XXV
THE LAST ENCHANTMENT
The tallest eucalyptus top was all of the garden that was touched withsun when Flora came out of the house in the morning. She stood a spacelooking at that little cone of brightness far above all the other trees,swaying on the delicate sky. It was not higher lifted nor brighterburnished than her spirit then. Shorn of her locket chain, her goldenpouch, free of her fears, she poised looking over the garden. Then witha leap she went from the veranda to the grass and, regardless of dew,skimmed the lawn for the fountain and the rose garden.
There she saw him--the one man--already awaiting her. He stood back toback with a mossy nymph languishing on her pedestal, and Flora hoped byrunning softly to steal up behind him, and make of the helpless marblelady a buffer between their greetings. But either she underestimated thenymph's bulk, or forgot how invariably direct was the man's attack; forturning and seeing her, without any circumvention, with one sweep of hislong arm, he included the statue in his grasp of her. With a laugh oftriumph he drew her out of her concealment.
To her the splendor of skies and trees and morning light melted intothat wonderful moment. For the first time in weary days she had all togive, nothing to fear or withhold. She was at peace. She was ready tostop, to stand here in her life for always--here in the glowing gardenwith him, and their youth. But he was impatient. He did not want toloiter in the morning. He was hot to hurry on out of the present whichwas so mysterious, so untried to her, as if these ecstasies had nomystery to him but their complete fulfilment. He filled her with atrembling premonition of the undreamed-of things that were waiting forher in the long aisle of life.
"Come, speak," he urged, as they paced around the fountain. "When am Ito take you away?"
She hung back in fear of her very eagerness to go, to plunge head overears into life in a strange country with a stranger. "Next month," sheventured.
"Next month! why not next week? why not to-morrow?" he declared withconfidence. "Who is to say no? I am the head of my house and you have noone but me. To be sure, there is Mrs. Herrick--excellent woman. But shehas her own daughters to look out for, and," he added slyly, "much asshe thinks of you, I doubt if she thinks you a good example for them. Asfor that other, as for the paid woman--"
"Oh, hush, hush!" Flora cried, hurt with a certain hardness in hisvoice; "I don't want to see her. I shall never go near her! AndHarry--"
"I wasn't going to speak of him," said Chatworth quickly.
"I know," she answered, "but do you mind my speaking of him?" They hadsat down on the broad lip of the fountain basin. He was looking at herintently. "It is strange," she said, "but in spite of his doing thisterrible thing I can't feel that he himself is terrible--like Clara."
"And yet," he answered in a grave voice, "I would rather you did."
She turned a troubled face. "Ah, have you forgotten what you said thefirst night I met you? You said it doesn't matter what a man is, even ifhe's a thief, as long as he's a good one."
At this he laughed a little grudgingly. "Oh, I don't go back on that,but I was looking through the great impartial eye of the universe.Whereas a man may be good of his kind, he's only good in his kind. Tipout a cat among canaries and see what happens. My dear girl, we were theveriest birds in his paws! And notice that it isn't moral law--it'sinstinct. We recognize by scent before we see the shape. You never knewhim. You never could. And you never trusted him."
"But," she interrupted eagerly, "I would have done anything for you whenI thought you were a thief."
"Anything?" he caught her up with laughter. "Oh, yes, anything to haulme over the dead line on to your side. That was the very point you made.That was where you would have dropped me--if I had stuck by my kind, asyou thought it, and not come over to yours."
She saw herself fairly caught. She heard her mental process stated toperfection.
"But if you hadn't felt all along I was your kind, if you hadn't had anidea that I was a stray from the original fold, you would never havewanted to go in for me," he explained it.
Flora had her doubts about the truth of this. For a time she had beencertain of his belonging to the lawless other fold, and at times shewould have gone with him in spite of it, but this last knowledge shewithheld. She withheld it because she could make out now, that, for allhis seeming wildness, he had no lawless instincts in himself.Generations of great doing and great mixing among men had created him, acreature perfectly natural and therefore eccentric; but the samegenerations had handed down from father to son the law-abiding instinctof the rulers of the people. He could be careless of the law. He wasstrong in it. In his own mind he and the law were one. His perception ofthe relations of life was so complete that he had no further use for thewritten law; and Farrell Wand's was so limited that he had never foundthe use for it. Lawless both; but--the two extremes. They might seem tomeet--but between those two extremes, between a Chatworth and a FarrellWand--why, there was all the world's experience between!
She raised her eyes and smiled at him in thinking of it, but the smilefaltered and she drew away. They were about to be disturbed. Beyond therose branches far down the drive she saw a figure moving toward them ata slow, uncertain pace, looking to and fro. "See, there's some onecoming."
