Chapter I: Katz (2)

"Yes; forty-five carats. Almost circular in shape; sold for eighteen thousand pounds. But it is believed--at least there is a story--that it brings bad luck to its owners."

"It is blue, isn't it?"

"Yes, blue, and a good color, but not so beautiful nor so rare, as this shade of green. This is a wonder." And as he spoke he turned the stone in every light. "It's a marvelous thing. Marvelous! Almost unbelievable!"

"Can you tell me," said Cyrus, "about how much it is worth?"

Mr. Bressani shrugged his shoulders: "Anything."

"You mean," said the Senior Partner, "it would be impossible to guess, even approximately, at its value?"

"Yes. For you know the value of diamonds is speculative--depending on many conditions; size, shape, purity, color--and how they cut. The Victoria--one hundred and eighty carats--was sold for four hundred thousand pounds. But diamonds were rarer then. This, when properly cut into the right number of stones, would bring more than three million dollars."

William, in his enthusiasm, slapped his friend on the back. "Well, old man, you have struck it rich this time."

The calm-eyed Cyrus smiled and nodded.

"Then this diamond of mine," he said, "would be ten times bigger than the Koh-i-noor or any of those other stones?"

"Yes, sir."

"Isn't there a famous Sancy diamond?"

"Oh, yes. But that weighed only fifty-three carats. The Sancy diamond was famous more from its unusual history than from its size."

"What was its history, Bressani?" said the Senior Partner. "I never heard it."

"Well, it belonged to Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, who was wearing it in his hat at the battle of Nancy, the day he was killed. A Swiss soldier found it and sold it to a clergyman for a gulden; about forty cents. Then it came into possession of Anton, King of Portugal, who sold it for 100,000 Francs. Soon afterwards it became the property of a French gentleman named Sancy. A descendant of this Sancy was sent by Henry III as ambassador to Soluere and the King required the diamond as a pledge. The servant who was carrying it to the King was attacked by robbers and murdered, but before dying he swallowed the diamond. His master, knowing his devotion, had the body opened and found the diamond in his stomach."

"And where is it now?" asked Cyrus.

"It was bought by a Russian nobleman in 1835, for half a million rubles; about four hundred thousand dollars."

"Jove!" exclaimed William. "Some difference in price between forty cents and four hundred thousand dollars!"

"And how much bigger," asked William, "is this than the Sancy?"

"That weighed fifty-three carats. This, when cut, would weigh about three thousand."

"Jove! Sixty times as much! Would it be worth sixty times four hundred thousand dollars? That would be about twenty-four million dollars."

Mr. Bressani smiled and shook his head. "Times were different then--and to-day there are more diamonds."

"I suppose many of the famous jewels," said William, "if they could speak, might tell us stories as surprising as the Sancy's."

Then Cyrus Alton, in a low voice, addressing nobody in particular, said: "It would be worth the price of this diamond to know its history."

The Bressani eyebrows went up--high up--and then far down. And beneath the frown the fierce eyes looked eagerly toward the speaker. "Has it a remarkable history, Mr. Alton?"

Cyrus smiled, slowly and somewhat sadly, and gently shook his head. "I wish I knew. I would almost give the diamond's price to know its story--much as I need the money."

"Do you know nothing of its history?"

"Nothing. I only know that if we could see what that stone has seen we should enter a new field of knowledge. It would throw light upon a world of unknown things, earlier than human history."

In silence the jewelers regarded the speaker, as if waiting for some explanation of his words.

Mr. Bressani's eyebrows had shot up to the highest attitude yet attained. In a low voice, but in a tone that showed the liveliest curiosity, he asked, "Just what do you mean, Mr. Alton?"

"I mean the story of this diamond's country would be a story so overwhelming, so far beyond us, so complete and final in its stupendous tragedy that our own human drama would seem a trifling comedy."

These words were spoken in a calm but earnest manner, and they impressed the listeners. A silence followed. Then Mr. Bressani asked: "What _is_ this diamond's country?"

Cyrus hesitated. He knew that if he told the truth it would appear incredible to his hearers--like a fairy tale for children: that he would be regarded either as a fool, to be pitied, or as a willful liar. While he hesitated the Senior Partner came to his rescue.

"Mr. Alton has already informed us that he has reasons for not telling where he found it."

Mr. Bressani's enthusiasm, however,--and his curiosity--were far too strong for accepting so easy a defeat. "But what part of the world? He can tell us that."

"As a matter of fact," said Cyrus, "I don't know, myself, the name of that particular country."

Again the bushy Bressani eyebrows sailed aloft, then dropped and beetled over the fierce black eyes. "You don't know in what country you were when you found it--or bought it?"

"I am not sure that it has a name."

"A most unusual country!"

"Yes, it certainly is;--most unusual."

Nephew William laughed. "And it must be a long way off, Cyrus."

"It is."

"And pretty small, if it has no name."

"No, not so small. But its name was long ago forgotten. There are no survivors to remember it."

"But you can tell us," said Mr. Bressani, "whether it is North of here, or East, or West, or South."

"Why--er--really, I couldn't tell you even that. Nobody could."

"Perhaps it's beneath us, or above"; and in the Senior Partner's tone was a suggestion of irony.

Cyrus ignored the tone and answered pleasantly: "I am not trying to deceive, or to mislead you in any way, but it really is a journey in which points of the compass are no guides whatever."

On the faces of the three jewelers came three involuntary frowns.

