CHAPTER II
A FACE AT SHERRY’S
“Don’t mention my name an thou lovest me!” saidLaurance Donovan, and he drew me aside, ignored myhand and otherwise threw into our meeting a casualquality that was somewhat amazing in view of the factthat we had met last at Cairo.
“Allah il Allah!”
It was undoubtedly Larry. I felt the heat of thedesert and heard the camel-drivers cursing and ourSudanese guides plotting mischief under a window faraway.
“Well!” we both exclaimed interrogatively.
He rocked gently back and forth, with his hands inhis pockets, on the tile floor of the banking-house. Ihad seen him stand thus once on a time when we hadeaten nothing in four days—it was in Abyssinia, andour guides had lost us in the worst possible place—withthe same untroubled look in his eyes.
“Please don’t appear surprised, or scared or anything,Jack,” he said, with his delicious intonation. “Isaw a fellow looking for me an hour or so ago. He’sbeen at it for several months; hence my presence onthese shores of the brave and the free. He’s probablystill looking, as he’s a persistent devil. I’m here, aswe may say, quite incog. Staying at an East-side lodging-house,where I shan’t invite you to call on me.But I must see you.”
“Dine with me to-night, at Sherry’s—”
“Too big, too many people—”
“Therein lies security, if you’re in trouble. I’m aboutto go into exile, and I want to eat one more civilizeddinner before I go.”
“Perhaps it’s just as well. Where are you off for,—not Africa again?”
“No. Just Indiana,—one of the sovereign Americanstates, as you ought to know.”
“Indians?”
“No; warranted all dead.”
“Pack-train—balloon—automobile—camels,—how doyou get there?”
“Varnished ears. It’s easy. It’s not the getting there;it’s the not dying of ennui after you’re on the spot.”
“Humph! What hour did you say for the dinner?”
“Seven o’clock. Meet me at the entrance.”
“If I’m at large! Allow me to precede you throughthe door, and don’t follow me on the street please!”
He walked away, his gloved hands clasped lazily behindhim, lounged out upon Broadway and turnedtoward the Battery. I waited until he disappeared, thentook an up-town car.
My first meeting with Laurance Donovan was in Constantinople,at a café where I was dining. He got intoa row with an Englishman and knocked him down. Itwas not my affair, but I liked the ease and definitenesswith which Larry put his foe out of commission. Ilearned later that it was a way he had. The Englishmanmeant well enough, but he could not, of course,know the intensity of Larry’s feeling about the unhappylot of Ireland. In the beginning of my own acquaintancewith Donovan I sometimes argued with him, but Isoon learned better manners. He quite converted me tohis own notion of Irish affairs, and I was as hot anadvocate as he of head-smashing as a means of restoringIreland’s lost prestige.
My friend, the American consul-general at Constantinople,was not without a sense of humor, and Ieasily enlisted him in Larry’s behalf. The Englishmanthirsted for vengeance and invoked all the powers. Heinsisted, with reason, that Larry was a British subjectand that the American consul had no right to give himasylum,—a point that was, I understand, thoroughlywell-grounded in law and fact. Larry maintained, onthe other hand, that he was not English but Irish, andthat, as his country maintained no representative inTurkey, it was his privilege to find refuge wherever itwas offered. Larry was always the most plausible ofhuman beings, and between us,—he, the American consuland I,—we made an impression, and got him off.
I did not realize until later that the real joke lay inthe fact that Larry was English-born, and that his devotionto Ireland was purely sentimental and quixotic.His family had, to be sure, come out of Ireland sometime in the dim past, and settled in England; but whenLarry reached years of knowledge, if not of discretion,he cut Oxford and insisted on taking his degree atDublin. He even believed,—or thought he believed,—in banshees. He allied himself during his universitydays with the most radical and turbulent advocates ofa separate national existence for Ireland, and occasionallyspent a month in jail for rioting. But Larry’sinstincts were scholarly; he made a brilliant record atthe University; then, at twenty-two, he came forth tolook at the world, and liked it exceedingly well. Hisfather was a busy man, and he had other sons; hegranted Larry an allowance and told him to keep awayfrom home until he got ready to be respectable. So,from Constantinople, after a tour of Europe, we togethercrossed the Mediterranean in search of the flesh-potsof lost kingdoms, spending three years in the pursuit.We parted at Cairo on excellent terms. He returnedto England and later to his beloved Ireland, forhe had blithely sung the wildest Gaelic songs in thedarkest days of our adventures, and never lost his lovefor The Sod, as he apostrophized—and capitalized—hisadopted country.
