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The Sealed Message> BYFERGUS HUMEAUTHOR OF | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
CONTENTS | |
| CHAPTER. | |
| I. | A QUEER FISH |
| II. | THE MESSAGE |
| III. | FAIRYLAND |
| IV. | THE FAIRY PRINCESS |
| V. | GOLDEN HOURS |
| VI. | THE PAST OF ADONIS GEARY |
| VII. | LOVE |
| VIII. | LEGAL ADVICE |
| IX. | MRS. CROSBIE |
| X. | THE AMULET |
| XI. | THE OTHER GIRL |
| XII. | A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY |
| XIII. | THE TABLES TURNED |
| XIV. | THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS |
| XV. | A TRAGEDY |
| XVI. | THE DWARF "SCHAIBAR" |
| XVII. | "AS IN A LOOKING-GLASS" |
| XVIII. | THE FIRST MARRIAGE |
| XIX. | SIGNOR VENOSTA |
| XX. | A DARK MYSTERY |
| XXI. | MAJOR REBB AT BAY |
| XXII. | A CONFESSION |
| XXIII. | TOD'S DISCOVERY |
| XXIV. | THE SECOND MARRIAGE |
| XXV. | GEARY'S ACCUSATION |
| XXVI. | THE GODS ARE JUST |
THE SEALED MESSAGE
CHAPTER I.
A QUEER FISH.
It was a sultry July afternoon, and in the azure arch of the firmament flamed an unclouded sun. The corn was ripening to a rich yellow in some meadows, and the newly mown hay in others was being piled on lumbering wains by perspiring laborers. The red earth of the sunken lanes was caked, and their blossoming hedges were burnt up by the merciless heat. Under spreading foliage, or knee-deep in rapidly drying pools, stood weary cattle, switching lazy tails to brush away the teasing flies. Honey-bees, ostentatiously industrious, buzzed noisily from flower to flower, and the sleepy birds twittered faintly midst the grateful shade of leaves. The land was parched for want of rain, and the languid hours dragged on slowly to the wished-for evening. On some such day, long ago, must Elijah have sent his servant up the mount to watch for the growing of the small black cloud.
Only by the trout stream was the weather endurable, for the overhanging trees made the atmosphere of translucent green deliciously cool. Yet here and there spears of dazzling light pierced through the emerald twilight to smite the waters. These moved smoothly in amber floods between the grassy banks, and in places swirled pearly-white round moss-grown stones. The stream brawled over pebbles, gushed through granite rifts, and gloomed mysteriously in deep and silent pools, gleaming mirror-like under exposed tree trunks. May-flies dipped to the waters, swallows darted through the warm air, and kingfishers glanced here and there, each a flash of blue fire. And ever the river talked to the voiceless woods as it babbled seawards. From the woods came no reply, for the wind had died away, and the tongues of multitudinous leaves could no longer speak. Had they been able even to whisper, they surely would have rebuked the gay spirits of the two young men who had invaded their sacred solitude.
"This is simply ripping," murmured one, who lay on his back with a battered Panama over his eyes, "we are doing ourselves up to the top hole, I don't think. Heavenly, ain't it?"
"It would be, if you did not chatter," retorted the other, fixing a fly on his line; "why do you desecrate this beauty with slang?"
"Because I'm not a poet like you to spout blank verse."
"There is a medium between mutilation of the language and pedantic usage thereof."
"Huh!" with scorn, "who's pedantic now?"
"My dear Tod, as a lawyer, you should use better English."
"It is only a barrister who requires a superfine jaw," retorted Tod elegantly, "and I'm only a solicitor of sorts. Don't worry, Haskins."
Aware of the futility of argument, the other man merely shrugged his square shoulders and threw a skilful line in a pool wherein lurked a famous wary trout. The fly fell lightly on the water, and would have deceived any fish but the trout in question. There was no response to his dilly-duck-come-and-be-killed invitation, and the angler made another cast with still less success as the fly hit the stream heavily, scaring the trout into retreat. Haskins said one word under his breath, but Tod overheard and giggled. That was exactly like Tod Macandrew: he had no sense of the fitness of things.
"Silly ass!" commented his friend savagely, spinning up the line, "you frighten the fish."
"Not on to your hook, anyhow," chuckled Tod into the depths of his hat, "what a sinfully bad angler you are, Jerry."
"As bad an angler as you are a lover, perhaps," snapped Gerald, throwing his rod on the grass and squatting to manufacture a cigarette.
Tod sat up abruptly with a wounded air. "I call that beastly: to taunt a chap, because a girl won't bite."
"Won't kiss, you mean."
"I'm taking an illustration from your infernal angling," said Tod, with aggressive dignity. "If you were a lover yourself you would understand."
"Oh, I understand well enough," replied the other lightly: he paused to run his tongue along the tissue paper, then added calmly: "I was in love with Charity Bird myself, before you came along, Tod."
"Well, now that I have come along, perhaps you'll call her Miss Bird."
"Right oh! Miss Bird in the hand is worth two----"
"There are not two," interrupted Macandrew indignantly, "but only one schoolgirl cousin. As if," cried Tod to the woods, "I would sell myself."
Gerald Haskins cast a sly look on Tod's ungraceful figure. "I see: you present yourself to Miss Bird as a desirable gift?"
"Well, she wouldn't have you as a gift, anyhow, for all your Family Herald good looks, and halfpenny journal fame."
"Notoriety, Tod, notoriety only. A volume of verse, a book of stories and a dozen of essays do not give me the right to class myself along with the immortals. I'm a failure at thirty, Tod--in my own eyes, I mean. Think of that, Tod, a failure at thirty."
"Don't chuck it," advised Macandrew politely, "you may be a success at forty."
"That won't compensate me for coming grey hairs and inevitable wrinkles," said the other bitterly, and smoked in dour silence.
Tod crossed his legs and held forth.
"Gerald Wentworth Julian Haskins," he remarked solemnly, "all the fairies came to your nasty little cradle with gifts save the one who could have endowed you with gratitude. Consider your beastly good looks, and abominably healthy constitution, and silly popularity, not to speak of your undeserved five hundred a year private income, and take shame to yourself. Why with half your advantages I could marry Charity to-morrow."
"H'm! The advantages you mention were practically offered to her, but she didn't seem to desire possession. I expect she prefers the last representative of an ancient Scots family with an embarrassed estate, a reputation as a rising solicitor, and a heart of gold enshrined in an agreeable-looking body."