"You are certainly having fun with us, Cyrus," said William.

"No, not at all. But, you see, a compass would be useless where there is no such thing as North and South."

"No such thing as North and South!"

"No. Nor East and West. The needle would lose its bearings. It wouldn't know where to point."

"Oh, come now! Is that a joke? Are we to laugh at it?"

Cyrus smiled. "I should not blame you for laughing--but it is not a joke. I am telling the truth."

"You mean to say, I suppose, that you had such bad weather--electrical storms, perhaps,--that the needle couldn't work."

"No, there was no weather at all."

"You mean no bad weather?"

"Nor good weather, either."

With some impatience William demanded: "Now just what do you mean, Cyrus?"

"I mean, that in going and coming, there was no such thing as wind nor rain, nor sunshine. It was all twilight--a dusk that was almost darkness. It was a trackless, uncharted voyage. And not a shore to touch at."

"Then you crossed an ocean? It was all by sea?"

"No. There was no sea--no water anywhere."

This time William made no effort to hide his annoyance. He merely whistled, and walked away, toward the window.

"I don't blame you, Billy, for being enraged," and Cyrus also stood up. "But on my honor, I am telling you the truth. And I am willing to tell you anything except the exact location. Later on you will understand my reasons for being so secretive."

"Perhaps you can tell us," said Mr. Bressani, "in what surroundings you found it: whether under ground or above."

"Above. Just lying on the ground."

"My own guess," said William, "from its being already cut, is that some oriental chap either gave it to you or sold it."

"No, I found it, entirely by accident--among some ruins."

Mr. Bressani's eyebrows again went up. "Ruins of what?"

"Of an ancient building--a very, very ancient building."

"But covered with earth, I suppose, and overgrown with vines."

"No. Not a trace of vegetation anywhere in sight."

"It must be a melancholy place."

"It is."

"But once a city?"

"I think so."

"The ruins of Palmyra!" exclaimed Mr. Bressani. "They are now a sandy waste."

"No; many thousands of miles from Palmyra."

"Many thousands of miles! That means a long distance."

"It _is_ a long distance."

"Then it can't be any part of Asia, or even India?"

"No, sir."

"Africa, perhaps?"

"No."

"A South American diamond?"

"No."

As Mr. Bressani's ferocious, black eyebrows settled down over his eyes the Senior Partner laughed. "This reminds me of the game of twenty questions. And you are surely the victor, Mr. Alton."

But Mr. Bressani was too much in earnest to think of jokes or games. "You say these ruins are very old?"

"Yes, sir."

"How old? Greek or Roman, perhaps?"

"Older than human history."

Again the three listeners frowned. With a shade of sarcasm the Senior Partner addressed his nephew: "Mr. Alton has a poet's fancy."

Cyrus understood, but his face showed no annoyance. Smilingly he said, "You will get more digestible answers, perhaps, if you don't ask me where I found it. The whole adventure is incredible. If I told you the truth you would not believe me."

"Try us," said William.

The Senior Partner waved his hand in apology. "Please don't think we doubt your word, Mr. Alton. But when you say older than human history you are speaking figuratively, as it were."

"No, sir. I am speaking literally. It is the belief of scientists that millions of years have passed since any changes have occurred in that--in that--territory."

"Millions of years!"

"Yes, sir. It is somewhat a matter of geology. And a geological period, you know, is still young at a million years."

The Senior Partner nodded politely. "Yes--very true. But, as diamonds are found in so few places perhaps you will tell us, just to gratify a natural curiosity, what kind of a region you have discovered--the general nature of the country."

"The nature of the country?" Cyrus Alton repeated. Then, lowering his eyes, as if better to recall the scene, he hesitated for a moment. "The nature of the country," he again repeated, and his manner became serious. "No tree, nor bush, nor blade of grass is there; no living thing of any kind: no birds--nor air to fly in;--not a drop of water. The surface of the earth--no, not earth for there is no earth--is stone--and ashes. 'Tis a cinder--the mummy of a world: an unending necropolis. Once it was thickly populated. Now it is the Land of Death, and deader than Death itself. Not even a memory is there, for those who might remember have been dead uncounted ages. They themselves are long since forgotten."

On the faces of his little audience Cyrus saw a mild bewilderment--and curiosity.

"You say we have all heard of this country?" asked the Senior Partner.

"Yes, and you have seen it--from a distance."

"Are you sure," said William, "that we have all seen it?"

"Yes, absolutely sure."

"And we have probably been there?"

"No--I think not."

"Then, how could we see it?--from a railway train--or from a steamship?"

Cyrus smiled. "Yes, you could see it that way--if you wished."

"But how do you know we have never been there?"

"I don't."

"You only think it."

"Yes, I only think it. You may have been there. I am quite sure, however, that you have not."

"But why so sure, Cyrus? You have been there yourself."

"Yes."

"And what man has done man can do."

"Yes, sometimes, but not always, Billy. Only one man has eaten, for instance, a certain huckleberry. And, as a rule, only one man marries his own particular girl. You, for instance, have seen the top of Trinity spire, but you have never been there."

"You may as well say I have seen the moon, but never been there."

Cyrus laughed, quite a hearty little laugh, as if thoroughly amused. "Well I do say it. And it's true, isn't it?"

"Yes, but it has no relation to the argument."

"Why not? I am merely proving my statement, that you have seen interesting places which you have never visited. Either Trinity spire or the moon might hold this diamond."

