Chapter V: Book II (3)

“Nursing is gradually becoming a money-making trade. During the War, women seeking adventure with little knowledge were extravagantly paid. Now money is no longer easy, but prices remain high. Only people of means can afford a trained nurse; there is a great need. You don’t know how sick people are neglected for want of care. I am trying to bring together earnest women of all classes; there are so many who want to do something, and don’t know how. I have appeals from all over the country--piteous cries from women whose lives are empty; their school will be the bedside of the poor. You don’t know how quickly they learn, when their heart is in it. They pledge themselves to go wherever they are called, without regard to payment, like the nuns in the early days of Christianity. We are getting together a fund to pay their living. When they are not working they will study, we will have our own home, our own hospital. It has only been whispered, but you have no idea how easy it is to get money.” She showed him a letter signed by a well-known millionaire, who guaranteed a large sum. “There are many rich women eager to join us, who are seeking for something better, something nobler in their lives--you don’t know--you don’t know!”

No, he didn’t know!

“I feel very small, annoying you with my personal affairs when you are doing such great things.” He made his way to the door. Life was hopeless again.

“Wait.”

She was agitated, she couldn’t let him go like that; because--she loved him. She knew it now. A wave of gladness rushed through her. She had loved everybody all her life, but this love was like a wonderful magic touch--transporting her into some distant fairy world. She stood by the window; he saw the light on her face.

“I think I can manage it. I want to go to London to the headquarters of the Salvation Army, to Zurich, to confer with the Red Cross Sisters; if your wife will go with me, it will not be neglecting my duty.”

He grasped her hand. “Thanks, thanks. I’ll never forget this, never.”

He saw the blood surging up to her temples, receding, leaving her white. Her eyes were longing, pleading; they sought his. She was beautiful; his heart gave a great bound. He stood looking, looking, stammered something, then turned and went out.

The next few days he was kept busy about the cabins, rugs, passports, exchange. There was a feeling of warmth. He saw Mary standing there with that look in her face; he saw the woman for the first time. How wonderful she was! What a wife she would make! He hoped she wouldn’t marry. No man was good enough. He found himself thinking too much about her; then he went and bought something costly for Julie. He refused to stay alone in the house with that French woman. He coaxed Bridget back to take care of the boy while his wife was away. He wondered why Julie didn’t write to her friends.

“I don’t want anyone to know I am going.”

“Not even Maud Dillon?”

“They’ve moved away somewhere.”

He hadn’t seen Tom about town as usual. How people disappear when their money is gone and nobody misses them.

The car was waiting at the door. Julie, with a throb of pride, took the boy once more in her arms. The child was beautiful in his velvet suit and lace collar.

“You won’t forget me, Joseph?”

“No, Mother.”

She placed her photograph on the table beside his little bed.

“You will say good night to me? I will hear it. I will say good night to you; you will hear it.”

“Yes, Mother.” She put the worn Hebrew prayer book in his hands.

“You will read the prayer I taught you, every morning, every evening?”

“Yes, Mother.” The boy’s eyes fixed on her face grew deeper; there was a psychic connection between them. She went back to her own childhood. She saw an old man, with that book in his hand, his face lit with religious fervor.

“Julie, you will say the prayer I taught you, every morning, every evening?”

“Yes, Grandfather.” She had kept her promise.

The steamer sailed. Mary remained on deck to get a last glimpse of the solitary man standing on the wharf. Julie gave Floyd’s flowers to the steward to put on the dining table; there was a bouquet of exquisite red roses in her cabin. When they landed she wore one in her corsage.

14

The earth was thirsty; it poured down for three days, a slow soaking rain. Martin thought it would never stop. He walked along the lake in the Park regardless of his dripping hat. He was aching to see the boy again, to hear him say in his mother’s soft voice, “I love you, Uncle Martin.” What a mess he had made of his life; now he must steal what rightly belonged to him. He exulted in his power over Julie. Her illness was a fatality; it was her mother’s dead hand that had struck her daughter down to save her from him. A shiver ran through him; why was he so superstitious? He didn’t believe in anything--but sometimes a peculiar feeling took hold of him; there was another life far back, a mystery--something intangible. He walked hours in the rain--fighting invisible forces, cursing the conditions of his life; it all resolved itself back to the same determination. She had promised to go with him; she must keep her word.

Towards evening he rang the side-door bell at Hippolyte’s, hoping to get some news of her. The dark-skinned valet whisked off his coat, dried his dripping hair and neck, and preceded him into the Turkish room behind the shop. It was Hippolyte’s hour of rest before the night’s activity; he was lying on a divan, a picturesque figure, in a loose red silk robe. He waved Martin a welcome with his small white hand, the diamond, set in platinum on his finger, flashing rose color in the soft electric glow of the pervading red.

“_Sapristi_, Monsieur Steele. I was thinking of you.”

Martin dropped down in a deep chair, stretched out his legs. The aroma of coffee and a whiff of perfumed opium lent a sense of warmth to his chilled body.

“Of me? Are you in trouble again?”

His pipe-dream-visions changed into the cold reality of a check book; he had often helped the man out of his financial difficulties, he earned enormous sums, but the overhead expenses were fabulous.

“The money is nothing; it comes in and goes out like the tide. I am at the end, the compass changes. We must in Life watch for the Warning. We must train our ear to detect the direction of the wind.”

“You are superstitious?”

“We all are, if we knew its true meaning. Superstition is an intense sense of the Invisible.”