"Agreeable-looking!" Words failed Tod, and he sprang up to wreath a strong arm round Gerald's neck. Haskins remonstrated as well as he could for laughter, but was forced to the very verge of the bank. Here Tod made him look into the mirror of the still pool below. "Caliban and Ferdinand: Apollo and Vulcan: Count D'Orsay and John Wilkes," growled Macandrew. "Look at this picture and at that, you blighter."
Almost choking, for Tod was powerful and none too gentle in his grip, Gerald humored his friend sufficiently to stare into the water glass, thinking meanwhile of a near revenge. He saw his own handsome brown face with bronze-colored hair and mustache of the same hue, curling under a straight Greek nose, which divided two hazel eyes. He saw also Macandrew's round, ruddy countenance, devoid of hair on chin and lips and cheeks, but haloed with crisp red curls, suggestive of his foxy nickname. Tod assuredly could not be called good-looking, with freckles and wide mouth and aquiline nose, proof of high descent. But so much good humor and genuine honesty gleamed from his sea-blue eyes that he did himself a gross injustice in undervaluing a most ingratiating appearance. Tod was Tod, when all was said and done; the best fellow in the world, and the most unnecessarily modest. But Haskins was not going to pander to Tod's desire for compliments.
"You footling idiot," he breathed, possessed by a spirit of mischief, "as if you weren't worth a dozen of me. Talk about ingratitude--you shall be punished, my friend--thus!" and souse into the pool they went. When Tod got his breath again, after some spluttering, he used it to a bad purpose. Gerald, keeping himself afloat, watched the stout little man climb the bank dripping like an insane river god, and heard him excel himself in language which he could scarcely have used in court.
"I'll pay you out for this," swore Tod, hastily stripping off his wet flannels, and Haskins, fearing his righteous wrath, swam upstream, clothes and all, with light easy strokes, laughing until the woods rang.
"What about your confounded fish?" sang out Macandrew, when his apparel was drying in the hot sun, and he was sitting unashamed amid the grass. "You won't catch any more."
"I haven't caught any as it is," shouted Gerald, swimming back. "I want to come ashore. Pax, Toddy, Pax, you--you unclothed biped."
"Wait till I get you here," cried Tod, shaking his fist.
"He is not wise who ventures into the enemy's camp," quoth Haskins, and crossed to the opposite bank of the stream. Owing to the heat he had earlier shed all his clothing save a silk shirt and a pair of flannel trousers, so there was not much left to dry. In a few minutes he also was sitting in Adamic simplicity on the farther shore, imploring Tod to throw over a tobacco pouch and a pipe. But Tod wouldn't: and smoked, chuckling, on his side of the stream, while Haskins remonstrated. "I'll sleep then," announced Gerald, seeing that his efforts to soften Macandrew were unavailing.
"No, don't," shouted Tod. "I want to talk about her."
"Not a word, unless I get my smoke."
"Here you are then," and Macandrew threw across the necessary materials for the pipe of peace. "Now then!" he cried, and the woods rang with his cry. "What am I to do about Charity?"
"Marry her," cried back Haskins, lighting his briar; and after that introduction the conversation resolved itself into high-pitched talking from bank to bank, while the stream rippled between. It was lucky that no one was within hearing--as the young men well knew--for Tod shouted out his dearest secrets to the wide world.
"How can I marry her?" bellowed Macandrew, lying on his stomach in the attitude of Caliban reflecting on Setebos. "She hasn't any money, and I have very little also; there is the Dowager to be considered."
The Dowager was Lady Euphemia Macandrew, Tod's highly respected grandmother, who had looked after him since his parents had died. She wanted Tod to marry an heiress cousin, who was still at school, and Tod wished for his wife a charming dancer who was absolutely proper and extremely pretty. Consequently Tod and Lady Euphemia were fighting with all the ardor of their fiery race, and the domestic peace of the House of Macandrew was a thing of the past.
"You should consider the Dowager," sang out Haskins, who knew and approved of the grim old lady, "she's your grandmother."
"No one denies that," yelled Tod crossly, "talk sense!"
"Hear then the sense of Gerald, son of his father," shouted the other in a high tenor. "Mrs. Pelham Odin, who is--as you know--the clever old actress who looks after Charity, won't let you marry her, seeing that you have no money. Lady Euphemia is equally opposed to the match, because Charity is not born, as the French say. If you marry against the wishes of these two Mrs. Pelham Odin won't leave Charity her savings, which must be considerable, and Lady Euphemia won't speak either to you or to your wife. Isn't this the case?"
"Ancient history--ancient history," roared Macandrew, like an angry bull, "but your advice, Jerry?"
"Chuck Charity and marry your cousin," said Haskins tersely.
"I won't."
"Then why waste my time in asking for advice which you have no notion of taking? Go on your own silly way, Tod, and don't blame me if you tumble into a quagmire of troubles."
"I believe you want to marry Charity yourself," shouted Tod angrily.
"No I don't," cried Haskins, feeling if his garments were dry. "She is all that one can desire in the way of beauty: but I want something more than a picture-wife. Marriages are made in heaven, and Charity's soul does not respond to mine."
Tod rose sulkily and dressed himself. When clothed again he took up the discarded rod to try his luck. "I love her," he boomed, and cast his fly with the air of a man who has brought forward an unanswerable argument. Perhaps he had, for Macandrew was as obstinate as a battery-mule.
Seeing that Tod's attention was taken up with a peaceful sport which precluded retaliation for the late ducking, Gerald made his trousers and shirt into a ball, and flung them deftly across the river. They hit Tod fairly, and made him stagger and swear. What he would have said or done, it is impossible to say, for at this moment he proclaimed with a triumphant yell that he had a bite. And at this moment Gerald slipped into the water again. "Hang it, don't," screamed Macandrew, "you'll frighten the fish off the hook. Woosh! Come up!" and Tod tugged hard while the rod bent to an arc. "Mighty big fish," breathed the angler.
"Don't believe it's a fish at all," spluttered Haskins, seeing that the line remained stationary, "you're making no play. Caught a weed maybe."
He swam to the line, and dived under, while Macandrew danced and swore on the bank. "Leave it alone, leave it alone," cried Tod, in high wrath, "it's a big fish. Oh, beast; oh, animal: oh, jealous reptile," he went on as the line slackened, "you've done it."
Even as he spoke Gerald rose to the surface, spitting water from his mouth. In his right hand he held an object which he flung on to the bank, and then crawled up himself. "There's your fish, Tod," he said, rolling on the grass to dry himself, "your hook caught in that cylinder, which had got wedged between two big stones. Look at it while I dress."