"But Trinity spire does not fit your description of the country."

Again Cyrus seemed amused. "But the moon fits it."

William laughed. "Well, Cyrus, you are just the same boy in an argument that you were at school. And how mad I used to get! But this mysterious land that you are concealing so successfully, the land we have all seen but never touched--or even heard about, apparently--must be a God-forsaken district. Is it a desert--like Sahara, for instance?"

"No, quite different. This is rock, with plains of lava from volcanic mountains and everywhere, in all directions, dust and ashes: the dried bones of its own past--whatever it was. The whole surface of the country seems upheaved and torn, all on a gigantic scale, as if it was baked too much, then split and sundered in the cooling. A fantastic, solemn region."

"Well, by Jove!" said William, at last, "I still maintain that I have never seen the place--nor anything like it."

"I said from a distance."

"Must have been a mighty long distance."

"It was."

"And a mighty unusual country!"

"It is. Scattered about are high mountains, once volcanoes. And in the craters of these old volcanoes some of them many miles across, I saw the ruins of cities. There must be hundreds of these mountains, and hundreds of ruined cities."

"Then you traveled over the whole country."

"No, indeed! But I looked down on it as I approached, and could take in a vast area."

William straightened up, and his eyes opened wider. "Oho! Then you went there in an air-ship!"

Cyrus nodded.

"That accounts for no water on the voyage, and all that other stuff you gave us."

Again Cyrus nodded. And, with a broad smile of amusement: "It might also account for Trinity spire and the moon."

But his audience was too much in earnest to be thwarted by jokes. "Yes, yes!" said Mr. Bressani. "That explains much that you have said. Please continue."

William, however, with a frown, leaned back against the desk. "Cyrus, I still believe you are lying to us."

"No, truly I am not. I don't pretend to give you the whole truth, but what I do tell you is the truth and nothing else."

"Go on, Mr. Alton," said the Senior Partner. "We interrupted you. It certainly is an amazing country."

Cyrus continued. "The whole country is cracked and broken with chasms. From one volcano cañons radiate in all directions. They are miles in width, and they seem bottomless. And even in these cañons, on projecting ledges, are the ruins of cities."

"But why should they build their cities in those sunless chasms?"

"My belief is that the moisture evaporated, then the surface of all that country became so unbearably hot--with no atmosphere as protection from the sun's rays--that the inhabitants were driven to the cañons."

"What a life! No wonder they all died!"

"That portion of the universe," said Cyrus, "is the desolation of desolation, the tragedy of tragedies. It is a world of ashes. And over everything an awful silence, a silence that frightens you. The stillness of death, compared to it, is a merry waltz."

"How did you happen to find this country?"

"I had heard of it. You all know about it in a general way, as I have already said. But I tried to get there and happened to succeed."

William shook his head. "Sorry to contradict you, Cyrus, but I never heard of such a place."

Cyrus laughed. "Oh, yes, you have! Excuse me, but you have all read about it, and seen many pictures of it."

Mr. Bressani took up the diamond. As he caressed the glistening marvel he asked: "Do other people know of these ruins?"

"I think not."

"You have never heard of any one else who has been there?"

"Never."

"Is the district difficult to reach?"

"Very--almost impossible. In fact the trip is so long and risky that you need have no fear of other explorers. I tell you this merely that you may know the chances are small of the market being flooded with diamonds--at least from that quarter. Nobody else will try it. You may be sure of that. The diamonds are there, however, and plenty of them."

"Plenty of them!"

"Plenty--by the cart-load."

William whistled. And the two older men whistled--in spirit--and raised their eyebrows. With the Bressani eyebrows still in the air their owner inquired: "You say this was lying on the top of the ground?"

"Yes; among other fragments."

"Fragments of what?"

For a moment the visitor closed his eyes. "That is hard to answer. I was there at dusk. The light was peculiar, and uncertain--and changing. I should say there were fragments of cups and vases, of carved capitals, scraps of metal that might be architectural ornaments, all mingled with blocks of some white material, perhaps marble, or alabaster. And all finely carved."

"These things were scattered about the ground?"

"Scattered about, but not literally on the ground. Many were lying on a pavement of different colored stones--the floor of a building I should say. The outer walls and several columns were still standing."

"It might have been a palace, a temple, a forum,--almost anything of size and importance."

"You know nothing of the history of those people, of their manners and customs?"

"Nothing, whatever."

"Where could I find out? That is, of course, if we had your permission."

"Nowhere. Nobody knows. It is all forgotten--long ago forgotten--with no records, no memories--not even a tradition."

There was a silence. Cyrus knew that his hearers were having more or less difficulty in digesting his statements. However, he smiled pleasantly, as he said: "My sympathies are with you, gentlemen, and my thanks for your courteous reception of my absurd story. But there is one thing I do know about these people. Although their buildings were often as high as ours, I know their legs were shorter. All their stone steps, in every case, had risers about half the size of ours."

"Ah! Then they were a race of pigmies."

"I should think so, and with long arms and very short legs. They were evidently strong on sculpture, as there are fragments of statues, heads, bas reliefs, monuments, etc., all scattered about. And the people represented are very much like ourselves, in some ways."

"You say you were there at dusk. Why didn't you see it by day light?"

"Well, the--er--climate is peculiar. The air, if you can call it air, is so very rarefied as to be no protection whatever against the heat of the sun. And the surface of the ground, by daylight, would burn your feet. And by night, there being no atmosphere twixt you and space, the temperature is about 300 degrees below zero."