Martin drank the strong Turkish coffee, puffing at his chibouk. The man was a “hairdresser,” but that didn’t matter; Martin had no sense of class.

“My time in this business will soon be over. I was the only one for years when it was an ‘elite’ profession. Now it is vulgarized like everything else. There is a clever Russian woman who is taking all my customers; do you know why? The husbands are jealous.”

Martin laughed--he understood that; he would never allow this fascinating, purring Greek to maul _his_ wife about.

“_Mon ami_, I know what you are thinking; you are wrong. They talk a great deal about the immorality of the American woman. It is not so--and it is a shame that it is not so. The French woman is honest; she have her husband, her lover; he has his wife, his mistress. Marriage is a success in France; they do not go about divorcing themselves. Here marriage is a failure, because every woman, young, middle age, old, talk of love!--it is only talk!--_mon ami_, talk! talk!--but she _do_ nothing! nothing! Why! because she is afraid; the fear is in her blood from the old times in America, the fear of the ‘Scarlet Letter.’ Oh! she can love, _Mon Dieu_! and if by accident there is just a little false step, she make a scene, her relatives make a scene, the press make a scene, everybody make a scene. Oh! your Hawthorne did not know what harm he was doing to the future women of his country. The French authors knew better. La nouvelle Heloise--Camille, the heroines of de Maupassant, have set the women of France a glorious example.”

Martin smiled. The fellow was clever, insolent.

“Do you know how it will end?”

“No, my imagination doesn’t take me any farther.”

“Bah!--it is easy, she will go back to the pale face and the straight hair. You will see the little Puritan again. They have already forbid us the wine, the splendid opium, the tobacco, silk stockings, cosmetics, love--the whole nation will go to bed at nine o’clock--and their money will choke them.”

Martin laughed, but the man was very serious; he put his hand on Martin’s shoulder.

“_Mon ami_, you have been good to me. You know the Figaro has the soul of an artist; I am going to be good to you. I am going to tell you something you do not know; Mrs. Garrison will sail Saturday for England, without her husband.”

15

The Garrison “shanties,” near the river, were kept in as good condition as possible, but time and rats gnawed at their foundations. On one of these the passer could read, with some difficulty, the faded letters of an old sign, “Martin Steele and Son, Established 1830.”

Since Mr. Steele’s death, the business had been carried on by a Mr. Waldbridge, who knew and followed the old conservative methods of the defunct Steeles. Young Mr. Steele was expected to take his father’s place as head of the firm, but he stayed away, took what money he wanted, a ridiculously small amount for a man of his means, leaving the surplus in the business. Waldbridge had written several times asking him to come down and look over the books. Finally, he appeared. He was a mystery to Mr. Waldbridge; all the young business men of the day were eager speculators. He had expected new ideas, a business revolution; but no such things happened. He would sit about, watch closely the proceedings, but made no suggestions. His visits grew less and less frequent.

“What does he do with himself?” thought Mr. Waldbridge. “He doesn’t gamble. He’s never seen at the races or baseball games. His name has never been connected with women. What kind of a man is he?”

Martin sat opposite him in the private office, flung his soft hat on the floor, crossed his long legs; his hair was disarranged, his face a yellow pallor; his clothes hung loosely, he was very thin. His “appearance” struck Mr. Waldbridge as very un-American--he himself being an Erie Road commuter with all the proud consciousness of a one hundred per cent Nationalism.

He spoke cautiously of the hard times and unsatisfactory business conditions. They had advanced money on large stocks of merchandise; there was nothing to do but to hold on. If they forced the sale, it would mean enormous losses.

“Yes, I know,” interrupted Martin impatiently. “We couldn’t go on gorging money at that rate; we’d have to vomit it up sometime. No stomach could hold it; that’s what we’re doing now. Some people die suddenly from it; we’ll have a lingering end.”

Waldbridge laughed uneasily, really a very unpleasant young man.

“I hope we will weather it. I’ve been discounting--and--”

Martin interrupted again--discounting meant nothing to him--although he was flying some moral “kites” on his own account.

“Do whatever you like; I’m out of it.”

Waldbridge rose to his feet.

“What do you mean?”

“You can take my father’s name down.”

“If you liquidate the business now, it will mean disaster.”

“I have no interest in it. I am leaving New York.”

Then Waldbridge broke down. It was terrible, a long-established, respected firm--wreckage--pure wreckage; that word seemed to have a fatal significance in Martin’s life.

“Can I count on, say, ten thousand a year for ten years?”

Julie was luxuriously inclined, because her heart had been empty. He would take her away from cities; they would live somewhere quietly in the country.

Waldbridge smiled. “You can always have that and more if you want it.”

Then Martin did a wonderful thing, so wonderful it left Waldbridge speechless, staring at him. Was the man mad? There was a taint of insanity in the family.

Martin read his thoughts.

“I’m thirty-two years old, and I know what I am doing. I want you to turn this business into a company; every man in it, from the lowest to the highest, must have his share. You, of course, will be the head of the firm. Get a good lawyer and do it legally. You’ll have your work, every mother’s son of you, to get the old hulk out of the mud; if you do, you’re entitled to the spoils.”

“And the capital?” gasped Waldbridge.

“I told you what I want, the rest I’ll leave in business; you can’t go on without it, can you?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the use of talking about it.”

He held out his hand; Waldbridge grasped it, trying to stammer out his gratitude, but Martin was gone. He dashed out of the place, threw himself into a taxi.

“Uptown.”

