Chapter XXXII: Liber Sextus

The voice which John heard was silent after its one outburst. He could find for the words no logical connection with any present event. An inquiry in the nine-teeth century concerning an individual of an ancient German nation was a circumstance which he could not understand. It might be a quotation which some one was reciting in a tragical manner or the exclamation of a lunatic whose bewildered faculties were roaming through European barbaric history. The latter supposition seemed the more likely, for a practicing declaimer would not content himself with the repetition of a single sentence.

John presently heard the tones of a female in the lower part of the house who was complaining bitterly of some grievance. "I tell you I won't," she cried. "I won't have them here, so many of them, without letting them know they ain't welcome. This is my house, or as good as my house, and you needn't say a word more about it."

John began to feel positive alarm. He mistrusted that Durgenson had entrapped him into a mad-house, for what purpose he could not decide. He knew, however, on reflection that if it were a public institution, he could demonstrate his sanity, when he would at once be set free. But if it were not a refuge for the insane, what meant the strange language, especially that sonorous voice which had so startled him.

To satisfy himself that he was not a prisoner he went to the one window of the room, which he endeavored to open, but which resisted his efforts. The blinds were closed and fastened, he did not doubt, in such a manner as to defy anything less than a great expenditure of force.

He did not yet desire an escape ardently enough to shatter the window and the blinds. There was probably no way of descent to the ground, except by leaping; and in case he failed to find a reasonably safe method of exit, the violence he contemplated would bring him disagreeable consequences, whether he were in the hands of friends or of enemies. Notwithstanding its disadvantages he would in all likelihood have attempted a flight from the window, had he not still clung to the hope of realizing some benefit from his visit. Panicky had told him he could not afford to stay away from this place for all the wealth in Ann Arbor.

He seated himself in a chair and waited. Footsteps, evidently those of a woman, were ascending the stairs. A key turned in the lock of the door, which opened, and a light shone into the room.

"Come this way," authoritatively said the woman who had conducted him to the chamber.

"Very well," answered John, "but before you lock me up again as if I were a convict, I wish to know what I have done to merit such treatment, I am used to being my own master."

"Excuse me if I have appeared rude," said the woman, "What I have done, I have done for your good. You will acknowledge it to-morrow. Do as I tell you, and I will soon explain everything to your satisfaction."

This speech, though it silenced John and partly quieted his displeasure, was said in a manner not in the least apologetic.

Not far from the bottom of the stairs she opened a door at the left, which she requested John to enter. After placing the lamp on the desk she said, much as she would address a child, "Be patient a few minutes more. You will find it to your advantage to do as you are directed."

John expected that when she left him this time she would omit her precaution of locking the door, but in this he was mistaken. He was in a library which faced the street, and had closely-packed shelves on three of its walls. The room was plainly, almost shabbily furnished, but the books were arranged with method. One set of shelves was devoted to history and biography, another to theoretical and miscellaneous works, and the third contained, besides such as were included in the second, poetry and light literature. In the historical department the works of ancient nations were at the bottom and the chronology of the subject matter in each volume was more modern than that in the book underneath it. The bottom shelves of the theoretical and miscellaneous department were occupied by books of reference, such as dictionaries, cyclopedias, etc. Above them, in order, were religious, philosophical and political treatises and various odd and antiquated dissertations. The legal and political works occupied the greater number of the shelves in the theoretical division, and usurped more than half the space in the third department. The imaginative literature, alone, of all the library, showed signs of disarrangement. Poems and novels were mingled in confusion. Scott's Waverlies were scattered about on every shelf. It was as if the library had been once arranged by a careful student, and afterward abandoned to some slovenly, trivial-minded person, who had left the solid part undisturbed. The one wall which did not support book-shelves was pasted over with newspaper clippings, which were mostly political articles or items concerning distinguished men. On this side of the apartment was a secretary divided into small drawers, some of whose labels are here quoted: "War Measures," "Reconstruction," "Currency."

A step close to the door and a suspension of the sound notified John that some person was near him.

"Say," began John, "how much longer am I to stay in here?"

"How do I know?" said Durgenson. "I didn't put you in there."

"But you sent for me to come here," returned John.

"I have been abused. That woman has a fashion of locking the door every time she leaves me. I will not endure it much longer. You must inform me soon what you wish of me, or I will kick out the window and go."

"I don't blame you a bit," said Durgenson. "That's just what I'd do if I was in your place. That woman is a little out of her head. That's what makes her act so. She's making game of you. I didn't want you to stop here, you remember. If you'd gone up town as I asked you to, I'd have been telling you what you wanted to know by this time. I'd slam through the window and light out. I wouldn't let anybody interfere with my liberty. You go up there where I said, and I'll be up directly."