"Three hundred degrees!"

Cyrus smiled and nodded. "That's what the scientists say. I had no thermometer with me."

"But no human being could live in such a temperature!"

"That is why I stuck to the twilight. And I suspect that is why the cities were built in the cañons."

"Why, of course! That explains it. I was wondering what on earth could induce anybody to want to live in those God-forsaken chasms."

Mr. Bressani, however, had a deeper interest in abnormal gems than in climatic conditions. "Did you find this piece all alone, by itself,--apart from others?"

"No; other pieces were near it."

"But not so large as this."

"Oh, yes! Some were much larger."

Mr. Bressani frowned. "Larger than this?"

"Yes, much larger."

"But not diamonds--not this same material?"

"I suppose they were. They looked just like it."

"Then why didn't you bring a larger piece? It would be a fabulous fortune, in itself."

Cyrus seemed uncertain as to his answer. "Well--there were--many reasons. One was that I did not know they were diamonds. Another was that I needed both hands for other purposes and could not carry--just at that moment--anything too large to go in my pocket. In fact I tried to pick up a beautifully carved fragment nearly the size of a football, but I had to drop it for this smaller one."

The three jewelers regarded him with eager faces, as children listen to a fairy tale. Mr. Bressani in a low, somewhat awe stricken tone, said:

"And there is really much of it?"

"Lots of it."

"But, of course, you are not absolutely sure it is the same material?"

"Well--I saw the other part of the one in your hand lying beside it, and it was four or five times the size of this one."

The three men turned to each other, as if to discover the effect, on other human beings, of such a statement.

The Senior Partner leaned forward, each hand grasping an arm of his chair. The Bressani eyebrows shot aloft, and he came a step nearer. Nephew William adjusted his lips for a whistle, but changed his mind. No sound came forth.

It was the Senior Partner who was the first to find himself, and return to business. Leaning back in his chair he cleared his throat. "Mr. Alton, if you were not an old friend of William's, and if I knew nothing about you, I should say that Munchausen, by comparison, was a clumsy beginner. But your own reputation and that stone in Mr. Bressani's hand, are proofs to the contrary--the best of proofs. Now let us get to business. Is it your wish to sell this diamond to us?"

"Yes, sir. That's why I came here. And I would prefer dealing with your house, if you care to bother with it."

The Senior Partner smiled. "It would be an unenterprising jeweler who declined to bother with what will soon become the most famous diamond of history--ancient or modern. If agreeable to you, Mr. Alton, you can leave the stone with us, and we will give you, now, a receipt for an uncut diamond of seventy-one hundred carats, value unknown. A few days hence, at your convenience, we will submit for your consideration a plan by which you shall receive a certain amount at once in cash, the balance to be governed by the final value of the stones as they are cut or sold. Would that be satisfactory to you?"

"Perfectly."

"And perhaps you will agree to give us the preference if you decide later to flood the market with diamonds the size of paving stones."

Cyrus smiled. "Yes, sir, I shall be glad to do so."

A few moments later, the receipt in his pocket, Cyrus left the private office, escorted by William. At the street door, as the young jeweler, at parting, shook hands with his friend, he said: "And, by the way, old man, when you can divulge the awful secret of where you found it don't waste a second in telling us."

"If there is a humorous side to this morning's interview, Billy, it is in the name of that very place."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I mentioned the name, and more than once."

"Stuff!"

"On my honor."

"What was it?"

"Oh, that's too easy! Good-by."

And he left William standing in the doorway,--still guessing.

Alone together, the unparalleled, incredible wonder on the desk before them, the Senior Partner and Mr. Bressani remained silent for a time, as if recovering from a dream. For the twentieth time that morning, Mr. Bressani murmured: "It seems impossible!" Then, after another silence: "But where did he get it? Has he been to the very center of the earth?"

"Or," said the Senior Partner, with a shrug, "to the mountains of the moon."

XIII

A MESSAGE

To be lifted, suddenly, from poverty to wealth, is delightful. Especially delightful when preceded by a preliminary course of self-denial. For Cyrus and his father there was now an end, at last, to the orthodox but discordant partnership between Pride and Want.

Vaulting ambition has its uses. So have rags and hunger. And there are times, as in the case of Cyrus, when they pull together. But now had come the harvest. And the prosperity was real: the checks from the Senior Partner were not a dream.

"No more cheap food and shiny clothes for us," said Cyrus to his father. "Me for gluttony; canvas backs three times a day; Burgundy and dollar cigars. And brand new raiment every morning!"

Dr. Alton nodded. "Yes, that's a good program. A change, even from bad to worse, is often beneficial. Had you been brought up on canvas backs and Burgundy, you might have yearned for water and dried apples."

One of the first things Cyrus did was to visit Mrs. Eagan. The great desire of her life had been to revisit Ireland, but she never could save enough money. She had tried in vain to sell her little cottage with its two acres of land. Now came a purchaser. For the acre farthest from the house, for which there never had been a bid, Cyrus paid her three thousand dollars. And the happy Mrs. Eagan went to Ireland. He did other things, equally unbusinesslike. Some for his old friends; some for the town itself.

As for the Great Discovery both Cyrus and his father were of one opinion--that it never must be made public: that the secret must die. One of many reasons was, that with such a power in irresponsible hands no man's property, and no man himself, would be secure. What safety for a law abiding citizen when any criminal could purchase for a few dollars and carry in his hand, or pocket, a weapon of unlimited energy and force? The burglar or the highwayman could either escape at will or send his victim into farthest space.