The New York chauffeur is accustomed to indefinite addresses. He looked back at the man with his hat pulled over his eyes, crouching in a corner. “A bloke who had lost his wad.” Then he wondered if it was a defaulter or a gunman--some of them looked like perfect gentlemen. He drove uptown, entered the Park. There he stopped. He was hungry; that guy in the corner could sleep all day.

“Where to?”

Martin, pitched forward by the sudden jolt, glared at him.

“The Waldorf.”

He sprang up the stairs three at a time, too nervous to wait for the elevator, looked around the room, which was in disorder; his man couldn’t keep it tidy. Martin flung everything about.

He would take nothing with him but a dress suit case. He caught sight in the corner of an old box covered with deerskin, tied together with a thick rope; he had taken it from the garret after his grandfather’s death, but had never opened it. He untwisted the knots, one after the other. It was a hard job. It hurt his fingers. He took out a pair of mountain boots, goat’s leather, with large nails in the soles. Martin looked down at his feet; they would fit him. He pulled out an old woollen shirt, a pair of corduroy trousers, a felt hat with a green feather, a bright colored vest, and red handkerchiefs. There was a small chamois bag with strange coins, Swiss money--Martin examined them curiously; a pack of old letters, a photograph of a young boy and girl, a cow, and a high mountain at the back. That mountain fascinated him; he looked at it long, intensely. The raw boy and girl in Swiss dress were his grandparents. Martin thought of his mother. On the back of the card there was something printed which he made out with difficulty: “Val Sinestra.” He had never heard the name. He put everything back in the trunk and roped it; the idea came suddenly: he would take it with him, to Switzerland.

16

After Julie left, Floyd spent his evenings at the club; there were many strange to him. The membership had increased; it was still a mark of class to be seen lounging at the club-window in the afternoon.

He missed Martin. He was different from the others. When he raved against the world, he said things in bad taste, but often the bitter truth. With a sudden impulse, he wrote a few lines, asking him to lunch at the club the following day. He’d be furious when he heard Julie had sailed. He’d say, “You might have given me a chance to send her a few flowers.” Floyd smiled; yes, he liked Martin; more than that, he loved him; he was interwoven with the memories of his childhood, his youth. He wished that episode had not happened when Julie was ill, but she was unconscious of it. She had never in all that time mentioned his name. It was all in his own evil mind. He mentally asked pardon of Martin. The next morning at breakfast he had a feeling of agreeable expectancy.

The boy was crying upstairs. Bridget couldn’t quiet him.

“What’s the matter up there?”

The child fretted for his mother. He had caught a cold, and had been kept in the house for some days. He was standing with his boat in his hands, sobbing piteously. Floyd pacified him by running the water into the bath which was sunken in the center of a tiled room. The boy handed his father the boat.

Floyd turned it over in his hand.

“A costly toy. Mamma is good to you.”

“Mamma didn’t give it to me.”

“Yes she did--Mamma gives you everything.”

“She didn’t,” insisted the boy. “My Uncle Martin bought it for me.”

“Your Uncle Martin?”

“Yes. He came every day to the Park, and then he put a note in the cabin, telling Mamma to come, and she came.”

“Where is the cabin?”

“You can’t find it, nobody but me.”

The boy in great glee pressed the spring.

“There’s no letter there!”

“Oh! no! I gave it to Mamma; she read it and tore it up.”

Floyd pushed the boy away. He was making a spy of his innocent child. Why didn’t Julie tell him?

“Did Mamma meet Uncle Martin in the Park every day?”

“No, not every day; she’d stay away sometimes because Uncle Martin scolded her and she’d cry. He loved me and petted me and said he was going to steal me away.”

“But you wouldn’t leave me, would you, Joseph?”

The boy meditated, and then told the truth.

“Perhaps I would, Papa, if Mamma came along; but I don’t think she’d come because Uncle Martin scolded her too much. I was mad at him and said ‘Uncle Martin, you’ll have to beg Mother’s pardon; I always do when I’m bad.’ Then Uncle Martin laughed and gave me such a long kiss and said, ‘There, take that to Mamma and it will be all right.’”

Floyd sat motionless with the boy in his arms. The little fellow’s eyes drooped, he slid down, pillowed his head on the big fur animal; those glassy eyes brought Floyd back to Mrs. Gonzola--why did she always watch Julie? He had never asked any questions about the unexpected call on the telephone. He had been deliriously happy; there was no room in his thoughts for the past.

He bent over the child, noting the beautiful powerful body; neither he nor Julie had great physical strength. The boy would be a giant. Why did Mrs. Gonzola press such a quick marriage? Why did she keep him away so much during their short engagement? Why did she want Julie to get “used” to the idea? As a child Julie liked Martin better; they’d disappear and he’d wander about looking for them, then go home disappointed. In his mad desire to get her, he had really done Martin an injustice; he should have waited. He didn’t do the square thing, because--he knew Martin would have won out! He bent lower over the boy--trying to find some clue in that innocent face! The blood rushed to his head--he must have it out with Martin--he couldn’t go on with evil suspicions of his wife, his friend. Martin was no liar! He always told the brutal truth, even if it were against himself.

The night brought sanity, consolation. Julie was foolish, but not criminal. Her religion wouldn’t let her do anything wrong. She went to Confession the day before her marriage; then he wondered--what did she really believe? She was by creed a Catholic, but she taught her boy his prayers in Hebrew.

He went early to the club and waited for Martin, who was late as usual. He looked at his watch, and idly took up the morning paper.