"Oh, the gardener!" he said as one would say "Oh, fiddlesticks!"
The gardener had been her first thought. But now she rose uneasily,since she saw it was not he, asking herself, "Who else, at such anhour?"
By this time Chatworth, still seated, had caught sight of it. "Hello,"he said, "what sort of a thing is that?"
It was a short, shabby, nondescript little figure, shuffling rapidlyalong the winding walk between the rose bushes. Now they saw the top ofhis round black felt hat. Now only a twinkling pair of legs. Now, aroundthe last clump of bushes he appeared full length, and, suddenly droppinghis businesslike shuffle, approached them at a languid walk.
Flora grasped Chatworth's arm in nervous terror. "Tell him to go," shewhispered; "make him go away."
The blue-eyed Chinaman was planted before them stolidly, with thecurious blind look of his guarded eyes blinking in his withered face. Hewore for the first time the blouse of his people, and his hands werefolded in his sleeves.
"Who's this?" said Chatworth, appealing to Flora.
At this the Chinaman spoke. "Mr. Crew," he croaked.
The Englishman, looking from the Oriental to Flora, still demandedexplanations with expostulating gesture.
"It is the man who sold us the sapphire," she whispered; and "Oh, whatdoes he want of you?"
"Eh?" said Chatworth, interrogating the goldsmith with his monocle."What do you want?"
The little man finished his long, and, what had seemed his blind, stare;then dived into his sleeve. He drew forth a crumpled thing which seemedto be a pellet and this he proceeded to unfold. Flora crept cautiouslyforward, loath to come near, but curious, and saw him spread out andhold up a roughly torn triangle of newspaper. She gave a cry at sightof it. Across the top in thick black type ran the figures $20,000.
Chatworth pointed a stern forefinger. "What is it?" he said, though byhis tone he knew.
The Chinaman also pointed at it, but cautious and apologetic. "Twentythousand dollar. You likee twenty thousand dollar?" He waited a moment.Then, with a glimmer as of returning sight, presented the alternative."You likee god?--little joss?--come so?" And with his finger he tracedin the air a curve of such delicate accuracy that the Englishman with anexclamation made a step toward him. But the Chinaman did not move."Twenty thousand dollar," he stated. It sounded an impersonal statement,but nevertheless it was quite evident this time to whom it applied.
The Englishman measured off his words slowly as if to an incompleteunderstanding, which Flora was aware was all too miraculously quick."This little god, this ring--do you know where it is? Can you take me toit?"
The goldsmith nodded emphatically at each word, but when all was saidhe only reiterated, "Twenty thousand dollar."
Chatworth gave Flora
an almost shamefaced glance, and she saw with acurious twinge of jealousy that he was intensely excited. "Might as wellhave a pot-shot at it," he said; and sitting down on the edge of thefountain and taking out his check-book, rested it on his knee and wrote.Then he rose; he held up the filled-in slip before the Chinaman's eyes.
"Here," he said, "twenty thousand dollars." He held the paper well outof the little man's reach. "Now," he challenged, "tell me where it is?"
Into the goldsmith's eyes came a lightning flash of intelligence, suchas Flora remembered to have seen there when Farrell Wand, leaning on thedusty counter, had bidden him go and bring something pretty. He seemedto quiver a moment in indecision. Then he whipped his hand out of hissleeve and held it forth palm upward. This time it was Chatworth whocried out. The thing that lay on the goldsmith's palm Flora had neverseen, though once it had been described to her--"a bit of an old goldheathen god, curled around himself, with his head of two yellowsapphires and a big blue stone on top."
There it blazed at her, the jewel she had carried in her bosom, that shehad hidden in her pouch of gold, and that had vanished from it at thetouch of a magic hand, now cunningly restored to its right place in theforehead of the Crew Idol, crowning him with living light.
Speechless they looked together at the magic thing. They had thought itfar at sea; and as if at a wave of a genii's wand it was here beforethem flashing in the quiet garden.
With an effort Chatworth seemed to keep himself from seizing on ring andman together. He looked searchingly at the goldsmith and seemed on thepoint of asking a question, but, instead, he slowly held out his hand.He held it out cup-fashion. It shook so that Flora saw the Chinamansteady it to drop in the ring. Then, folding his check miraculouslysmall, enveloping it in the ragged piece of newspaper, the little manturned and shuffled from them down the gravel walk.
Chatworth stood staring after him with his Idol in his palm. Then,turning slow eyes to Flora, "How did he come by this?" he asked, assternly as if he demanded it of the mystery itself.
"He had it, from the very first." The pieces of the puzzle were flashingtogether in Flora's mind. "That first time Harry left the exhibit hetook it there."