He had various kinds of fun with his money. But he was no fool with it. He had been too intimate with debt, half-rations and shabby raiment to renew, voluntarily, the old acquaintance. But the greatest satisfaction of all was the prospect of bringing a long deferred pleasure to his father. Dr. Alton had spoken in years gone by of a trip to Europe. And now he could have it. Moreover, this trip abroad, according to Cyrus, was to be such a new departure in activity and leisure, in wisdom and extravagance, as to startle Europe.

"We'll make Croesus look like thirty cents--and Lucullus a skinflint."

But Fate, brainless Fate, whose rewards and punishments seem random shots, stepped in between. And the blow that came to Cyrus was the hardest in his life.

To the people of Longfields there was mystery in certain periods of Dr. Alton's past. Those seven years abroad were secret history. The little son and his unknown mother had invited explanation. But explanations were not offered. Moreover, it was soon realized by his neighbors that Dr. Alton's private affairs were his own, and were not for publication. But people had surely a right to wonder why a physician with his exceptional education and opportunities should give so little thought to distinction in larger fields and prefer obscurity in a forgotten little village.

Miss Anita Clement and some other women believed that this handsome young doctor had been the victim of a blighting passion; that his heart, if not broken, had received a wound that never healed. But all that was speculative.

Of some things, however, they were sure. One was that his gentle manner, his never failing help and kindness to poor and prosperous alike, had resulted in a sincere affection for him, not only in Longfields itself but in the neighboring villages. To every member of the little community in which he lived and worked for nearly thirty years his death was a personal loss.

To Cyrus, this sudden, unexpected ending was a blow that stunned. Many days were to pass before he fully realized how irreparable was his loss. That his father's death should come when it did made sorrow doubly keen. Of what good this sudden wealth when his best friend, after these years of economy and self sacrifice, was not here to enjoy it? And that trip abroad together--only a month away!

Cyrus had this consolation, however, that the end was free from suffering.

An hour before his death--in a sunny November afternoon--his father was reclining comfortably in his easy chair when he told Cyrus where to find a package of letters in the further corner of a certain drawer in his desk. Cyrus brought them. Then he sat by his father's side and, as the letters, after being read, were handed him, one by one, he dropped them into the fire. Some were limp and worn from many readings. With them was a photograph of a woman's face. After a moment's hesitation Dr. Alton handed it to his son.

"That's your mother, Cyrus."

With unspeakable emotion the son gazed upon this face. Her eyes looked straight into his own. They were deep, dark, tragic--yet smiling. It seemed to Cyrus that he had always known this face--and loved it. He gazed in silence, overcome by feelings quite different from anything he had heretofore experienced. His father's voice recalled him to himself. The voice was becoming weaker.

"Destroy this picture, Cyrus. If you ever meet her keep your knowledge to yourself. Let her be the first--to greet you."

So low was his voice that Cyrus bent forward to get his words.

"Remember, always remember, she is a good woman."

Dr. Alton leaned back and closed his eyes.

A faint smile came to his lips. He whispered a name--

"Francesca."

His thoughts wandered. In spirit he was far from Longfields. Below him gleamed the Adriatic, azure blue. The breath of spring came gently to his cheeks. Before him, and very near, is a woman's face, radiant with beauty and with love, and with unfailing devotion. Her eyes looking deep into his own, searching his innermost thoughts. There are none to hide, for all are hers.

The smile still upon his lips he murmured in French--his voice fainter with each succeeding word--a message.

And the last word, "Francesca," was scarcely a breath.

Cyrus knew that another spirit had joined the countless host: that into these final words a faithful lover had breathed his soul.

* * * * *

At that sunny hour of the afternoon, in Longfields, night had fallen in the city of Milan. The great opera house was crowded. To lovers of music the farewell appearance of the Diva was a memorable occasion. It was also cause for surprise, but physicians had given warning of a certain weakness about the heart. Besides, it may have been that after thirty years of triumph--though apparently as young as ever--there had come a surfeit of glory; a yearning for the tranquil life; for days and nights of less effort and less excitement.

So, still beautiful, erect as ever, and looking to perfection the heroine, with the fresh, full voice of girlhood that charmed the world, she was singing to-night before an audience, or rather, a host of friends, that filled the great building from the floor to the topmost seats. Both the glorious voice and the Diva herself seemed unchanged. To-night she was still the envy of other singers. And to-night, as usual, she thrilled an enchanted audience.

Near the end of the second act came a surprise. Then it was that the great singer seemed conquered by some strange emotion--some mysterious agency that hushed her voice and enslaved her spirit. And to that audience it always remained a mystery.

Softly, from the orchestra, rose the accompaniment to the aria--the divine aria--flooding the house with its melody. The Diva, with lips parting for the opening notes, was moving slowly toward the front of the stage. Then, instead of the voice for which the hundreds of eager listeners were waiting, they saw her stop, and stand in silence. With eyes closed, and face upturned, transfigured--as angels' faces are transfigured--she stood, unconscious of the world about her. Vainly the audience waited. Vainly the conductor waved his baton, as his orchestra, with every bar, was leaving the Diva still further behind.

