened whisper.

  * * * * *

  "Doorbells!" said Dennison with gentle mockery. "Jane, you're alwaysstarting up when you hear one. Still hanging on? It isn't Cunningham'swillingness to fulfill his promise; it's his ability I doubt. A thousandand one things may upset his plans."

  "I know. But, win or lose, he was to let me know."

  "The poor devil! I never dared say so to Father, but when I learned thatCunningham meant no harm to you I began to boost for him. I like to see aman win against huge odds, and that's what he has been up against."

  "Denny, I've never asked before; I've been a little afraid to, but did yousee Flint when the crew left?"

  "I honestly didn't notice; I was so interested in the disreputable oldhooker that was to take them off."

  She sighed. Fragments of that night were always recurring in her dreams.

  The door opened and the ancient butler entered. His glance roved until itcaught the little tuft of iron-gray hair that protruded above the rim ofthe chair by the fire. Noiselessly he crossed the room.

  "Beg pardon, sir," he said, "but a van arrived a few minutes ago with anumber of packing cases. The men said they were for you, sir. The casesare in the lower hall. Any orders, sir?"

  Cleigh rose.

  "Cases? Benson, did you say--cases?"

  "Yes, sir. I fancy some paintings you've ordered, sir."

  Cleigh stood perfectly still. The butler eyed him with mild perturbation.Rarely he saw bewilderment on his master's countenance.

  "Cases?"

  "Yes, sir. Fourteen or fifteen of them, sir."

  Cleigh felt oddly numb. For days now he had denied to himself the reasonfor his agitation whenever the telephone or doorbell rang. Hope! It hadnot served to crush it down, to buffet it aside by ironical commentarieson the weakness of human nature; the thing was uncrushable, insistent.Packing cases!

  "Denny! Jane!" he cried, and bolted for the door.

  The call needed no interpretation. The two understood, and followed himdownstairs precipitately, with the startled Benson the tail to the kite.

  "No, no!" shouted Cleigh. "The big one first!" as Dennison laid one of thesmaller cases on the floor. "Benson, where the devil is the claw hammer?"

  The butler foraged in the coat closet and presently emerged with a prier.Cleigh literally snatched it from the astonished butler's grasp, pried andtore off a board. He dug away at the excelsior until he felt the coolglass under his fingers. He peered through this glass.

  "Denny, it's the rug!"

  Cleigh's voice cracked and broke into a queer treble note.

  Jane shook her head. Here was an incurable passion, based upon thespecious argument that galleries and museums had neither consciences norstomachs. You could not hurt a wall by robbing it of a painting--a passionthat would abide with him until death. Not one of these treasures in thecasings was honourably his, but they were more to him than all hislegitimate possessions. To ask him to return the objects to the galleriesand museums to which they belonged would be asking Cleigh to tear out hisheart. Though the passion was incomprehensible, Jane readily observed itseffects. She had sensed the misery, the anxiety, the stinging curiosityof all these months. Not to know exactly what had become of the rug andthe paintings! Not to know if he would ever see them again! There was onlyone comparison she could bring to bear as an illustration: Cleigh was likea man whose mistress had forsaken him without explanations.

  She was at once happy and sad: happy that her faith in Cunningham had notbeen built upon sand, sad that she could not rouse Cleigh's conscience.Secretly a charitable man, honest in his financial dealings, he couldkeep--in hiding, mind you!--that which did not belong to him. It wasbeyond her understanding.

  An idea, which had been nebulous until this moment, sprang into being.

  "Father," she said, "you will do me a favour?"

  "What do you want--a million? Run and get my check book!" he cried,gayly.

  "The other day you spoke of making a new will."

  Cleigh stared at her.

  "Will you leave these objects to the legal owners?"

  Cleigh got up, brushing his knees.

  "After I am dead? I never thought of that. After I'm dead," he repeated."Child, a conscience like yours is top-heavy. Still, I'll mull it over. Ican't take 'em to the grave with me, that's a fact. But my ghost is boundto get leg-weary doing the rounds to view them again. What do you say,Denny?"

  "If you don't, I will!"

  Cleigh chuckled.

  "That makes it unanimous. I'll put it in the codicil. But while I live!Benson, what did these men look like? One of them limp?"

  "No, sir. Ordinary trucking men, I should say, sir."

  "The infernal scoundrel! No message?"

  "No, sir. The man who rang the bell said he had some cases for you, andasked where he should put them. I thought the hall the best place, sir,temporarily."

  "The infernal scoundrel!"

  "What the dickens is the matter with you, Father!" demanded Dennison."You've got back the loot."

  "But how? The story, Denny! The rogue leaves me 'twixt wind and water asto how he got out of this hole."

  "Maybe he was afraid you still wanted his hide," suggested Jane, nowimmeasurably happy.

  "He did it!" said Cleigh, his sense of amazement awakening. "One chance ina thousand, and he caught that chance! But never to know how he did it!"

  "Aren't you glad now," said Jane, "that you let him go?"

  Cleigh chuckled.

  "There!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands. "Just as he said! Heprophesied that some day you would chuckle over it. He found his pearls.He knew he would find them! The bell!" she broke off, startled.

  Never had Benson, the butler, witnessed such an exhibition of undignifiedhaste. Cleigh, Jane, and Dennison, all three of them started for the doorat once, jostling. What they found was only a bedraggled messenger boy,for it was now raining.

  "Mr. Cleigh," said the boy, grumpily, as he presented a letter and a smallbox. "No answer."

  "Where is the man who sent you?" asked Jane, tremendously excited.