Tod handled the cylinder gingerly. It was made of tin, and had apparently been covered with brown paper, for the remains of this clung loose at either end from under splotches of red sealing-wax. Oddly enough, there was also a string tied to the cylinder, at the end of which dangled the remnant of a bladder. Evidently the bladder had borne up the somewhat heavy cylinder for a certain time, and then had burst, to drop it toward the big stones amid which it had been wedged when Tod's hook had caught it. "Look's like a parcel of dynamite," said Tod, in a nervous tone; "poachers fishing by night with dynamite, O Lord!"
Haskins, who was slipping on his socks and shoes, looked up. "It's been in the water a good time anyhow, judging from the rotten brown paper and that decayed bladder. There's no chance of an explosion. If you are afraid to open it chuck it over."
"No." Macandrew dropped on to the grass beside his friend. "We'll go to Kingdom Come together, if necessary. Lend me your knife!"
Between them, the young men prized off the lid of the cylinder, with some difficulty, for it fitted tightly. The contents proved to be as puzzling as the vessel itself, for Gerald drew out a moderately long roller covered with brown wax, and scored delicately with regular lines, almost invisible. There was nothing else in the cylinder but this roller, and Tod eyed it with wonderment. "What the deuce is it?" he asked, twirling it round.
Haskins pinched his nether lip and reflected. "It's a phonograph record," he ventured to suggest, "see the marking, Tod, and the wax, and here," he tilted the cylinder end uppermost, "there's a name engraved on the butt, plainly, for all the world to see."
"Jekle & Co.," read Tod, fitting in his eye-glass to see clearly. "H'm! I never heard of the firm."
"That's not improbable: your knowledge of many things being limited."
"Oh, come now. Did you ever hear of the firm your own conceited self?"
"No. But it's a firm that makes phonographs anyhow." Gerald slipped the treasure trove into his pocket. "We'll take this back to the inn, and see what it means."
"We shall have to get a phonograph then."
"That goes without the speaking, you bally ass. But when we do slip this roller into its parent machine these marks will talk."
"But how can we get a parent machine? I suppose you mean a Jekle & Co. mechanism of sorts."
"There must be a machine of that sort in the district, or this roller wouldn't be here."
Tod stared at the waters blinking in the sunshine. "I wonder how it got into the blessed river. By accident or by design?"
"By design assuredly," said Haskins promptly. "It was wrapped in brown paper and sealed at both ends. The bladder was attached to keep it afloat. Then the bladder went bang and the cylinder sank until you fished it out, Toddy."
"Queer fish and queer chance, anyhow."
"There is no such thing as chance," said Haskins slowly; "some cause we know not of, brought us to the stream to-day to get the cylinder."
"Why, we only came holiday-making," protested Tod; "you are always talking this infernal psychology."
"Supernal psychology, you mean," retorted the other, "seeing that I follow white magic and not black. This," he patted his pocket, "has a meaning. We must learn that meaning."
"And so get into trouble."
"Perhaps." Haskins shrugged his shoulders. "But trouble is the sole thing which urges us to rise."
Tod groaned. He could not understand his friend's mystical way of looking at the seen world through the unseen. Keeping the conversation on an ordinary level he inquired: "Why was the cylinder set afloat?"
"Why does the sun shine? Why does the fire burn? You ask too many questions, Tod."
"I am not likely to get an answer from you," snapped Macandrew, taking up the impedimenta which they had brought to the river bank.
"You will in this instance, my son. The record, when it talks through the Jekle & Co. machine, will tell us why the cylinder was sent downstream. Shipwrecked people throw bottles overboard with documents to tell of their danger, as you well know."
"H'm! It's the first time I ever heard of a phonograph record being used to convey news," grunted Tod crossly.
"The person who floated the cylinder is evidently up-to-date."
"Perhaps it's a blessed joke."
"Maybe. Anyhow, I'll take it to the inn, and learn as much as is possible. Don't chatter about it though."
"Why not?"
"Because--because----" Haskins hesitated, not being able to express himself with his usual decision. "I can't say. Anyhow, hold your tongue until we know what the record has to say."
Macandrew nodded, and the two walked homeward.
CHAPTER II.
THE MESSAGE.
"The Devon Maid" was a tumbledown inn, and the center of Denleigh village, which lay, more or less concealed, among the folds of fertile hills. Down the valley prattled a shallow stream, and the comparatively few cottages, forming the secluded hamlet, were placed confusedly on either side, each having its own tiny garden. A broad stone bridge, of cyclopean build, spanned the brook in one low arch. Across this ran the highway, which gave access to the interior world, for it dipped down one hill and, after passing over the bridge, ascended the other on its way inland to even more remote villages. Near the bridge in question stood the two-story inn, built of rugged stone, hewn into huge blocks, and roofed with curved red tiles, the whole overgrown with ivy and wisteria and many-colored roses. With three narrow windows above and two narrow windows with a moderately wide door below, the house looked sullen and secretive. One could have an adventure at such a hostel: it breathed the spirit of romance, and cut-throat, trapdoor romance at that.
Before the inn stood a horse trough, in front of the door, the two rude benches under the windows. But those who frequented the Devon Maid preferred to take their beer mugs and bovine conversation on to the bridge. It was their Rialto, whereon they met in the cool of the evening to discuss the doings of their small world, and such news as might filter into the isolated villages through carriers and tourists and newspapers. The population of Denleigh consisted almost wholly of agricultural laborers and their wives, a slow-thinking lot, with infinitely more muscle than brains. Both men and women were of great stature, and even their children looked bulky and overgrown for their age. It seemed as though the children of Anak had gathered to design a new Tower of Babel.
The room in which Haskins and Macandrew sat at dinner was small, with a low ceiling, and one inefficient window smothered with curtains. It was crowded with Early Victorian furniture of the most cumbersome and inelegant description. Table and chairs, sofa and sideboard, bookcase and desk were all of solid mahogany, deposited on a flowery Kidderminster carpet, somewhat worn. Antimacassars adorned the horsehair chairs, wax fruit under a glass shade embellished the sideboard, and green glass ornaments, with dangling prisms, appeared on either side of the black marble clock which disfigured the mantelpiece. On the faded pattern of a Prussian blue wall-paper were steel engravings representing "The Death of Nelson" and the "Meeting of Wellington and Blucher after Waterloo," together with colored hunting scenes and illustrations from "The Book of Beauty," and "The Keepsake." There were also samplers, and a fender-stool, and a canary in a gilt cage, and a cupboard of inferior china, and two screens of worsted-work representing parrots and macaws. The apartment was stuffy and unwholesome, and more like a curiosity-shop than a place to dine in.