But the Diva was far away. She heard him not. She heard nothing save the thing unheard by others. The orchestra and its leader, the opera house and the people in it, all had vanished--all had vanished as completely from her thoughts as from her sight. The very music itself helped the spirit's flight--to bear it aloft, to transport her far--oh far indeed!--from where she stood.

As a dying zephyr mingles with the fragrance of the flowers, so with the harmony of the music came, from over seas, a lover's message. Her name--Francesca--interwoven with the melody, came gently to her senses. She knew from whom. And she alone knew what memories it revived, crowding upon her through the music; precious memories of the only passion of her life; of the one being to whom she had given her heart, her self, her very soul--and for all time. Now, once again, they were meeting. It came, the message, not in words--merely the breath of a dying lover. It brought this truth, that all joy of living had ended at their parting--nearly thirty years ago. Not a moment in those years had his devotion wavered, a devotion greater and more real than all else in life, beyond and far above the reach of death. Now, on the borders of that other world where loyal hearts shall know no parting--there she would find him waiting. Again her name--Francesca--fading away into the melody of the aria.

The Diva lowered her face, pressed a hand against her temples and swayed as if to fall. But her recovery was sudden. She smiled toward the sea of anxious faces and nodded to the conductor, who started his orchestra afresh. Then she sang the aria as never before.

XIV

OVER SEAS

There was music in Cyrus. As a boy, however, he could never get it out. With no voice for singing his main relief was in whistling and humming and in drumming with his fingers. Which, of course, made him more or less of a nuisance at times. When he grew up his voice improved. Not enough to outshine the nightingales, but it served for domestic purposes. At church, for instance, he joined the congregation in the hymns. His voice, in speaking, was low, with a pleasant quality, and was more than satisfactory for ordinary human intercourse. But as a musical instrument it aroused no enthusiasm. His father had said, on one occasion: "The louder you sing, Cyrus, the less noise you make."

But music had always moved him, and in a singular way; much as many others are affected, perhaps, but more profoundly. It touched strange chords, deep within him. It inspired him, and seemed to bring a keener edge to his capacity for pain or pleasure; lifting him, at times, far away from himself, to a world where other people are not too real; where beauty and virtue, power, glory and justice are at one's own command. Music brought these things to Cyrus--also other things for which a young man's soul is thirsting.

One evening in May there was a service in the church in which the congregation--Cyrus included--had joined in the singing. After the service he walked home alone. As he entered his own grounds the music of the last hymn echoed in his brain. Still humming it, he stopped and looked up at the stars. The solemn stillness of the night brought memories of his father. And as he stood there, gazing at the stars, he felt in the night air itself an unfamiliar element; something that awakened within him emotions unrelated to his outward senses. There was no moon, but from countless stars came flickering beams--faint greetings from other worlds. He seemed alone in the Great Silence--alone in the universe itself; in closer communion with hidden things. From out the darkness, mingling with the silence, yet almost silence itself, there came to him a breath--a murmur. It was not the evening breeze among the branches of the maples. It was the gentlest music, but not the echoes in his brain of the evening hymn. No--it came from far away. It seemed personal--directed to himself. For a time he stood without moving, every faculty alert. Not with his ears did he listen, but with a deeper sense, as of one spirit striving for communion with another. At last the music, the voice, the indefinable melody died away, gently, into the silence of the night.

Patiently he waited. Then, after a time, when nothing came, he opened his eyes and lowered his face. In the continued silence about him he began to suspect that his own brain might have been deceiving him; that the message was from his own imagination. And was it a message? It had told him nothing. So far as he could divine it was a call--a prayer, but clearly to himself. Still wondering, he entered the house, did his customary little chores, then went upstairs to bed.

For a time he lay awake, thinking, but once asleep his sleep was sound. From this sleep, however, he was awakened by what seemed a whispered voice within the room. He sat up in his bed, and spoke.

"Who is it?"

Then came--as before, when he was standing beneath the stars--the almost inaudible, far-away echo of a song. He listened, with every sense alert. And, as before, it seemed addressed distinctly to himself--an appeal to come. But where? So real was the entreaty that he obeyed an impulse, arose from his bed and prepared to dress. As he stood at his eastern window a few moments later, he heard again--or thought he heard--the alluring voice.

A faint, cool light at the horizon was creeping slowly upward, along the edges of the earth.

Yes, it came from off there. And he would follow it. Why not? His father was gone. What held him in Longfields--or anywhere else? Moreover, he had power to travel as was not given to other men. Besides, it pleased him to believe in this need for himself, this call to danger, death or sacrifice--or whatever it might be. To him it had become a prayer from one soul to another. And he felt that he and the other soul were not strangers.

So, an hour later, Cyrus in his machine rose high above the earth and steered his course toward the spreading light in the East. Now it was a warmer tint, and growing rosier as it spread.

Guided only by the rising sun and by some subtle sense which he did not pretend to define, he sailed--or darted--over the waste of water between Cape Cod and Portugal. Far below him, on this deep blue ocean, specks were moving. Some were white; others darker, shedding smoke. But all moved so slowly, compared with himself, that they seemed at anchor. For, with him, any speed was possible and unfailing.