His eye caught a headline. “The _Aquitania_ sailing with a distinguished crowd on board.”

What! the ship already back and sailing again? It was the usual summer rush; he knew most of the names. One riveted his gaze. He read it once, twice, three times; the paper dropped from his hand. He saw that name wherever he looked. Martin Steele had sailed on the _Aquitania_.

It was ten days before the next steamer crowded with pleasure-seekers sailed for England. At the last moment Floyd came on board, too late to have his name in the passenger list. The only cabin left was on the lowest deck inside. He went down, locked the door, unpacked his valise. Most of its space was taken up by a silver-mounted leather box--one would say an elegant toilette case. He opened it, took out a brace of shining pistols, examined each one carefully, and put it back in the box. He had no definite plan, but when a man catches a thief in his house he shoots him....

17

Martin arrived in London and put up at the Savoy; he noticed the crowds of fine young fellows and beautifully dressed women.

“Is there anything unusual going on tonight?”

“Yes,” said the polite young clerk, “a dinner and dance, in honor of Mrs. Garrison, an American lady.”

Julie had been received by the Ambassador in London with great cordiality, on account of his old friendship for Jimmie Garrison. Mary wrote to Mr. Garrison:

You have all reason to be well satisfied with your wife. We have done
the right thing. She is enjoying herself. She looks like a young
girl; the element which disturbed her has disappeared. I find her so
much more normal.

The letter never reached Floyd.

Martin stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed on Julie, who was surrounded by eager applicants, waiting their turn to dance with the “silver-haired beauty.” He took in the soft white neck, the dimpled arms, the small classic head, and that something in the curve of her mouth and yielding smile--a triumphant sensuality. She swept past him. He could have touched her; he stood motionless.

Mary was up early the next morning. She stood looking at Julie, in a deep sleep, her hair falling loose, enveloping her in a veil of unreality; then she shut the door softly and went into the salon. Waiting for her simple breakfast, she watched the passing busses and pedestrians in the street below. All large cities are the same, but different, like people; each individuality giving another form to the Image or material symbol. London has a distinct personality; nobility of character is unmistakably stamped upon it.

The door opened; she turned and saw Martin. There was a momentary fear; then she was her quiet self again. Martin apologized for startling her. They measured each other; he saw an enemy.

“Why are you so antagonistic to me?”

“I’m never antagonistic without reason?”

“What reason have I given you?”

She looked keenly at him. He was well groomed--a clean-shaven, intense face, fascinating for some women; he repelled Mary. He has courage to show his mouth, she thought.

“I have been sent here by Mrs. Garrison’s doctor; she has had a serious illness, you know that.”

“Yes.”

“She may at any time fall back into the same condition. I don’t want her to know you are here.”

“Why?”

There was a gleam of humor in his eyes; it angered her. Why should she play policy with him?

“Because your presence may excite her. You are Mr. Garrison’s friend. I hope you will take my advice and not try to see her until she has finished her cure.”

“What cure?”

“She has been sent to a place in Switzerland called Val Sinestra, to drink arsenic water; you see I am keeping nothing from you.”

“Very kind, I could easily find out. Val Sinestra?” The name was familiar.

She stood with her hand on the door-knob waiting for him to go.

“Val Sinestra. I will write her.”

“I have orders to withhold any communications which may excite her.”

“Orders from her husband?”

“No, from her doctor.”

Her eyes shot fire at him....

He went back to his room, took out of his bag the bundle of old letters. Yes, that was the name, “Val Sinestra”; it was Destiny.

There were two sides to Martin: a fiercely brutal realism, and a mysticism, instinctively concealed. As a boy, he would lie night after night, his eyes wide open; visions came and faded. It was always the same struggle with an unseen horror. He would awaken from a restless sleep, his face damp with tears. Those days he was very silent; his stepmother called them his sullen fits. As he grew older the visions vanished, but he had hours of deep abstraction, when reality slipped away from him.

He sat in his room, the banal colored post-card of the two young peasants in his hand. There was a sudden consciousness of Liberation; the other self flew out and away through walls, over seas, over mountain peaks, soaring, soaring. He sat there for hours motionless.

That evening the hotel clerk handed Miss Mary a note. It contained one line scrawled on half a sheet of paper.

“Am leaving for Paris.”

She was very glad, she wondered how far it had gone between those two. The responsibility was heavy.

18

At thirty-two Martin put his foot for the first time upon the soil of his ancestors. He roamed through Zurich; mounted its narrow cobble-stoned alley-ways, stood before an overhanging house reading the inscription. “This house is three hundred years old.” The lives of Zwingli, Pestalozzi became familiar. He read ravenously the history of the town. He stood on the border of its blue lake, encircled with snow mountains, “A Turquoise on a white bosom.” Something stirred in him, an inward convulsion, like the sudden eruption of an extinct crater; he broke into choking tearless sobs. Martin, unknown to himself, had the Swiss temperament--a people without the gift of self-expression, a deeply religious peasant race, silent before the mystic beauty of their mountains. Patriotism, that misunderstood word, with its medieval clashing of swords, its uniforms, its medals, has no relation to the Swiss adoration of the soil. He worships his valleys, his lakes, his waterfalls; they are living to him; he has a rage for the mountains; he leaves his country to seek wealth, but he rarely stays in the stranger’s land; nostalgia drives him home; he must get back to the heights or die. Martin understood later why his grandfather went mad, why his father was wordless, why his mother died young.