The young men had changed to easy smoking suits, and were doing full justice to an admirable meal, consisting of roast beef with vegetables, superfine apple pie, Devonshire cream, and first-rate Stilton. They drank cider out of compliment to the county, and knew that when eating was at an end two fragrant cups of coffee would add to the enjoyment of their after-dinner pipes. And this satisfactory state of things was presided over by a stout and genial waiter, who was as black as the dress clothes he wore in honor of the guests.
A bull in a china-shop would not have seemed much more out of keeping than was this negro in the heart of the Devon hills. How he had drifted into such a locality heaven only knows, but he appeared exotic and strange, like some tropical bird which had flown from Equatorial Regions to make a nest in cool, gray, misty England. Adonis Geary was the incongruous name of the man, and he was at once landlord and waiter. Save that he possessed but one eye there was nothing unpleasant in his looks, and from his constant smiling and ready service he appeared to be of an amiable disposition. For over fifteen years--so he told his guests--he had owned the inn, and also had married a six-foot girl from Barnstaple, who was as meek as she was tall. This oddly-matched pair had five or six coffee-colored children, who tumbled about the small house and made it lively. The mÉnage was unusual, to say least of it, and like the inn itself. The presence of the negro hinted at romance and mystery.
As yet Haskins had said nothing about the phonograph. Some instinct told him to be silent about the discovery of the cylinder before this suave son of Ham, although he had absolutely no reason to mistrust the man. All the same he intended to use Geary's wits to obtain a Jekle & Co. phonograph in such a way as would not arouse suspicion concerning the particular use he intended to put it to. Yet why suspicions should be aroused by frankness Gerald could not say, for, on the face of it, there was nothing to point out that the cylinder was dangerous. Nevertheless Haskins' sixth sense made him hold his tongue and impose secrecy upon Tod. Consequently Macandrew held his peace while Gerald cautiously approached his aim of getting the machine. It seemed incredible that a phonograph of the special make required should be found in that unpretentious inn, or even in the village itself, seeing how buried both were. Still Haskins argued from the discovery of the roller, so marked, that a Jekle & Co. phonograph was to be had in the district. Being a novelist, Gerald had already spun a web of romance round the adventure, and was conducting the same to a close with constructive skill. Tod watched the progress of this real and tangible romance with careless interest. He thought that it was all moonshine and would end in smoke. "The Story of A Mare's Nest," Tod called it with fine irony, and giggled when Haskins stalked Mr. Adonis Geary.
"There is very little to do in the evening here," began Gerald, finishing the last of his cheese, and addressing the landlord-waiter.
"Very little, sah," replied Mr. Geary, who spoke moderately good Anglo-Saxon, yet betrayed his negro origin in an occasional word, and by a guttural intonation, "but you can walk to Silbury with the odder jemplem, for howlin' fun, sah."
"Howling fun in a country town? My eyes," muttered Tod, still eating.
"Dere's walking and de bicycle and fishin' and----"
"Yes! yes! yes!" broke in Gerald artfully, "but I mean evening amusement--indoor doings. What you call----"
"Parlor tricks," interpolated Macandrew.
"Exactly! Well, Mr. Geary, have you a piano, or a harmonium?"
"Dere's a harmonium in de chapel whar I preach," explained Adonis doubtfully, "but de instrument of de Lawd no good for debble's singing."
"I have no intention of going to the devil for my amusement," said Gerald tartly, while Tod choked over his cider. "Have you any cards?"
"Dem's de debble's pictures, sah."
"Then pass along a concertina," remarked Tod, pushing back his chair with a sigh of repletion, "or even a Jew's harp, or a----"
"Why not say a phonograph, while you're about it, Macandrew?" said Haskins, with feigned crossness, "we're as likely to find the one as the other in this place at the Back-of-Beyond."
"With great respect, Mr. Haskins, sah," said Geary, falling into the trap promptly, "dere's my wife's phonograph. My wife Hannah let you hab dat phonograph to hear de godly hymns."
"Just what I want to hear," said Gerald untruthfully, "but what on earth made you get a phonograph?"
Geary smiled expansively, displaying magnificent teeth. "Dere was a traveler who came dis way wid phonographs, and he stop here. He so pleased wid my wife Hannah's cooking dat he gave her de phonograph, and den sell many, many, many all round--all round," and the landlord stretched his arms to embrace the globe.
"What kind of a phonograph is it?" asked Gerald, with a triumphant look at Tod to bid him watch how Romance was working golden threads into the gray fabric of the commonplace. "I don't want to hear a bad one."
Before Geary could reply there sounded through the window an up-to-date note from the outer world. The "Toot! toot! toot!" of a motor horn brought the young men to their feet and to the window, which looked out on to the bridge. A motor car draws the attention of the grown-up as much as a military band attracts the notice of a child. Mr. Geary departed with dignified haste to see what new and aristocratic visitor was coming, and--since Tod's bulky form filled in the whole small window--Gerald followed at his leisure. The coming of the motor car stirred up the same bustle in this lonely inn as did the mail coach in the days of old. Even Mrs. Geary emerged from the back-kitchen to view the spectacle with three small children clinging to her lengthy skirts, like the Lilliputians to Gulliver's coat-tails.
"Toot! toot! toot!" The horn sounded cheerfully and close at hand. A magnificent Hadrian, scarlet as the sunset, swung down the long descent and hummed across the bridge with a powerful drone. There were two men in front, disguised in the orthodox goggles and caps and shapeless coats, but the body of the car was empty, save for a large portmanteau and some small parcels done up in brown paper. The rustics crowded round the car, to comment thereon, and to misname it "a steam-engine," while the foremost man, who was handling the steering-gear, slipped from his seat to stretch himself and to salute Geary.
"Hello, Adonis, is that you?" he said, nodding brusquely. "I want a wash and a glass of brandy. Then I'm off again. I must reach Leegarth before sundown."
"Come dis way, Major," said the landlord obsequiously. He seemed to know the traveler extremely well, and from his concluding remark Gerald was positive that he did. "Dere's a lil' glass of your own pertic'ler brandy, Major. Dis way, sah. Glad to see you, Major."
"Major!" From the title, and the tone of the arrival's voice, Haskins had an idea that he also knew the owner of the motor car. When the goggles were shoved up over the cap, and the high collar of the coat was loosened, suspicion became certainty. "Major Rebb," said Haskins, advancing a step. "I guessed it was you."
"Oh--Haskins," drawled the newcomer, and Gerald could have sworn that not only did he start, but that he darted an inquiring look at the negro landlord. It was Geary who replied:
"Dis jemplem and his friend, dey stop wid me for one, two week, Major."