This was his first trip by daylight across the Atlantic. When out of sight of land, with the level, dark blue line of the horizon on every side, he began to have the same sensation as when flying through space; a sensation of aimless wandering. Also, there being no land marks, nothing by which to measure progress, he found his only way of gauging speed was by the amount of electric power he applied to his machine. He had, of course, the sun to go by: and he knew the difference in time between Boston and Lisbon was about four hours. Six hours he had allowed for reaching Europe but he was startled by the rapidity with which the morning sun was sliding westward across the heavens. It helped him to guess at his velocity when he found the morning sun had become, somewhat suddenly, an afternoon sun, and was well behind him. Across the ocean he shot his machine, more like a cannon ball than a passenger craft. Over the first piece of land--which must be Spain--he hovered a few minutes for a hasty lunch; also for a supply of fresh air. His oxygen cylinder was so large and with such enormous pressure to the square foot that with the attendant apparatus for supplying breathable air it could keep him alive for several days. But now he took good long breaths of the outer air as a matter of both economy and luxury.

Then along the Northern end of the Mediterranean, still guided by Faith alone for the spot whence came the summons.

Now Cyrus, in his knowledge of geography, was about like the rest of us. He had learned it, but details were not fresh in his mind. The two great islands off to his right he guessed were Corsica and Sardinia. Over Northern Italy he sped, where local showers were hiding, for a time, the land beneath. One city on the western coast, with its countless canals, was unmistakably Venice. On he sped across the upper end of the Adriatic--the narrow part. Here, as he approached the eastern shore, guidance forsook him. He slowed his machine, then stopped. Thus far his intuition, whether right or wrong, had led him without wavering. Now, and suddenly, all guidance ceased--his intuition vanished. A sudden need, he felt, for knowledge he did not possess. A sense of helplessness came upon him, intensified, perhaps, by the reaction from his previous confidence. In fear of straying from his course he decided to alight. If fortune favored him the voice might come again, and he could start afresh. So he descended, slowly, toward the summit of a towering hill whose western sides were steep and thickly wooded.

He landed in a cypress grove, beside a garden.

XV

A GARDEN OF WONDERS

When Cyrus stepped out of his machine he stood for a moment unsteady on his legs; a usual condition in a sudden change of air after hours of bewildering speed.

So far as he could judge he was in the grounds of an institution of some kind--a monastery, a college, a convent, or possibly a summer palace. Along the side of the garden overlooking the sea, which lay far below, ran a wall. On this wall at regular spaces stood statues of ecclesiastical persons, presumably Saints. They stood back to the sea, facing the garden. In the garden a fountain played. Off beyond the garden he saw long, white buildings, and a chapel. But what most impressed him was the beauty of a line of cloisters, their many arches of white marble, softened by age, now all aglow in the light of the western sun. But his wandering, enchanted eyes fell upon another sight, different in character, yet fully as interesting. But in a different way. So interesting that he forgot, for a moment, the garden, the fountain, the cloisters and the Saints. The sight that gently stirred him was the figure of a girl; a graceful figure that seemed a fitting climax to this garden in fairy land. She was leaning against the parapet, her face toward the sun, now sinking in the West. She seemed in deepest meditation. Her dress, a light gray, with white bands at the neck and shoulders, suggested a religious order. So he decided that his guess at having landed in a convent might be correct. He was not familiar with convents. The inmates, so far as he knew, might be a mingling of religious fanatics and female criminals partially reformed. He felt sure, however, up to the present moment, that they were wide and square in build, plain of face and haters of men. Hence his surprise at the alluring, girlish figure now before him. Perhaps this one was in here by mistake. Or, she might be some lovely victim of disappointed love. May be a human angel brutally treated by cruel relatives. Perhaps a marriageable princess escaping a distasteful alliance. But these were merely guesses. She was standing not far away, and was partly hidden from the convent buildings by the trunks of the ancient cypresses.

Cyrus approached this damsel. He saw that she was short, and slight of figure, distinctly _petite_, and so absorbed in her own thoughts that she failed to hear his footsteps on the gravel walk.

He coughed. It seemed a safe if not original manner of announcing his presence. The girl turned and faced him. She was startled; and a hand went swiftly to her lips as if to suppress an exclamation. A short moment they stood regarding each other, a dozen feet apart, the light full in the face of the intruder, while the girl's was partly in shadow. For the descending sun was almost directly behind her. So earnestly she studied him that he became embarrassed. Her own surprise was so great that her lips parted, then closed again, as if her voice were lost in astonishment. She took a backward step and laid a hand on the parapet as if for support. As for Cyrus, this little person was easily the most entrancing vision of his experience. Slight, erect, with a dainty head and glorious eyes, she seemed a perfect and harmonious element with the radiant splendors in the West. Such eyes he had not beheld since he lived beneath the spell of the celestial windows of Ruth Heywood's soul. These present eyes, now opened wide in wonder, were trying to grapple with his presence, as with some visitors from another planet.

Cyrus bowed; his very best, most elaborate and ceremonious inclination. And Cyrus's bows were works of art.

Had he been attired in court costume, and swept the earth with a chapeau of ostrich plumes instead of a checkered golf cap, he would have eclipsed the Grand Monarque in his own field. It was, of course, the same old salutation that had startled Longfields years ago.

Then he advanced a step. "Do you happen to speak English, madam?"

The girl hesitated a moment, then nodded.

Cyrus, delighted at the unexpected answer, took another step nearer--perhaps two or three. Joy was written in his face. His manner became, unconsciously, almost familiar.

"How fortunate! I am a stranger here. Can you tell me what place this is?"

As he moved nearer the parapet the girl had turned toward him until her face was more in the sunlight. In his own face admiration was clearly written. The girl lowered her eyes. But she made no answer.