  "De office pushed me on dis job, miss. Dey said maybe I'd git a good tipif I hustled."

  Dennison thrust a bill into the boy's hand and shunted him forth into thenight again.

  The letter was marked Number One and addressed to Cleigh; the box wasmarked Number Two and addressed to Jane.

  Mad, thought Benson, as he began to gather up the loose excelsior; quitemad, the three of them.

  With Jane at one shoulder and Dennison at the other, Cleigh opened hisletter. The first extraction was a chart. An atoll; here were groups ofcocoanut palm, there of plantain; a rudely drawn hut. In the lagoon at apoint east of north was a red star, and written alongside was a singleword. But to the three it was an Odyssey--"Shell." In the lower left-handcorner of the chart were the exact degrees and minutes of longitude andlatitude. With this chart a landlubber could have gone straight to theatoll.

  Next came the letter, which Cleigh did not read aloud--it was notnecessary. With what variant emotions the three pairs of eyes leaped fromword to word!

  Friend Buccaneer: Of course I found the shell. That was the one issue which offered no odds. The shell lay in its bed peculiarly under a running ledge. The ordinary pearler would have discovered it only by the greatest good luck. Atherton--my friend--discovered it, because he was a sea naturalist, and was hunting for something altogether different. Atherton was wealthy, and a coral reef was more to him than a pearl. But he knew me and what such a game would mean. He was in ill health and had to leave the South Pacific and fare north. This atoll was his. It is now mine, pearls and all, legally mine. For a trifling sum I could have chartered a scho
oner and sought the atoll.

  But all my life I've hunted odds--big, tremendous odds--to crush down and swarm over. The only interest I had in life. And so I planted the crew and stole the _Wanderer_ because it presented whopping odds. I selected a young and dare-devil crew to keep me on edge. From one day to another I was always wondering when they would break over. I refused to throw overboard the wines and liquors to make a good measure.

  And there was you. Would you sit tight under such an outrage, or would your want of revenge ride you? Would you send the British piling on top of me, or would you make it a private war? Suspense! Dick Cunningham would not be hard to trace. Old Slue Foot. The biggest odds I'd ever encountered. Nominally, I had about one chance in a thousand of pulling through.

  The presence of Mrs. Cleigh--of course she's Mrs. Cleigh by this time!--added to the zest. To bring her through with nothing more than a scare! Odds, odds! Cleigh, on my word, the pearls would have been of no value without the game I built to go with them. Over the danger route! Mad? Of course I'm mad!

  Four-year-old shell, the pearls of the finest orient! The shell alone--in buttons--would have recouped Eisenfeldt. He was ugly when he saw that I had escaped him. Threatened to expose you. But knowing Eisenfeldt for what he is, I had a little sword of Damocles suspended over his thick neck. The thought of having lost eight months' interest will follow him to Hades.

  The crew gave me no more trouble. They've been paid their dividends in the Great Adventure Company, and have gone seeking others. But I'll warrant they'll take only regular berths in the future.

  And now those beads. I'm sorry, but I'm also innocent. I have learned that Morrissy really double-crossed us all. He had had a copy made in Venice. The beads you have are forgeries. So the sixty thousand offered by the French Government remains uncalled for. Who has the originals I can't say. I'm sorry. Morrissy's game was risky. His idea was to make a sudden breakaway with the beads--lose them in the gutter--and trust to luck that we would just miss killing him, which was the case.

  Leaving to-night. Bought a sloop down there, and I'm going back there to live. Tired of human beings. Tired of myself. Still, there's the chart. Mull it over. Maybe it's an invitation. The lagoon is like turquoise and the land like emerald and the sky a benediction.

  * * * * *

  A spell of silence and immobility. Not a word about his battle with Flint,thought Jane. A little shiver ran over her. But what a queer, whimsicalmadman! To have planned it all so that he could experience a thrill! Thetragic beauty of his face and the pitiable, sluing, lurching stride! Shesighed audibly, so did the two men.

  "Denny, I don't know," said Cleigh.

  "I do!" said Dennison, anticipating his father's thought. "He's a man, andsome day I'd like to clasp his hand."

  "Maybe we all shall," said Cleigh. "But open the box, Jane, and let'ssee."

  Between the layers of cotton wool she found a single pearl as large as ahazelnut, pink as the Oriental dawn. One side was slightly depressed, asthough some mischievous, inquisitive mermaid had touched it in passing.

  "Oh, the lovely thing!" she gasped. "The lovely thing! But, Denny, I can'taccept it!"

  "And how are you going to refuse it? Keep it. It is an emblem of what youare, honey. The poor devil!"

  And he put his arm round her. He understood. Why not? There are certainattractions which are irresistible, and Jane was unconscious of herpossessions.

  Jane raised the bottom layer of cotton wool. What impulse led her to dothis she could not say, but she found a slip of paper across which waswritten:

  "An' I learned about women from 'er."

  All this while, across the street, in the shadow of an areaway, stood aman in a mackintosh and a felt hat drawn well down. He had watched the vandisgorge and roll away, the arrival and the departure of the messengerboy.

  He began to intone softly: "'Many waters cannot quench love, neither canthe floods drown it: if a man would give all the substance of his housefor love, it would utterly be contemned.'"

  With a sluing lurch to his stride he started off down the street, into thelashing rain. A great joke; and now there was nothing at all to disturbhis dreams--but the dim white face of Jabez Flint spinning in the dark ofthe sea.

  THE END

  THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESSGARDEN CITY, N. Y.