He tried his Swiss on the _portier_ of the Bauer au lac Hotel, a man of all-round information, a veritable encyclopædia of Switzerland, who could answer in the many languages of the cosmopolitan crowd, on its way to and from the mountains. Martin spoke a few words to him in his grandfather’s “lingo,” then said, “What am I speaking, anyhow?”

“Your dialect is Romontsch or Romance. Your people came from the Grisons.”

Then he explained how in the Middle Ages the Barons and Bishops had oppressed the people, and how they formed Leagues and fought for their freedom. The Grisons took their name from the “Gray League,” a heroic band of peasants.

Martin left Zurich by the early train the next morning; he sat the entire day gazing out of the window unconscious of the other passengers. A great moving picture shot before him--green valleys, velvet hills, beautiful grazing animals, brooks changing into waterfalls, cataracts dashing down dark ravines, mountains growing higher, higher. At Tarasp he stayed over night to connect with the stage-coach at daybreak, and spent the evening sitting outside with the guides, who told him of the Val Sinestra, where the bandits used to live in caves, deep down in the ravines, and smuggled wine over the border. Then they spoke in lowered tones of the danger of mountain climbing--of death--of miracles they had seen above in the mist, with their own eyes.

With the rising of the sun, seated beside the coach driver, Martin pierced the mountain passes; they stopped at a quaint hamlet.

“We turn here,” said the old man. Then he wished “Godspeed,” cracked his whip, and went on. The coach pitched from side to side, on a perilously narrow road, but the horses were sure-footed, and the driver, past seventy, had gone the same way for fifty years.

Martin drew deep breaths of the fragrant air; he looked about him. The houses were a mixture of old Swiss and Italian architecture--the protruding windows and little balconies were covered with bright flowers; in the distance he caught sight of a picturesque church and cemetery. He entered an inn with a swinging sign; a rooster flapping its wings. The spotless floors sprinkled with sand, the small counter with shelves of bottles, the peasant girl in the costume of the Canton--it was all so familiar. She brought him a glass of wine and a pretzel, smiling at his jargon. He remarked on the absence of men.

“They are ‘up there’ with the cows for the summer.” She pointed to the green hills, gradually becoming steeper. “In those little huts on the top they make the cheese which they send all over the world. In the winter the sun doesn’t come up very high; it is like a blue twilight here. The storms howl, the snow falls for weeks. When the peasant closes his eyes, the avalanche haunts him; if he awakens in the morning he is grateful to God.” The girl went on chattering in her soft “Romance.” “The doctor goes down to Croire in the winter, but our pastor stays with us. We have service here when the snow is too deep to walk to the chapel.” Then she put down the glass she was polishing, and went joyously to the door to meet a tall man, a gigantic peasant, with masses of thick gray hair falling to his shoulder. He was long past seventy, but showed no signs of age. His voice rang out stentorian, clear. He was warm, wiping the perspiration from his face with a large red handkerchief. He looked at Martin with keen penetrating eyes. Then said, “Good morning.”

“Oh, you speak English.”

“Yes, we have many English visitors. Our children are taught it in the schools.” He looked again, seemingly puzzled.

“What is your name?”

“Martin Steele. My people come from over here.”

“Steele.” He shook his head. “I know none of that name.”

Martin took from his pocket the bundle of old letters. One glance at them and the pastor’s arms were around him.

“I wrote those letters to your grandfather. I am his brother. You are not an American, you are a Swiss. Your name is not Steele, it is Staehli--Martin Staehli. The eldest of our family, for generations back, was always Martin.”

Martin felt a throb of joy; the blood of this fine old man with the head of a Roman ran in his veins. He had known only Aunt Priscilla, whom he wanted to burn.

“Come, I am going to take you home with me.”

Martin looked back at the Swiss “Madel.” In her red skirt and velvet bodice--an image of national womanhood.

They walked together down the hill, through the fields, past the little chapel and cemetery where they stopped. On the headstones he read again and again the name, “Martin Staehli.” He would bring his grandfather, his parents and lay them where they belonged, and he would lie there beside them.

The pastor looked up at the great mountain, already casting a shadow over the valley; even in summer the day was short. The night came early and lingered.

“We are not all here. My son was the best guide in the Canton. He was lost in a snow-drift up there.”

At the châlet with its black beams, centuries old, still strong, unyielding, he put his hand over Martin’s head and blessed his entrance into the home of his fathers.

Martin stood in the long hall, vaguely conscious of atmosphere. A cuckoo sprang out of an old clock, chanting the hour; a spinning wheel with threaded flax; new linen piled up; a living thing, that wheel, it clothed the people. Carved chests, plaques of fruit, birds cut out by the natives, when the country was Italian--everything in the room bearing witness,--a living story-teller of the lives and times of the vanished family. For the first time he _felt_ the antique. He was swayed by a kind of psychic storm, like a rush of wind through the pass of a mountain.

The pastor at the door called, “Angela, Angela.”

A clear voice answered; she came down the path--a girl of sixteen, with bits of hay in her flaxen hair, a child-like look of wonder in her blue eyes, and something more--of mystery. Martin thought of Joan of Arc in the orchard.

On seeing Martin, she gave a quick impulsive cry. The pastor put his arm around her.

“What frightens you, Angela? It is my brother, Martin’s son from America.”

Angela extended her hand, but her warm radiance had vanished. “Come out in the sun, it is cold here.”