As footsteps in an adjoining room drew near, Durgenson quickly retreated. The key turned, the door opened and the woman entered, followed by another lady, at sight of whom John sprang to his feet with an exclamation of joy.

"Why, Mrs Boyle!" cried John, shaking the hand of the newcomer. "You do not know how glad I am to see you!"

"He has been very suspicious of me ever since he came here," said Mrs. Boyle's companion. "He thought I meant to do him some harm."

"Afraid of Mrs. Baldwin?" said Mrs. Boyle. "You needn't be, John. Do whatever she tells you to don't be afraid of the consequences."

"I will trust any one whom you recommend," said John. "Pardon my impatience, but I am very anxious to know why Mr. Durgenson sent for me."

"Mr. Durgenson did not send for you," replied Mrs. Baldwin.

"He said he did," returned John. "He said he knew something to my advantage with he wished to tell me. He instructed me to go to No. 109---- Street, where we would hold a consultation."

"He wanted to get you away," said Mrs. Baldwin. "I know his tricks. That is why I locked the door when I left you."

"Will you tell me one thing," asked John, "what is the meaning of those strange cries which I heard?"

"In good time," answered Mrs. Baldwin. "Before I explain much to you, you must answer some questions. Where were you brought up?"

"The first that I can remember," replied John, "I lived with a man named Norris in the township of Terry, Branch County. He took me from the poor-house. I cannot remember my father or my mother."

"We have made careful inquiries about you," said Mrs. Baldwin, "and we are satisfied that we know your family history. Will you please bare your foot? Which one, Mrs. Boyle?"

"That one," said Mrs. Boyle, pointing to the left one.

"It is very sore," returned John. "I have had a surgical operation performed on it. Still, I will do as you say."

"What kind of operation?" asked Mrs. Baldwin.

"There were six toes," replied John, "and I had one of them amputated."

"What," cried Mrs. Baldwin, "amputated? You foolish boy! Do you know you have lost the most honorable birth-mark there is in Michigan? What are we to do, now that the proof of your descent is gone? You saw it, though, Mrs. Boyle?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Boyle. "I will swear to that."

"The doctors at Ann Arbor will testify to the same thing," said John, "and the scar where the toe was will always stay on my foot."

"I will tell you some things which, perhaps, you would like to know," said Mrs. Baldwin, as John was replacing the bandages on his foot. "Your grandfather was a man of wealth and influence."

"Is he dead?" asked John excitedly.

"You must not interrupt me," said Mrs. Baldwin. "Your mother went to Detroit to school, and while there became acquainted with a young German named Lehmann. Mr. Lehmann and your grandfather, meeting accidentally, quarreled over politics. Your grandfather, on finding out that the young gentleman who wished to marry his daughter, was the one with whom he had disagreed, told him never to enter his house. A while after that your mother, in spite of the quarrel, married Mr. Lehmann. Your grandfather was, of course, very indignant, and they were never reconciled. Your parents went to Chicago to live. Your father, who was talented and highly educated gave music lessons. They claim he had real musical genius. A concert which he gave won high praise from the Chicago papers. Shortly after this your father and mother started to go to Milwaukee, where he was advertised to play. Both of them were killed in the accident which happened to the train. Not much notice was taken of your father's death at the time, but six months afterward some of his compositions became famous. People from all parts of the country visit his grave to pay tribute to his memory. If you are familiar with the history of music, you have heard part of my story before."

"Yes," said John, "I have played my father's marches and felt my soul quiver to the emotions they produced, but I never suspected my relationship to their author."

"You," continued Mrs. Baldwin, "or we think it was you, their child, was left during their absence with Mrs. Boyle, who kept with her another boy name Wrengell. After the accident Mr. Durgenson, who married your mother's cousin, came to Mrs. Boyle and saying that he and Mr. Lehmann had been friends, offered to care for you, but he did not state that you were relatives. Mrs. Boyle had become attached to you, and she declined to let you go. She said Mr Lehmann had left you with her, and she felt justified in keeping you. You were not quite two years old then. One night, when you and the other little boy, who was older than you, had been playing in the kitchen and running out doors, Mr. Boyle missed you. She asked the boy where you were, and he told her that you had gone out doors. Thinking it queer that you, a child, who would naturally be afraid in the dark, should stay so long she went out and called you. She was worried when you did not answer. She called the neighbors and roused the police, but she could not find you. A man named Dabney had been sawing wood in a yard close by."