He spoke again. "This certainly is not a hospital, is it?"

She moved her head, gently, in the negative.

"Is it the palace, or villa, of some King, or Prince or Duke--or something?"

Again the silent answer in the negative.

A chilling thought came to the traveler. Could this be a deaf and dumb asylum?

Now Cyrus had been "going on his nerves" for some hours and they might be more sensitive than usual. The last distressful thought showed plainly in his face. His heart began to bleed for this afflicted angel. And so pretty! So superlatively charming and desirable! As she raised the wondrous eyes and again regarded him his one ambition, at the moment, was to avoid appearing too imbecile and clownish. And lo, he was both! Never had he felt so helpless. If he knew at least the sign language there might be hope for progress. Even in that field of expression all he could recall were the doings in the pantomimes: to shut the eyes and incline your head upon your hand for sleep; to wabble your jaw for terror, and to lick your lips and rub your stomach with a rotary motion when you wanted food. But this was no moment for comic things, when his own heart and the very air he breathed were all a quiver with high adventure, with Beauty and Romance. So he stood before her in a painful, and--it seemed to him--a foolish silence. He looked down, then away, then at her, and as his drowsy eyes rested on her face he thought he detected an effort to suppress a smile. This doubled his embarrassment. He tried vainly to discover in what manner his question was mirth provoking. However, he made a brave effort to assert himself--to appear as if nobody cared. So he smiled, and straightened up a little.

"If you speak English won't you please say something? Just tell me what kind of a place this is? Where I am?"

"Non entra no signori in questo giardino."

Cyrus knew those words were Italian, and that was all. He frowned in his endeavor to guess their meaning.

"I am sorry, but I don't understand. Won't you please say that in English?"

"I said you were in a place where men are not allowed."

In pronouncing English words it seemed another voice. And he had heard it before! His drowsy eyes opened wider, his lips parted, and for a moment he stared, in wonder, as if belief came hard. Was it the voice he had heard in the darkness--in the motor, that night? As he stood in dumb surprise, hoping for the best, the girl stepped forward with a smile and extended a hand.

"Ruth!" he exclaimed. "Oh, Ruth! Really, is it you?"

It was. And great joy was in the meeting. They told each other many things. He learned that after the death of her parents she had found a refuge here, in this convent, through the influence of a friend. And he, in turn, told of his father's sudden death, of his own doings, of the Great Discovery. But he made no mention of his present affluence. He could foresee her sorrow and her sympathy for a man, otherwise normal, who told of gathering diamonds on the moon.

Leaning against the parapet, and facing the golden sky across the water, they talked, forgetful of surroundings. So engrossing was this talk of other days that they lived again in Longfields.

From this Fairy Land of childhood Ruth was the first to return to earth. "You must go, Drowsy." And she turned an anxious look toward the buildings beyond the garden.

"Oh, don't say that! Why, Ruth, this is the happiest moment of my life--a thousand times the happiest. Life has really begun again!"

"That is very polite of you, but----"

"Polite! Well, I should say! Why, Ruth, your very presence--just to look at you and hear your voice--is a--is a--breath of heaven. You are the loveliest thing I have ever seen. I can't express it!"

She laughed. "You are doing fairly well."

"Of course, you know it already, but truly, with no exaggeration, as you stand there now with that western sun for a side light you are the daintiest thing in Creation. And the same spell-binding eyes! Well, I knew that night in the dark that you were not a giantess--and that was about all."

She raised a hand for silence. "That will do, Drowsy. You have covered the ground."

But Cyrus went on. "And so angelic and pleasantly superior! Why, you are a temptation to any able-bodied lover to pick you up and run--or fly--away with you."

She blushed, frowned and laughed, all at the same time. "That will do! Now I know exactly what I am--and just how childish a man can be. I believe you are lighter headed than when you were a boy."

"I am telling the truth."

"Telling the truth! Then you have changed, indeed, for that was not your habit." In sudden alarm she straightened up. "Oh, but you mustn't be seen here, Drowsy! You must go--at once!"

"Not now? Not this very minute?"

"Yes, this very minute. Men are not allowed here, under any circumstances. If I were found talking with you it would mean--oh, anything!"

"What does it matter? You are not going to stay here."

"Stay here? Of course I am!"

"But not long?"

"So long as I live."

"You don't mean that!"

"Why not? I expect to live and die here. We are all very happy and very thankful."

"You don't mean that you are not coming back to--to Longfields--to me? You don't really mean what you say? That you are going to stay here forever?"

"Certainly. Of course. Why not?"

"Then you have changed your mind since this morning--since yesterday."

She looked up into Cyrus's face, puzzled, and disturbed. "Changed my mind? What do you mean? I really don't understand."

"Are you pretending that you don't know why I am here?"

"Pretending!"

"Any other word that you prefer. Only tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"Do you mean to say that you don't know why I am here?"

"You came to see me, I suppose."

"And you had no idea I was coming?"

"Not the slightest. How could I? I never was more surprised. But it's a most welcome surprise."

Cyrus closed his eyes and drew a long breath as one who makes an effort at self control. "I ask just one thing, Ruth. Be honest with me."

"Be honest! Why, Cyrus, what _do_ you mean? Indeed I can only guess at what's in your mind. You look as if you were angry. You have no right to be. Aren't you assuming----"

"Oh, don't! Don't do that! At least be frank. Why did you call me across the water? Just for the pleasure of doing this?"

"Call you? Across the water?"