"But the blue sapphire?" Chatworth insisted.
"Harry," Flora whispered, "Harry gave it up to him."
"Gave it up to him!" Chatworth echoed in scorn.
But she had had an inspiration of understanding. "He had to--for moneyto get off with. He gave Clara all he had so that she would let him getaway. Poor thing!" she added in a lower breath, but Chatworth did nothear her. He had taken the Idol in his thumb and finger, and, holding itup in the broadening light, looked fixedly at it with the passionateincredulity with which one might hold and look at a friend thought dead.She watched him with her jealous pang increasing to a greater feeling--afeeling of being separated from him by this jewel which he loved, andwhich had grown to seem hateful to her, which had shown itself a breederof all the greedy passions. She came softly up to him, and, lifting herhand, covered the Idol.
He turned toward her in wonder.
"Ah, you love it too much," she whispered.
"That's unworthy of you," he reproached her. "I have loved you more; andthat in spite of what I believed of you, and what this means to me. Tome, this ring is not a pretty thing seen yesterday. It is the symbol ofmy family. It is the power and pride of us, which our women have worn ontheir hands as they have worn our honor in their hearts. It is part ofthe life of my people and now it has made itself part of our life, ofyours and mine. Shall I ever forget how starkly you held it for the sakeof my honor, even against myself? Should I ever have known you withoutit?" He put the ring into her hand, and, smiling with his old dare, heldit over the fountain. "Now, if you want to, drop it in." He released herhand and turned to leave her to her will.
For a moment she stood with power in her hands and her eyes on hisaverted head. Then with a little rush she crossed the space betweenthem. "Here, take it! You love it! I want you to keep it! but I can'tforget the dreadful things it has made people do. It makes me afraid."
In spite of his smiling he seemed to her very grave. "You dear, sillychild! The whole storm and trouble of life comes from things being inthe wrong place. This has been in the wrong place and made mischief."
"Like me," she murmured.
"Like you," he agreed. "Now we shall be as we should be. Give me yourhand."
He drew off all the rings with which she had once tried to dim thesparkle of the sapphire, and, dropping them into his pocket like somuch dross, slipped on the Idol that covered her third finger in asplendid bar from knuckle to joint. Holding her by just the tip of thatfinger, leaning back a little, he looked into her eyes, and she, lookingback, knew that it wedded them once for all.
THE END
ADVERTISEMENTS
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+THE PRIDE OF JENNICO. Being a Memoir of Captain Basil Jennico.+
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+YOUNG APRIL. With illustrations by A. B. Wenzell.+
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ter Spy._
+FLOWER O' THE ORANGE. With frontispiece.+
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+MY MERRY ROCKHURST. Illustrated by Arthur E. Becher.+
"In the eight stories of a courtier of King Charles Second, which arehere gathered together, the Castles are at their best, reviving all thefragrant charm of those books, like _The Pride of Jennico_, in whichthey first showed an instinct, amounting to genius, for sunny romances.The book is absorbing * * * and is as spontaneous in feeling as it isartistic in execution."--_New York Tribune._
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+THE CATTLE BARON'S DAUGHTER. A Novel. By Harold Bindloss. Withillustrations by David Ericson.+
A story of the fight for the cattle-ranges of the West. Intense interestis aroused by its pictures of life in the cattle country at thatcritical moment of transition when the great tracts of land used forgrazing were taken up by the incoming homesteaders, with the inevitableresult of fierce contest, of passionate emotion on both sides, and offinal triumph of the inevitable tendency of the times.
+WINSTON OF THE PRAIRIE. With illustrations in color by W. HerbertDunton.+
A man of upright character, young and clean, but badly worsted in thebattle of life, consents as a desperate resort to impersonate for aperiod a man of his own age--scoundrelly in character but of anaristocratic and moneyed family. The better man finds himself barredfrom resuming his old name. How, coming into the other man'spossessions, he wins the respect of all men, and the love of afastidious, delicately nurtured girl, is the thread upon which the storyhangs. It is one of the best novels of the West that has appeared foryears.
+THAT MAINWARING AFFAIR. By A. Maynard Barbour. With illustrations by E.Plaisted Abbott.+
A novel with a most intricate and carefully unraveled plot. A naturallyprobable and excellently developed story and the reader will follow thefortunes of each character with unabating interest * * * the interest iskeen at the close of the first chapter and increases to the end.
+AT THE TIME APPOINTED. With a frontispiece in colors by J. H. Marchand.+
The fortunes of a young mining engineer who through an accident loseshis memory and identity. In his new character and under his new name,the hero lives a new life of struggle and adventure. The volume will befound highly entertaining by those who appreciate a thoroughly goodstory.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers,----New York
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