Larry had the habit of immaculateness. He emergedfrom his East-side lodging-house that night clothedproperly, and wearing the gentlemanly air of peace andreserve that is so wholly incompatible with his dispositionto breed discord and indulge in riot. When wesat down for a leisurely dinner at Sherry’s we were not,I modestly maintain, a forbidding pair. We—if I maydrag myself into the matter—are both a trifle underthe average height, sinewy, nervous, and, just then,trained fine. Our lean, clean-shaven faces were well-browned—mine wearing a fresh coat from my days onthe steamer’s deck.
Larry had never been in America before, and thescene had for both of us the charm of a gay and novelspectacle. I have always maintained, in talking toLarry of nations and races, that the Americans are thehandsomest and best put-up people in the world, and Ibelieve he was persuaded of it that night as we gazedwith eyes long unaccustomed to splendor upon the greatcompany assembled in the restaurant. The lights, themusic, the variety and richness of the costumes of thewomen, the many unmistakably foreign faces, wroughta welcome spell on senses inured to hardship in thewaste and dreary places of earth.
“Now tell me the story,” I said. “Have you donemurder? Is the offense treasonable?”
“It was a tenants’ row in Galway, and I smashed aconstable. I smashed him pretty hard, I dare say, fromthe row they kicked up in the newspapers. I lay lowfor a couple of weeks, caught a boat to Queenstown, andhere I am, waiting for a chance to get back to The Sodwithout going in irons.”
“You were certainly born to be hanged, Larry. You’dbetter stay in America. There’s more room here thananywhere else, and it’s not easy to kidnap a man inAmerica and carry him off.”
“Possibly not; and yet the situation isn’t wholly tranquil,”he said, transfixing a bit of pompano with hisfork. “Kindly note the florid gentleman at your right—at the table with four—he’s next the lady in pink.It may interest you to know that he’s the Britishconsul.”
“Interesting, but not important. You don’t for amoment suppose—”
“That he’s looking for me? Not at all. But he undoubtedlyhas my name on his tablets. The detectivethat’s here following me around is pretty dull. He lostme this morning while I was talking to you in thebank. Later on I had the pleasure of trailing him foran hour or so until he finally brought up at the Britishconsul’s office. Thanks; no more of the fish. Let usbanish care. I wasn’t born to be hanged; and as I’m apolitical offender, I doubt whether I can be deported ifthey lay hands on me.”
He watched the bubbles in his glass dreamily, holdingit up in his slim well-kept fingers.
“Tell me something of your own immediate presentand future,” he said.
I made the story of my Grandfather Glenarm’s legacyas brief as possible, for brevity was a definite law of ourintercourse.
“A year, you say, with nothing to do but fold yourhands and wait. It doesn’t sound awfully attractive tome. I’d rather do without the money.”
“But I intend to do some work. I owe it to my grandfather’smemory to make good, if there’s any good inme.”
“The sentiment is worthy of you, Glenarm,” he saidmockingly. “What do you see—a ghost?”
I must have started slightly at espying suddenlyArthur Pickering not twenty feet away. A party ofhalf a dozen or more had risen, and Pickering and agirl were detached from the others for a moment.
She was young,—quite the youngest in the groupabout Pickering’s table. A certain girlishness of heightand outline may have been emphasized by her juxtapositionto Pickering’s heavy figure. She was in black,with white showing at neck and wrists,—a somber contrastto the other women of the party, who were arrayedwith a degree of splendor. She had dropped her fan,and Pickering stooped to pick it up. In the second thatshe waited she turned carelessly toward me, and oureyes met for an instant. Very likely she was Pickering’ssister, and I tried to reconstruct his family, which I hadknown in my youth; but I could not place her. As shewalked out before him my eyes followed her,—the erectfigure, free and graceful, but with a charming dignityand poise, and the gold of her fair hair glinting underher black toque.