The Major recovered himself. "Yes, of course; what am I thinking about, Haskins? Mrs. Crosbie told me that you and Macandrew were on a walking tour in Devonshire. Why are you stationary here of all places?"
"Why not here, as well as anywhere else?" replied Gerald carelessly, "we struck this inn--Tod and I, that is--and intended only to stop a night or so, but the food is so good, and the fishing so capital, and the expenses so small, that we decided to remain. We're off in a couple of days. Tod goes back to London, and I make for St. Ives to write a new book. But you, Major? What are you doing in this galley?"
"I have come down to see a relative at Leegarth--an elderly aunt!" Tod sniggered at the window. From what he knew of Major Rebb--and he knew a great deal from club gossip--that retired officer was not the man to waste his time in looking after elderly relatives, unless,----
"How much money has she got?" asked Tod impudently.
Rebb laughed, for Tod was a licensed jester, and said things without reproof for which other men would have been kicked. "Enough to make it worth my while to come down here," said Rebb coolly, "but I won't give the business into your hands, Tod, so there will be no pickings."
"I'm jolly well sure of that, when you're about," retorted Macandrew, in a soft voice.
"Dis way, sah," cried Geary, like a parrot, "dis way, Major."
"You know Adonis then?" said Rebb, entering the inn followed by Haskins; "he's a decent sort, isn't he? I have put up here sometimes for a night. Where's the brandy, Adonis? Hurry up; and give my man a glass of beer."
Gerald had unconsciously led the way to the sitting-room occupied by himself and Tod. Here Rebb sat down, drawing off his gloves, while the brandy was brought. He was a tall, thin, upright man, eminently well-bred and somewhat stiff. His closely clipped hair and well-trimmed moustache were so dark, and his complexion was of such a deep olive color, that people declared that he had in him a touch of the tar-brush. And the scandal was emphasized by the significant fact that Major Rebb had commanded a West Indian regiment in Jamaica before retiring from the army. But whether tainted by the African or not, he certainly was a handsome man, and wonderfully well-preserved for his fifty years. Mrs. Crosbie, to whom Rebb had alluded when first addressing Haskins, was a wealthy widow who greatly admired the fascinating Major. Report hinted at a match between them, and report said that Mrs. Crosbie might do worse, for Rebb was well-off and much respected by the outside world. Those--of whom Tod was one--who knew more than the Major approved of declared that Rebb's character was not without blemish, and that he gambled both on the turf and on the green table. But no one could positively say that the man was a rascal. He had the vices of his generation. That was all.
While Rebb drank his brandy he told Haskins and Macandrew the latest club gossip, and stated--not without a roguish glance at Tod--that Mrs. Pelham Odin wanted Charity to marry a titled fool, who had lately come into much money. Tod was very indignant at this, and said many things which Rebb had heard before, since the little man's infatuation was an open secret. In the middle of his eloquence the Major went off to wash his hands and face, and Haskins dragged his friend out to see the start of the car. In five minutes Rebb was in his place and his chauffeur swung up alongside.
"Good-night, you fellows," cried the Major amiably. "I'll see you in London. Night, Adonis," and then the car spun round the curve to mount the hill on its way to Leegarth, wherever that might be. Tod yawned and sauntered back into the inn, hinting that he would go to bed soon.
"Funny thing that we should meet Rebb, here," said Gerald.
Tod raised his thick red eyebrows. "Upon my soul I don't see it," he remarked, "you don't want the whole country to yourself."
"He seemed to be startled when he saw me, and he knows Geary well."
"He admitted that he knew Geary, and as to being startled, he well might be, dropping across a pal in these wilds."
"I am not a pal of Rebb's," said Gerald stiffly. "I don't like him, and I'm very sorry that such a jolly little woman as Mrs. Crosbie should think of marrying him. There's something queer about him."
"Bosh!" said Tod, lightly whiffing away his friend's suspicions, which indeed had little foundation. "Rebb is no worse, nor no better, than any other man. We all have turned-down pages in our life's book, which we should like no one to read."
"That's quite a high flight of oratory for you," said Haskins dryly.
"Oh I can gas as well as most, when necessary," retorted the other, "but you are asinine, seeing a bird in every bush."
"H'm!" murmured Gerald, unconvinced. "All the same, I shall keep my eye on Major Rebb."
"And so take a lot of trouble for nothing. So long as he does not cross your path I don't see why you should worry. Hello!" Tod had entered the sitting-room by this time. "Here's the phonograph." He examined it narrowly in the failing light. "And Jekle & Co. at that. By gum!"
"What do you say now?" cried Haskins, pleased that his surmise had proved correct. "I'll bet that we are on the verge of discovering a mystery. Wait until we hear a few hymns, and then we can experiment with our river record."
"But why bother about the hymns?" grumbled Macandrew, who by this time was quite as curious as Haskins himself.
Gerald glanced at the door, and closed it. "I don't want the nigger to think that anything unusual has happened."
"More suspicion," said Tod, and glanced in his turn, but at the window, "you needn't fash yourself, as we say in Scotland. There's Geary walking down to the village."
It was indeed the negro strolling with a crony along the brookside, and when he had sauntered out of earshot Haskins did not worry about the hymn tunes. He slipped the cylinder record on to the machine, and set the thing going. Then, for the next minute, he and Tod listened in amazement to a message from Fairyland.
"This to the wide world," babbled the machine in the sweetest and most melodious of voices. "This to the Fairy Prince, who will come and waken me from dreams. Come, dear Prince, to the Pixy's House, and watch that the jealous ogress, who guards me, does not see you. I cannot read, I cannot write; but I talk my message to you, dear Prince. To the stream I commit the message on this first day of April in this year five. May the river bear the message to you, dear Prince. Come to me! Come to me! Come to me! and waken your Princess to life with a kiss."
The machine still continued to work, but the voice became abruptly silent. There was no more of the message, so when the point of the phonograph reached the end of the inscribed wax Gerald removed it. When it was again in his pocket he turned toward the amazed Tod. "What do you think of that?" he demanded triumphantly.
"I think that the date explains the whole thing," said Tod grimly. "See: the first of April. Five! That means, nineteen hundred and five, which is this very year. Some one's having a joke."
"I don't believe it," said Haskins, and began to scribble in his pocketbook what the machine had said. He had a good memory, and reproduced the message from the Fairy Princess very correctly. Later he determined to verify the same, but meanwhile kept the precious roller in his pocket and asserted his determination to search for the Pixy's House.
"What bosh!" grumbled Tod, disdainfully. "Maybe there's no such place. But if you will be a lunatic, ask Geary about the matter."