She brought mugs of thick yellow milk, brown bread, delicious chipped beef, then went again into the field and sat sorting out leaves from a basket. The pastor followed Martin’s gaze which lingered on the girl; she appealed to his artistic sense.

“Angela is a wonder child; she is not of our family. I found her one moonlit winter night in a snow-drift--a white angel. Since she came the village has prospered; the people are happy.”

Martin smiled: probably the child of some unfortunate village girl. The pastor read his thoughts. “She belongs to no one; she is a miracle-child. You don’t believe in miracles?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

A simple question, difficult to answer. He couldn’t express the longing, which from childhood had made him restless, unhappy--a longing for some other space, some other element. He couldn’t explain his agitation, his unbearable joy, when he saw those scenes of which his grandfather had babbled in incoherent broken bits. He answered conventionally.

“I wanted to see the place where my grandfather was born.”

The pastor grew very serious. “It was not a case of idle curiosity you were drawn here; Angela knew you were coming. I used to tell her stories of your grandfather, Martin Staehli. He was queer; had a streak in him of evil. He got into a brawl with a guide and killed him; he had to leave the country.”

“I never knew that,” said Martin.

“That’s why he changed his name. I wrote to him often, but he seldom answered. Poor Martin, he got very rich.”

Martin laughed bitterly. That almost uncontrollable instinct to destroy was his inheritance.

“Angela said the third generation would return home. She has the gift of prophecy and of healing. She cures the people of their ills. The cattle run to her for her herbs; there is a magic in them. She brews them with Prayer, with Love.”

Martin shook off a peculiar feeling; it was all superstitious nonsense, an insult to a man’s intelligence. He rose to go.

“You will stay here with us?”

“I’m sorry, but I must meet some friends. Where is the Val Sinestra Hotel?”

“A little distance from here, on the other side of the hill beyond the hay-field.”

Martin looked up at the straight stony walls of the big mountain.

“I’m going to climb that mountain,” he said.

The pastor smiled. “Perhaps, when you have had long practice; a man must train himself to climb.”

The pastor watched him as he went with quick uneven steps, stumbling here and there; he had no equilibrium. He’d never climb that mountain.

Angela was also watching Martin. The pastor put his hand on her shoulder; she started.

“He terrifies me; I am afraid of him.” She threw herself sobbing into the old man’s arms.

19

The pale women were coming up from the Springs, where they drank the arsenic water with a prayer for red corpuscles, strength, beauty. The Spring of Youth was in a cleft in the mountain--a dark mysterious fountain of gushing water unlit by the sun.

Martin paced his room in the hotel. She was there, arrived two weeks before; the cure was nearly over. The madness came back now; he had been free of it for a few hours. It was like the relapse of a fever, violent--vicious--raging. He had waited too long for her with stupid patience, and more stupid scruples. He heard Julie’s voice downstairs; he went to the window. She was standing on the terrace talking to Miss Mary, who was leaving. She kissed Julie, jumped into the hotel omnibus, and drove off. Julie stood a moment waving her hand, then turned and entered the house. He heard her voice outside in the corridor speaking to the maid. The next door opened; her room adjoined his.

The Sun-God sinking slowly behind the mountain scattered an orgy of color. Julie stepped out on her balcony. There was a low railing between them. He jumped over.

“Julie!”

She started with sudden fear, fled into the room. He followed, tried to say something, stood speechless looking at her. She was wonderful. The force of the rich blood surging under the white skin swept him like a cyclone. There was a new intensity of life in her, quick flashes of passion in her eyes. She gave a low cry, threw her arms out trembling with uncontrollable joy.

“You! You!” She kissed him again and again. How she kissed him! then drew him outside.

“Come! come! The sun is setting; it was too wonderful, I couldn’t bear it alone.” His eyes held hers.

“I saw Miss Mary driving away.”

“Yes, she has gone to Tarasp to visit an old patient; she will be away until tomorrow afternoon.”

A shadow fell; it was twilight.

“You must go now.”

He tried to hold her; she slipped out of his arms, shutting the long windows after her. He went back to his room. Those fleeting moments made him eager, desperate. The night was coming on; they were alone together at the end of the world.

Miss Mary sitting in the train was troubled. She opened a telegram and read it again, “Meet me at Tarasp. Say nothing to my wife. Floyd Garrison.”

20

The little parlor of the hotel was filled with guests, assembled there, as was the custom, waiting for the dining-room doors to be opened. Martin, standing in the hall, a living symbol of electric force, created a sensation. He drew nearer and took in the crowd of pale women, young, nervous, with mysterious ills they could not, or would not, explain to their doctor, who, for the lack of a suitable name, called the sickness “anæmia.” He looked them over with an experienced man’s compelling eyes. Some were very good-looking, would have been beautiful under favorable conditions, but they were pale, with white lips and drawn features, like plants in a dark cellar pining for the sun. He became amusedly conscious of being the only man; he finally espied in the garden a rheumatic old fellow, like the decayed trunk of a tree. He felt a battery of admiring glances leveled at him. He smiled, went to the foot of the staircase, waited for Julie.

They went in to dinner together. The table in a deep window at the far end of the room was decorated tonight with an abundance of flowers. Martin played with his food; he was too excited to eat, but he was in wonderful spirits. Julie had never seen him like that; she had a feeling of triumphant elation. He was handsome; the other women were envying her.

He laughingly remarked about the Eden with one Adam and many temptresses.

“They are all so white, as if frozen in ice; the Sun-God should come and melt them.” He squeezed her hand under the table. “I am sorry for the ‘good’ women. They sacrifice themselves for an illusion--chastity.”