Her eyes, as she turned them full upon me, were thesaddest, loveliest eyes I had ever seen, and even in thatbrilliant, crowded room I felt their spell. They werefixed in my memory indelibly,—mournful, dreamy andwistful. In my absorption I forgot Larry.
“You’re taking unfair advantage,” he observed quietly.“Friends of yours?”
“The big chap in the lead is my friend Pickering,”I answered; and Larry turned his head slightly.
“Yes, I supposed you weren’t looking at the women,”he observed dryly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t see the objectof your interest. Bah! these men!”
I laughed carelessly enough, but I was already summoningfrom my memory the grave face of the girl inblack,—her mournful eyes, the glint of gold in her hair.Pickering was certainly finding the pleasant places inthis vale of tears, and I felt my heart hot against him.It hurts, this seeing a man you have never liked succeedingwhere you have failed!
“Why didn’t you present me? I’d like to make theacquaintance of a few representative Americans,—Imay need them to go bail for me.”
“Pickering didn’t see me, for one thing; and foranother he wouldn’t go bail for you or me if he did.He isn’t built that way.”
Larry smiled quizzically.
“You needn’t explain further. The sight of the ladyhas shaken you. She reminds me of Tennyson:
“ ‘The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes—’
and the rest of it ought to be a solemn warning to you,—many ‘drew swords and died,’ and calamity followedin her train. Bah! these women! I thought you werepast all that!”
She turned carelessly toward me, and our eyes met for an instant.]
“I don’t know why a man should be past it at twenty-seven!Besides, Pickering’s friends are strangers to me.But what became of that Irish colleen you used tomoon over? Her distinguishing feature, as I rememberher photograph, was a short upper lip. You usedto force her upon me frequently when we were inAfrica.”
“Humph! When I got back to Dublin I found thatshe had married a brewer’s son,—think of it!”
“Put not your faith in a short upper lip! Her facenever inspired any confidence in me.”
“That will do, thank you. I’ll have a bit more of thatmayonnaise if the waiter isn’t dead. I think you saidyour grandfather died in June. A letter advising youof the fact reached you at Naples in October. Has itoccurred to you that there was quite an interim there?What, may I ask, was the executor doing all that time?You may be sure he was taking advantage of the opportunityto look for the red, red gold. I suppose youdidn’t give him a sound drubbing for not keeping thecables hot with inquiries for you?”
He eyed me in that disdain for my stupidity whichI have never suffered from any other man.
“Well, no; to tell the truth, I was thinking of otherthings during the interview.”
“Your grandfather should have provided a guardianfor you, lad. You oughtn’t to be trusted with money.Is that bottle empty? Well, if that person with the fatneck was your friend Pickering, I’d have a care ofwhat’s coming to me. I’d be quite sure that Mr. Pickeringhadn’t made away with the old gentleman’sboodle, or that it didn’t get lost on the way from himto me.”
“The time’s running now, and I’m in for the year.My grandfather was a fine old gentleman, and I treatedhim like a dog. I’m going to do what he directs in thatwill no matter what the size of the reward may be.”
“Certainly; that’s the eminently proper thing foryou to do. But,—but keep your wits about you. If afellow with that neck can’t find money where moneyhas been known to exist, it must be buried pretty deep.Your grandfather was a trifle eccentric, I judge, butnot a fool by any manner of means. The situation appealsto my imagination, Jack. I like the idea of it,—the lost treasure and the whole business. Lord, what asalad that is! Cheer up, comrade! You’re as grim asan owl!”
Whereupon we fell to talking of people and places wehad known in other lands.
We spent the next day together, and in the evening,at my hotel, he criticized my effects while I packed, inhis usual ironical vein.
“You’re not going to take those things with you, Ihope!” He indicated the rifles and several revolverswhich I brought from the closet and threw upon thebed. “They make me homesick for the jungle.”