"No," said Gerald decidedly. "I shall not say a word to Geary, and I must ask you to say nothing either. This is the first piece of romance which has come my way, and I don't want it spoiled by sharing it with other people."
"My way," echoed Macandrew, staring. "I like that. You forget that I found the cylinder, my son. I am the person who is supposed to have received the letter."
"Toddy, you are not a Turk or a Mormon, so this delicious Princess, who speaks like a silver bell, is not for you. Keep to Charity Bird, and allow me a chance of finding a wife."
"O Lord! Jerry, you ain't serious?"
"Yes and no! After all I am young, and--as the cook said--of that 'appy disposition that I can love any one. Why shouldn't I seek in some Fairy Woods for the Sleeping Beauty?"
"Sleeping!" sniggered Tod, lighting his pipe, "then she must have written that silly message in her sleep. Or perhaps she talks in it," he added, recollecting that the message was a spoken one. "A nice wife to have, upon my word. You won't get a wink of sleep."
"Toddy, you are of the earth, earthy, and an unimaginative beast. Romance doesn't appeal to you. I shall search for the Pixy's House!"
"In what direction?" jeered Macandrew.
"Up the stream. This Princess is apparently imprisoned in the house and must have flung the cylinder therefrom into the water. Ergo, the Pixy's House must be near the water. I shall go to Exeter and bring back a canoe. Then I shall explore and find----"
"A mare's nest! Don't be an ass. It's all bosh."
"It's romance! romance! romance! But not a word, Toddy, either to any one here, or to any one in London. Promise!"
"Oh, I promise. But----"
"Silence! you profane the Mysteries of Fairyland. I shall explore and learn the end of this adventure. And you, Tod Macandrew?"
"I'll see what's the best lunatic asylum for you to occupy," said Tod caustically.
CHAPTER III.
FAIRYLAND.
Notwithstanding his fantastical babble to Macandrew, Gerald was a shrewd young man. He prosecuted his search for the unknown sender of the message, less to find a wife than to see the end of the adventure. At the enjoyable age of thirty, he was not particularly keen on getting married, although his friends persistently advised him to do so. But, as Haskins pertinently observed, it was absurd to marry merely for marrying's sake. "When I meet THE woman," said Gerald wisely, "I shall ask her to be my wife. Otherwise----" And a shrug would complete the unfinished sentence.
Tod was quite ready to leave the conclusion of the fishing adventure to his friend. Being in love with a particular girl, he thought of her only, and had no wish to search for another girl, even though she were an illiterate princess, who fluted like a nightingale. What with earning his living, and fighting Lady Euphemia, and wooing Charity Bird, and tricking Mrs. Pelham Odin, who was strongly opposed to that wooing, Macandrew's hands were quite full. Within two days he betook himself to London, keen upon seeing The Moon Fay ballet, in which Charity was dancing. But before his departure he unwittingly did Gerald a service by learning something about the Pixy's House, and that same something was less romantic than unpleasant.
According to Tod the thing came about by accident; but Haskins, who believed that everything was designed, even to the winking of an eye, insisted that Macandrew had been purposely lured into conversation with the laborer, who had mentioned Leegarth, and the Pixy's House. At a nine o'clock breakfast, on the very day of his departure, Tod mentioned to his friend that he had been taking a morning walk. "I had a beastly wakeful night last night," grumbled Tod, while Geary brought in a dish of trout and some hot rolls, "it made me sick tumbling and tossing, so I dressed and strolled out at six o'clock."
"Why didn't you waken me?" asked Haskins. "I would have come also."
"Not you. I'd have been cursed for an hour. Every one knows what an infernal sleepy-head you are, Jerry. However, I walked up the hill on to the moors, and had a glorious view of the surrounding country. I saw the stream where we fished, in the hollow two miles away--trees, and occasional glimpses of the water, you know. And ever so far away, there was a square-towered church with a cluster of red-roofed houses."
"Quite poetical, my Toddy," murmured Gerald, helping himself to eggs and ham, and rather bored by this geographical description.
"The morning made me poetical!" said Macandrew simply, "it was uncommonly ripping, you know. There was a laboring Johnny coming along, and I asked him the name of the church. He said it was Leegarth church, and Leegarth village."
"H'm! That's where Rebb's wealthy relative lives?"
Todd nodded. "As it was early I had a mind to walk over and look about, but I first asked the man if there was anything of interest to see. He grinned, and told me that I might call at the Pixy's House."
Gerald looked up and was about to speak eagerly when Geary appeared again with a fresh supply of rolls. "Oh, the Pixy's House," said Haskins carelessly, "what's that?"
"Why, you know----" began Tod foolishly, when he caught sight of a warning scowl on Haskins' face, and a look of interest on that of Geary's, "you know," went on Tod artfully, "that I can't talk if you interrupt."
"But it's all so dull," objected Haskins, with a shrug.
"Not what I am about to tell. This laborer said that a lunatic lived in the Pixy's House, looked after by another lunatic."
"The blind leading the blind. Go on."
"The first lunatic is a girl, and the second an old woman. The girl never comes out, and no one has ever seen her, but the old woman does shopping and all the rest of it. That's all."
"What infernal rubbish!" said Haskins crossly. He did not like his unknown princess to dwindle to a commonplace lunatic. And yet, when he remembered the spoken message, it did seem a trifle mad. "Well, and did you call at the Pixy's House?"
"Not me. I walked in another direction, and came back to breakfast. I have no use for crazy people."
"Wid all respect, jemplem," remarked Mr. Geary unexpectedly, "de story ob dat man is all twisty-turney."
"Oh!" said Haskins, apparently careless, but really with anxiety, "so you know of this queer business, Geary?"
"Berry lil'--oh, berry lil', sah. Dat Pixy House ver' ole, an' ver' tumbledown in heaps. Only one mad pusson dere, jemplem."
"Which one--the old woman or the young one?" asked Tod abruptly.
"Oh, dey boff dere, jemplem, but de young lady is de mad pusson. She bin dere afore I come--years an' years an' years--oh, ebber so long 'go. Dis pou' lady, she want to kill peoples wid knives, and de ole womans, she watch her dat she no get out to kill. De ole woman's not a mad pusson, jemplem; oh no, dat all wrong. She watch de odder. You no go near dat Pixy House, jemplem," ended the landlord earnestly, "or dat young lady, she kill you boff, dead as coffin-lids."
Haskins felt disgusted. He desired to find Fairyland, and it seemed as though his search would end in discovering a lunatic asylum. "What is the lunatic's name?" he asked.