She answered quickly. “The woman doesn’t think so. It is her religion. It may mean nothing to you, but for her it is a spiritual compensation.”

“Oh, that’s Catholic,” laughed Martin. She shivered, drew her cape around her.

Then he said, “Look how beautiful! The twilight is wonderful up here, light mixing with darkness like two souls. How the valley stretches out. Do you hear the rushing of waters? They are saying, ‘Give me your body, I will heal you.’ Look! The mountain has a halo of red; it catches at my throat and chokes me....”

He was poetic, inspired. He raised his glass. “The wine goes through my veins like warm blood. If I were a doctor, I’d prescribe it for the ladies.”

“Oh, oh,” laughed Julie, “forbidden fruit!”

“And you?” There was a laughing question in his eyes.

“I’m cured.” She drained the glass.

After dinner they walked up and down the terrace in front of the hotel, like old friends who had not met for some time and had much to say to each other. Gradually, the buzzing inside subsided, the pale creatures evaporated, lights were put out; one glimmered in each corridor.

He drew Julie into a small summer house covered with vines, at the end of the garden. The head waitress brought in wine. He thanked her--the Swiss know the hotel business. He slipped his arm under Julie’s cape. She resisted, but he held her close. She could hear his heart beating violently. Then it seemed as if it stood quite still, but it commenced soon to hammer again against hers.

“I must go in,” she whispered. “They close the house early.” She put her arms around his neck, raised her face to his.

“How dark it is.”

“Yes. It’s always so before the moon comes up.” Then she slipped away. He caught her back.

“Will you give me a signal?” It was a moment of suspense.

“Yes.”

He looked up at her room; there was a candle burning in the window.

“When you put out that light, I’ll come.”

He reluctantly let her go. She went up the stairs; he saw her at her window. There was a white spirit also watching--the moon, that “Orbèd Maiden,” chaste as the sleeping women within. Only those two were living; with them it was Flood-Tide.

The light in Julie’s window went out. It was dark now, the moon ashamed had turned away her face. He started to go; his feet were lead; his body weighed them down. What ailed him? He shook himself like an angry beast.

“Martin, don’t go.”

The voice was low, but very clear; did it come from without or within? He didn’t know.

“Martin, don’t commit this crime; don’t rob your friend. If you love the woman, do not destroy her; it is one throb more, one desire fulfilled--and then--the Price....”

At daybreak, the gardener, crawling about, found the stranger in the summer house, his head on the table, buried in his arms. He looked at the empty bottles. The wine of the Canton was strong; he shook the sleeping man, once, twice. Martin started up; where was he?...

The hotel was empty. The guests were at the Springs. A bath of mineral effervescent water refreshed him, but that strange feeling came again like a dream which returns in fitful flashes, fragments of color impossible to blend. He paced the room; his eyes fell upon the deerskin trunk he had brought with him. He opened it, took out the corduroy trousers, boots, shirt--examined them critically. His valet had pronounced them “only fit for the ash can,” but that didn’t influence Martin. He had them cleaned, folded, and put back into the box. He drew on the soft leather boots; they fitted him. The woollen shirt was light and warm. Looking at himself in the glass, he saw a man of the mountains--real, living. If a man buys a costume like that, it is only a masquerade; this was his inheritance.

The omnibus came back from the Springs; he went down and helped Julie out, seeking in her face the reproach he deserved. She smiled at him; how sweet of her! The fact was, when Julie reached her room the usual revulsion of feeling set in. She undressed quickly, dropping her clothing in a heap on the floor, blew out the candle. There was a dark form below--waiting--she stood breathless, her hand on the knob of the door. Then--she turned the key, crept to the window, pushed the bolt. She was securely locked in--she slipped into bed.

This morning she looked very girlish in a sport suit; the short skirt grazing the tops of very high tan leather boots. A soft hat, pulled down over one eye, gave her rosy face a touch of diablerie. She was all animation, joking about his Alpine costume, casting roguish glances at him; but he felt the undercurrent of emotion. He adored her.

“We are going out for a day in the woods.”

“You don’t ask, will I go.”

“No--but you will, won’t you?”

There was pathos in his voice, longing; she couldn’t resist him.

“Yes, but I must rest after the bath and dress lightly. The morning here is cold; at noon it gets very warm.”

He bent down and whispered, “Wear white like a bride.”

During the interval of waiting, Martin studied a map of the Canton, tracing lines from one Dorf to another, short walking tours through the woods; there were plenty of little inns where they could rest. He paced the terrace impatiently.

She came, all in white. A filmy scarf wound around her head, “à la turque,” accentuated the Oriental in her. She laughingly drew the long floating streamers across her face; her eyes shot fire through their soft transparency.

A little wagon drove up; the peasant boy cracked his whip and they started off. The road was smooth, sunlit. They stopped at the Springs, where Julie made him drink the unsavory water “to clear his complexion.” They were in high spirits, laughing at simple things, like two children. When they reached the chasm, the road became steep, narrow, with dark overhanging trees. Martin drew Julie close to him; a mysterious something hovered about them, intangible in its beauty, penetrating, wonderful.

The driveway ended there. The descent into the ravine must be finished on foot. The lad took a basket from the wagon and set it on the ground; then he cracked his whip and drove off.