He drew from its cover the heavy rifle I had usedlast on a leopard hunt and tested its weight.
“Precious little use you’ll have for this! Better letme take it back to The Sod to use on the landlords.I say, Jack, are we never to seek our fortunes togetheragain? We hit it off pretty well, old man, come to thinkof it,—I don’t like to lose you.”
He bent over the straps of the rifle-case with unnecessarycare, but there was a quaver in his voice that wasnot like Larry Donovan.
“Come with me now!” I exclaimed, wheeling uponhim.
“I’d rather be with you than with any other livingman, Jack Glenarm, but I can’t think of it. I have myown troubles; and, moreover, you’ve got to stick it outthere alone. It’s part of the game the old gentlemanset up for you, as I understand it. Go ahead, collectyour fortune, and then, if I haven’t been hanged in themeantime, we’ll join forces later. There’s no chap anywherewith a pleasanter knack at spending money thanyour old friend L. D.”
He grinned, and I smiled ruefully, knowing that wemust soon part again, for Larry was one of the fewmen I had ever called friend, and this meeting had onlyquickened my old affection for him.
“I suppose,” he continued, “you accept as gospeltruth what that fellow tells you about the estate. Ishould be a little wary if I were you. Now, I’ve beenkicking around here for a couple of weeks, dodging thedetectives, and incidentally reading the newspapers.Perhaps you don’t understand that this estate of JohnMarshall Glenarm has been talked about a good bit.”
“I didn’t know it,” I admitted lamely. Larry hadalways been able to instruct me about most matters; itwas wholly possible that he could speak wisely about myinheritance.
“You couldn’t know, when you were coming fromthe Mediterranean on a steamer. But the house outthere and the mysterious disappearance of the propertyhave been duly discussed. You’re evidently an objectof some public interest,”—and he drew from his pocketa newspaper cutting. “Here’s a sample item.” He read:
“John Glenarm, the grandson of John Marshall Glenarm,the eccentric millionaire who died suddenly in Vermontlast summer, arrived on the Maxinkuckee from Naplesyesterday. Under the terms of his grandfather’swill, Glenarm is required to reside for a year at a curioushouse established by John Marshall Glenarm near LakeAnnandale, Indiana.
This provision was made, according to friends of thefamily, to test young Glenarm’s staying qualities, as hehas, since his graduation from the Massachusetts Instituteof Technology five years ago, distributed a considerablefortune left him by his father in contemplating thewonders of the old world. It is reported—”
“That will do! Signs and wonders I have certainly
beheld, and if I spent the money I submit that I gotmy money back.”
I paid my bill and took a hansom for the ferry,—Larry with me, chaffing away drolly with his old zest.He crossed with me, and as the boat drew out into theriver a silence fell upon us,—the silence that is possibleonly between old friends. As I looked back at the lightsof the city, something beyond the sorrow at partingfrom a comrade touched me. A sense of foreboding, ofcoming danger, crept into my heart. But I was goingupon the tamest possible excursion; for the first timein my life I was submitting to the direction of another,—albeit one who lay in the grave. How like my grandfatherit was, to die leaving this compulsion upon me!My mood changed suddenly, and as the boat bumped atthe pier I laughed.
“Bah! these men!” ejaculated Larry.
“What men?” I demanded, giving my bags to aporter.
“These men who are in love,” he said. “I know thesigns,—mooning, silence, sudden inexplicable laughter!I hope I’ll not be in jail when you’re married.”
“You’ll be in a long time if they hold you for that.Here’s my train.”
We talked of old times, and of future meetings, duringthe few minutes that remained.
“You can write me at my place of rustication,” Isaid, scribbling “Annandale, Wabana County, Indiana,”on a card. “Now if you need me at any time I’ll cometo you wherever you are. You understand that, old man.Good-by.”
“Write me, care of my father—he’ll have my address,though this last row of mine made him pretty hot.”
I passed through the gate and down the long trainto my sleeper. Turning, with my foot on the step, Iwaved a farewell to Larry, who stood outside watchingme.
In a moment the heavy train was moving slowly outinto the night upon its westward journey.