"Mavis Durham, I tink, an' de ole womans, she called Bellaria!"
"Funny names," mused Tod, "and rather pretty. Mavis means a thrush, I fancy. But Bellaria?"
Gerald recalled a charming book of Italian folklore, which he had read some months before. "Bellaria was the Etruscan dawn goddess, or the goddess of flowers, I forget which," he remarked; "strange that any one in a secluded Devonshire village should be called so. H'm! Is this old woman an Italian, Geary?"
"I do not know, sah," replied the man promptly. "I no go to dat Leegarth, no, never, never. And you no go too, jemplem. Dat Mavis lady hab de knife in you if you go dere."
"Homicidal mania," said Tod learnedly and cheerfully.
Haskins shuddered; it seemed terrible to think that the owner of that silvery voice, who had sent so delightfully quaint a message, should be a dangerous lunatic not responsible for her actions. When the landlord took his departure he made an observation, rather to himself than to his friend. "The message was sane enough," he said, thereby contradicting his first impression, when Geary spoke of the lunacy.
"Well, I don't know," answered Macandrew doubtfully, "all that fairy business and talk of not being able to read or write seems queer. I suppose you'll chuck the adventure, now that you know this?"
"Probably!" said Haskins evasively, so that Tod should not worry him. But in his heart he had a longing to probe the matter deeper.
Later in the day Gerald escorted Tod to Selbury, and saw him off to London. Macandrew left with the impression that Gerald would carry out his prearranged programme and travel to St. Ives on the ensuing day. But when Haskins walked back to Denleigh he was far from having made up his mind to such a course. It seemed incredible that the sender of the message should have homicidal tendencies. All the same, if she had not, the law would certainly have prevented her incarceration in the old Leegarth mansion known as the Pixy's House. That she could not read or write was quite possible, since she had used the phonograph, and yet, in this age of education, it appeared improbable that anyone could be so ignorant. The wording of the message was that of an imaginative, but not of a weak, brain; and the spirit of poetry it breathed appealed to the young man, himself a poet of no mean order. "On the whole," decided Gerald, "I shall go to Exeter to-morrow and get that canoe."
On that same evening, when Geary went for his usual walk, Haskins again slipped the record into the machine, and again drank in the music of that perfect voice. Then, for the sake of hiding his secret, since the landlord unexpectedly returned, he set the phonograph to grind out the godly hymns which were Geary's delight. These were dismal enough in words and tunes, but all through them sounded in Gerald's charmed ears the silvery lilt of the Fairy Princess' tones. The owner of such a voice could not possibly be crazy.
Haskins rather regretted that he had not asked Major Rebb about the Pixy's House and its occupant. Rebb doubtless knew the village of Leegarth excellently well, since he came down occasionally to see his elderly relative. For the moment Haskins was tempted to write and ask questions, but on second thoughts he made up his mind to explore for himself. He was even glad that Tod had departed, for now the secret was entirely his own, and he wished to share it with no one. He therefore abstained from talking to Geary on the subject, for he had learned all that was possible from that source. And what he had learned was so decidedly unpleasant that he did not wish to hear more. As it afterward turned out his reticence was wise.
The next day Haskins informed Geary of his intention to remain in Denleigh for another week, and the negro expressed his delight at the decision. Adonis was a cheerful soul, who had traveled widely, in the humble capacity of a steward on board various liners. He therefore approached more intellectual society than he could obtain in lethargic Denleigh. Haskins, with an eye to copy, after the fashion of the literary man, found Geary's experiences both entertaining and useful. As for the landlady, she was a nonentity, who worked like a horse, and was as dumb as one. She seemed to be somewhat afraid of her ever-smiling husband, and Gerald thought that there might be some cause for such dread. With all his suave manners, Geary's one eye hinted at sinister doings. But, as yet, Haskins, knowing him only on the surface, had no fault to find with his personality.
There was some difficulty in finding a precisely suitable canoe in Exeter, but having made up his mind--a singularly obstinate one--Gerald never rested until he had attained his object. In a couple of days he returned to the Devon Maid with a light birchwood affair, which he had purchased from a returned Canadian emigrant. This the young man temporarily bestowed in an outside shed, and informed his landlord, casually, that he intended to explore the waters of the Ruddle, as the stream was called. The name evidently came from the streaky red banks between which it flowed. Geary advised his guest to travel downstream toward Silbury, as the canoe would there be impeded by fewer stones. Needless to say, as Leegarth was in precisely the opposite direction, Haskins had no intention of taking this well-meant advice. And, indeed, because of the very difficulty in navigating the upper reaches of the Ruddle, he had purchased the canoe, for he could carry so light a craft along the banks when stones and weeds blocked up the waterway.
When Gerald took his Indian coracle down to the river, next afternoon, he saw how wise he had been in not buying a heavier boat. As the little stream wound its devious way through the dense woods it grew yet more narrow, and, on the whole, somewhat shallow. Here and there deep pools were to be found, inshore, but as a rule the current flowed lightly over a shingly bed, foaming round gigantic stones or bubbling over the trunks of fallen trees. The distance to Leegarth, as the crow flies, could not have been more than three miles; but the stream twisted so oddly, and the difficulties of navigation were so great, that Gerald sometimes doubted if he would reach his journey's end. Several times he was forced to climb the steep banks and drag his canoe through thickly growing saplings: but, on the whole, the tiny shallop behaved with the dexterity of an eel in slipping through dangerous places. Nevertheless his traveling was more like the exploration of unknown lands than like a civilized river trip in mapped-out England.
Late in the day--about six o'clock--and when the western sky was beginning to glow with the hues of a soapbubble, the adventurer found himself in a less toilsome position. After the choked stream, where the trees met overhead, it was a relief to float into an immense pool, fenced in by precipitous red cliffs draped with vividly green vegetation. Gerald emerged into this haven with a feeling of thankfulness, and laid down his paddle, both to rest his weary muscles and to examine his romantic surroundings. The pool was nearly circular, and, as the narrow Ruddle flowed in at one end, and out at the other, the whole resembled a bead on a string. On the placid waters, brimming like those of a mill-dam, the canoe floated idly until it touched the left bank. Haskins therefore saw, on the right hand, a tall cliff of ruddy earth, overgrown with bushes, and surmounted by a fringe of trees. Between these, he espied a ruinous gray stone wall, clothed thickly with ivy. As there were two or three small windows in this wall, Gerald guessed that it formed the side of a dwelling-place--and guessed moreover that from one of those same windows the sealed message had been thrown into the pool. It was, of, course, merely a surmise that the Pixy's House was built on the top of this inland cliff, but, bearing in mind the cylinder with its attached bladder, Haskins felt certain that he was correct. The imprisoned Mavis Durham could only have launched her message from the cliff top.