"What," exclaimed John, "not Panicky!"

"Yes," said Mrs. Baldwin. "He goes by the name of Panicky. He had coaxed you to him and given you some candy. Mrs Boyle visited his house the next morning and did not find him at home. Late in the day she saw him, when she asked him if he had seen you. He answered that he had not seen you for two days. Mrs. Bole always believed that he had a hand in kidnapping you.

"She moved to Michigan. A few weeks ago you came to her house, and she was struck by your strong resemblance to your father. When you played on your violin, she was almost certain of your identity. Remembering how Mr. Durgenson had tried to get possession of you twenty years before, she warned you to have nothing to do with him. After you sprained your ankle and she saw your foot, she was certain who you were.

"Your grandfather met with an accident in Jackson County, when the story of your mother's elopement was again told through the country. Mrs. Boyle, hearing it, wrote to us what she knew about the affair. I got a lawyer to interview Dabney. The lawyer frightened him into telling that it was he who took you from Mrs. Boyle. He says Mr. Durgenson hired him to kill you. He did not want to do that, but he was in sore need of money, and he did take you to his brother's house out in the country, where you were kept for several weeks, Durgenson all the while believing you dead. If you had been a rich man's son, you would have been found. As it was, the police took little pains to hunt you up. In a little while Dabney, who was careful that you should not be hurt, took you to Michigan and left you with a relative of the boy who was living with Mrs. Boyle. That is the way you came by your name of Wrengell."

"Then," remarked John, "the history of which I have been so much ashamed is the history of Alf, the fellow who was with Mrs. Boyle. I have hung my head for the depravity of his parents." He felt a great thrill of thankfulness as he reflected that Wrengell, his tormentor at Ann Arbor, with his sand-colored coat, his wicked mouth and his criminal face was not his relative.

"We told Dabney," said Mrs. Baldwin, "that if he would find you and identify you, we would pardon him for what he had done and reward him besides. He was glad to repair the mischief he had accomplished. He said he had seen you but a short time before, and he could soon find you. You know how he kept his word."

"Who was my grandfather?" asked John.

"I will show you his picture," replied Mrs. Baldwin. "Come into this room."

They passed into an apartment which was well, though not luxuriously, furnished. Mrs. Baldwin pointed to a frame, which enclosed the stern, intellectual face of Senator Mallard. John felt his legs tremble and his heart throb. Sinking info a chair, incapable of speech, he covered his face with his hands, while the tears trickled through his fingers and ran down his coat-sleeves. Poverty and disgrace, where were they now? Of his wealth he knew nothing and cared little, but his lineage was proud enough to satisfy even his ambition.

"Let me see him," he said in a broken voice. "I want to see my grandfather."

"We will go to him now," said Mrs. Baldwin. "He was thrown from a buggy in Jackson County, and he cannot recover. His reason is gone."

They crossed to the opposite side of the house and entered a bedroom. The old statesman, with his face turned toward the door, his head toward the window, was lying on the bed at the right. He was weakened by sickness, but there was a vigor in the expression of his countenance which seemed an unnatural accompaniment of its pallor and emaciation.

"Thou art a Suebian," he said, looking fixedly at John. "I know thee by thy lofty stature, thy blue eyes and light hair."

Durgenson came in quietly and stood by the bed.

The old man, suddenly raising himself, pointed his finger at the cattle-buyer. "Quosque tandem abutere Durgenson patientia nostra!" he exclaimed, in a tone which made Durgenson draw back. "And didst thou, Roman, think thyself able to drive the Suebian from his home? Sueborun gens est longe maxima et bellicosissima Germanorum omnium. No, Roman, thou canst not do it. The days of Varus are come, but Varus cannot restore to thee thy legions."

"He's awful crazy," whispered Durgenson to John.

"Roman," cried Mallard, with astonishing force for one in his weakened condition, "leave the country of the Suebi."

"I don't believe he wants me here," said Durgenson, quitting the bedroom, "I guess I'd better go."

Mrs. Baldwin followed Durgenson.

"Suebian," said Mallard, "I have the key to the past For years I tried in vain to master its secrets. Now they come to me without any effort on my part. Time, you know, circles around us and every year draws a coil. My head has whirled and unwound the coil, unwound two thousand years. I have learned every incident in the history of the Suebi, incidents to which historians have never referred."

"Here is a violin," said Mrs. Baldwin, as she approached with the instrument which she named. "Play for your grandfather."