21

At the Savoy, Floyd heard many flattering things about his beautiful wife. He was silent, kept turning over the pages of the hotel register, finally found the name he was looking for--“Martin Steele, New York.” Then he wired Miss Mary and left at once for Switzerland, made quick connections, arriving at Tarasp toward evening. The stage-coach from Val Sinestra was expected. He paced up and down before the hotel, his thoughts stinging like a swarm of bees.

He had married well, he was a happy man--in the world’s vocabulary.

Happy? A man who marries Beauty lives on a powder mine. The something which compels adoration makes a woman unfit for matrimony. A man can’t always be on his knees; that’s very well at night--but he becomes a ridiculous figure in the daylight.

The coach shambled up the road. Mary was the only passenger; she nodded and smiled at him. He helped her out.

“Were you surprised to get my telegram?”

“Yes.”

“You understood?”

Mary waited. She wasn’t sure how much he knew.

He spoke again excitedly.

“Why did Dr. McClaren send my wife to Europe without me?”

“Mrs. Garrison wanted it; there was no peace for her with that man so near.”

He was watching her keenly. Did he think she was in collusion with his wife against him? Her face burned; she looked straight at him.

“Mr. Garrison, it was an experiment and very successful. She is cured.”

He was ashamed. She and the doctor knew his dishonor, and then--the world. His voice was hot--angry.

“He followed her to London; they were together at the Savoy.”

“No!”

“He was there.”

Then she told him of her encounter with Martin, and how he went away without seeing Julie.

He had done them a terrible injustice? He was piteously grateful, held her hands, made a foolish attempt to kiss them. She grew very pale, and said, “Oh! Mr. Garrison!” He dropped them, very much embarrassed, looked at his watch. It was already ten o’clock; the evening had passed quickly, in spite of his misery.

“You are tired. I have been inconsiderate.”

“Oh no, but if you don’t mind, I’ll go to my room now.”

He stood at the foot of the stairs looking after her; she smiled back at him. She was glad she had been able to bring him a hopeful message.

They started off the next morning, in a comfortable open carriage. Mary told him funny stories about the “blood-poor” women and their arsenic intoxication, showed him pretty twists in the splendid road built by the Romans. They stopped at a little inn for a bite of cheese and a glass of beer. He planned a trip to Lugano and over the lake to Italy; he was in good spirits; the sense of relief acted like a strong stimulant.

Mary was very loyal to Julie.

“Mr. Garrison, I can assure you everything is all right. I have written to Rome at Mrs. Garrison’s request. After her cure she has plans to go with you to visit Father Cabello.”

Floyd was very penitent.

“I am glad to know that. Father Cabello has a strong influence over my wife. She has been too worldly; I hope he will bring her back to religion.”

On arriving at the hotel, Mary went at once to Julie’s room; it was in great disorder--everything scattered about, as if she had dressed very hurriedly. Floyd downstairs was questioning the woman manager.

“Madame had gone with Monsieur Steele; they had taken luncheon with them. Did Madame expect Monsieur Garrison?”

“No. I wanted to surprise her. Do you know where they went?”

“Yes. The boy who drove them is here.”

“I would like to find them, if possible.”

The woman went to order the wagon.

Mary was pale, agitated.

“Mr. Garrison, when I left your wife, Mr. Steele was not here.”

He didn’t answer; he frightened her.

“What are you going to do?”

“Find her and bring her back.”

“A storm is brewing,” said the woman. “They come up quickly and are terrible while they last.”

The wagon drove up; he jumped in. Mary stood watching him till he was out of sight. The clouds gathered; the wind slunk into its den.

Floyd pushed back his hat, wiped the perspiration from his forehead; it was stifling.

22

The lovers stood together on a grassy plateau, the sun poured bright beams of light; below was a dense mist.

“How wonderful,” said Martin. “Nature has kept a sunny spot for us; we’ll stay here awhile.” He drew his “lodin” cape around him, stretched himself out on the grass, looking up at the golden clouds surrounding the sun, looking below at the rapidly rising veil of gray; it was glorious.

Julie took bread, fowl, wine out of the basket; they ate with their fingers and drank the wine out of the bottle. The sun glimmered red through the dark clouds. They were silent; then he spoke, quietly at first, becoming gradually very much excited.

“Why did you throw me over so heartlessly, after you promised me to prepare your mother? I knew it was useless; I had made all my arrangements--I had a cabin engaged on a French steamer--”

Julie tried to justify herself, then began to cry hysterically; she had never broken faith with him. He couldn’t imagine what she’d been through all her life. The pressure of those two terrible religions: her grandfather dragging her one way, her mother threatening her with eternal punishment.

He tried to soothe her.

“Don’t cry, Julie, I’ll make it up to you. You will be happy for the first time in your life.”

“But Floyd--he’s been so good--you always came between us, pushing him away.”

She slipped out of his arms. It was Floyd now coming between them, it wasn’t so easy to push _him_ away. They had been friends so long. Floyd was the innocent victim. Martin’s eyes roved restlessly--and that gray mist--rising!--rising!

She waited for him to speak; then she went to him like a child, piteous, pathetic.

“Martin, don’t be angry with me--I love you--but the winter here is cold; the snow is like a winding sheet--I couldn’t bear it!”

She was wavering again; it brought him back, fiery, impatient--

“We will go to Lugano, Italy, Spain; you will get your divorce, I will marry you.”

“No! No!--there is no divorce in the Church--I am afraid of Father Cabello.”

Those fear thoughts--how they tore at her!

He took her in his arms, kissed her until the color came back to her face, the warmth to her body. She was his absolutely; he could make her do what he wanted--but--he mustn’t leave her.