When John's music had ceased, Mallard said, "I hear Orpheus playing on his golden harp to win Eurydice from the king of the dead. Cerberus has sunk to sleep, and the fiery wheel on which Ixion is bound stands still. No, my head has whirled and carried me back too far. That strain never floated in the land of the dead or over the Thessalian hills. Thou art a Suebian."

"The rigor of thy clime hath saddened thee," said the old man at the conclusion of another air by John. "This is the wail of the terrible north wind, lying flat on his face and piling mountains of ice on thy desolate islands and across the mouths of thy slow rivers. Thou couldst not translate his language until he drove mirth from thee."

By Mrs. Baldwin's direction John again took his bow and played.

"Strange things are in thy forest of Bacinis," said Mallard. "In thy wanderings through the wood thou hast seen visions of the unattainable and hast overtaken the sublime. I, too, have seen sublimity, but I could not catch it. I thought to grapple it and hold it up to the gaze of men, and, when I reached out my hand for it, it was gone. Give it to me, that I may unfold it before the senate."

"You have already unfolded it before the senate a hundred times," replied John.

"No," said Mallard sadly. "I fear I may not get it. It is not of earth and is vaster than earth. Words narrow it and imprison it, and I have no expression but words. Martha, there are feathers in this bed, for I smell them."

"No," answered Mrs. Baldwin, "of course there are not. You are lying on a mattress."

"That is not what I meant," said the Senator, "there are chickens, live chickens in this bed. There! See that one running to the foot."

"I will drive them out," said Mrs. Baldwin, who disappeared through the door and speedily returned with a broom. "Shoo, shoo," she cried, striking the bed vigorously with the household utensil.

"Stop," commanded Mallard, "Do not hurt them. They have all gone. Suebian, come nearer. I will tell thy fortune."

John advanced and held out his hand.

"No," said Mallard. "Bunglers tell fortunes by the hand. I tell them by the foot. Strip off these bandages."

The Senator stirred around uneasily, getting the quilt which was over him partly displaced, when it became apparent that he had twelve toes, six on each foot. John, while he was undoing the bandages, looked with regret at the mutilation which he had caused, and reflected that he would give much to replace the lost member in its normal state. He turned his chair toward the bed, presenting the limb with its scabbed extremity as his grandfather had desired.

"Here are the archives of the past and the indices of the future," said the statesman. "Six toes, and every toe a book. Here are Liber Primus, Liber Secundus, Liber Tertius, Liber Quartus, Liber Quintus, and, what is this? Liber Sextos is gone; dids't thou willingly part with it?"

"I would I had it back," said John earnestly.

"Liber Sextus is a grand book," said Mallard, "it tells the story of the Suebi and the Roman Usurpation. Still, I can read it when it is absent as well as when it is present. The Roman will contend against thee. Entangle him in the marshes, and remain thyself on the hills. If my head would only keep stationary, I could decipher all; but just as I am introduced to an epoch, it whirls again, and events fly out of my sight."

"He is getting tired," said Mrs. Baldwin. "We had better go and let him rest."

"Farewell, Suebian," said Mallard, when he saw them leaving his presence. "Be firm in resisting the Roman."

"Do you have watchers for him nights?" asked John as he, Mrs. Baldwin and Mrs. Boyle were in the room which contained the large picture of his grandfather.

"No," replied Mrs. Baldwin, "we did for a while, until he said so much against it. He could not bear to have any one in his room when he wanted to go lo sleep. When you wish to go to bed, I will show you your room."

"I will retire now," said John.

Mrs. Baldwin led the way up the stairs to a bedroom in the north extremity of the house. Through the window John could see the glimmering lights of the wakeful city, which at the horizon appeared to join the star-dotted spread of the heavens. His happiness had come in a deluge, which he was ill-fitted quietly to withstand. There was no obstacle to his union with Manie. None could sneer at the parentage of Martin Lehmann's son and Senator Mallard's grandson. He undressed and went to bed, but the exuberance of his spirits forbade him to be still. For an hour or two he resisted the inclination to rise. Finally, however, it grew too strong to be suppressed, when he sprang up and put on his clothes. Few lights were now visible in the city. John sat in a chair, or paced back and forth until the sunbeams fell on the clustered roofs at the north.

He softly descended the stairs to take a look at his grandfather, who, he thought, might not be awake. Cautiously pushing open the bedroom door, which was ajar, he peered inside. Mallard's white face was turned toward him, the eyes were closed, the lips were parted as if in sleep, but never more would they charm a wondering senate or move to the accents of popular eloquence.