Gerald had now practically arrived at his journey's end, as he had discovered the palace of the Sleeping Beauty, shut in by Enchanted Woods. He therefore paddled swiftly under the cliff itself, to see how he could storm the castle. Tod would have called it a lunatic asylum, in his coarse way, but Gerald the poet preferred the more romantic appellation. Also, after hearing that wonderful voice, he made up his rash mind that he would not believe in the alleged insanity of Mavis Durham until he had seen her, and had spoken with her. If she were really a homicidal maniac he could return with some regrets to the workaday world; but if she was all that he hoped she would be,--well! Gerald drew a long breath as he thought thus. If she were as beautiful as her voice, as poetic as her message, he did not know what would happen. Yet, as a young man, dizzy with the wine of life, he should have known. But such things, for good or for evil, were yet on the knees of the most high gods.
At the upper end of the pool the adventurer found a stone landing stage, with an iron ring, to which he fastened the canoe. He leaped lightly on to the rugged platform, and climbed up a rude stair, to find himself facing an arched opening hewn in the face of the cliff. It was masked, more or less, by neglected bushes, and evidently had not been made use of many years. Still, it undoubtedly led upward to the battlements of the Enchanted Castle. So Haskins pushed his way through the trees, and clambered up a ruinous and twisting stair, in complete darkness. Here, indeed, was an adventure not often to be met with in this unromantic age, and the young man's body thrilled as he experienced hitherto unknown emotions. He was Sir Galahad searching for the Grail; Columbus staring at a newly discovered world; a Calender from the Arabian Nights stumbling upon the magical Beauty of the World, a jinn's daughter, lovely and unapproachable.
Up and up went the stair, twisting and turning like an eel, until Haskins, losing count of time, thought that he was mounting to the North Star. Finally the steps ceased to wind, and the explorer clambered up a straight flight which terminated in a small opening, out of which he emerged on to the top of the cliff, and immediately below the ivy-draped wall. The house stood about twenty yards from the verge of the cliff, and the space between was filled with long grass, with stunted bushes, and with tolerably tall trees, all in full summer foliage. On looking up Gerald saw pointed roofs of weatherworn red tiles, twisted stacks of chimneys, and gray stone turrets, the whole so overgrown with greenery that it looked as though the mansion were a portion of the earth itself. There was no door in the wall visible. If there had been one (as was probable to reach the landing stage) it had been blocked up, or was hidden by the darkly green ivy.
"Faint heart never won fair lady," thought Gerald unoriginally, and began to swarm up the natural ladder afforded by the tough roots of the creeper. Out of breath he gained the top of the wall, and, flinging his leg over, sat astride to view this Jack-and-the-Beanstalk Country. Then he beheld--Charity Bird!
CHAPTER IV.
THE FAIRY PRINCESS.
Seated on the wall, like Humpty-Dumpty, Gerald gasped, for two excellent reasons. Firstly, he was a trifle breathed with the arduous climb, and, secondly, the sight of the girl whom he believed to be Miss Bird amazed him out of all common-sense. She stood under the wall, arrayed in a plain white dress, without frills or trimmings or ornaments, and looked more like a Vestal of Rome than a young lady of the twentieth century. And to add to Haskins' astonishment she did not appear to be the least startled, or even surprised.
"So you have come at last?" she said softly, and the voice had in it the same melody that Gerald had noted when the phonograph delivered its fantastical message.
"Charity! Miss Bird!" He could hardly get his tongue to move.
The girl looked puzzled. "My name is Mavis Durham," she said simply.
Haskins knew that he was awake, for he had grazed his knee while climbing and the pain assured him of material existence. Otherwise, he would certainly have believed that the whole thing was a delicious dream. But on looking downward more intently he saw that, although the image of Charity in physical appearance, this girl who declared herself to be Mavis Durham had a more spiritual look on her face. Her eyes were turquoise-blue like the dancer's: she possessed the same wonderful hair, the color of ripe corn, about which Miss Bird's admirers raved, and her features were cast in the same classic mold; but she had a mystical, etherial, evanescent look about her, which hinted at more spirituality than was apparent in Charity's pronouncedly material charms. It might have been the dying light of the evening, or the exalted state of mind consequent on emotion, that raised Gerald to a high plane, but the girl looked as though she would vanish like a wreath of mist under the influence of the newly risen sun.
The resemblance between Mavis and Charity was certainly marvelous, and Haskins could not account for the similarity; but after a long and searching look he became certain that the girls were two different flesh and blood human beings, and not one, as he had momentarily supposed. On acquiring this assurance in his innermost being the young man drew a breath of relief, since Charity was more or less engaged to Tod, and he did not wish to poach on Tod's preserves. The question of the resemblance he determined swiftly to leave to a later date for answer, and meanwhile surrendered himself entirely to the incredible romance of the adventure. Surely no more poetic happening had taken place since King Cophetua had gone a-wooing his Beggar Maid.
But by the time his reflections had reached this point the Princess of Fairyland--for that she certainly was--betrayed excitement and uneasiness, waving her hands to intimate that he should hide behind the ruddy leaves of a copper beech, which over topped the wall and leaned against it. "Bellaria will catch you," called up Mavis softly, "and then I'll never see you again. Get behind the beech. I'll return soon."
She sped lightly away, while Haskins, still trying to assure himself that he was not dreaming, shuffled along the wall until he gained the covert of the spreading branches. Here he was safe from any espial, and while Mavis was absent he gently parted the leaves to view her enchanted palace, whither she had called him. A phonograph and Fairyland! it was an odd mixture of poetry and science. A page with a silken-bound parchment; a dragon-chariot to waft a mortal prince to a spellbound queen; these were natural in the circumstances. But to be summoned by a phonograph! Why, it linked the age of motor cars with that of King Arthur.
Haskins saw below him a moderately sized quadrangle, smoothly turfed in the center and bordered with beds of flowers stretching to moldering walls. To the right, and straight in front--somewhat after the shape of the letter "L"--were two ranges of a gray stone mansion clothed--as was the wall--with thickly growing ivy. There were two stories, and the architecture was Tudor, picturesque, and graceful. Along the lower story of the front wing were elaborate oriel windows, filled in with lattice-work and, as Gerald shrewdly suspected, with stained glass. An archway pierced this wing, and apparently led to another part of the grounds. The range of buildings on the right was less elaborate, as the windows above and below were square and modern in their looks. To the left were ruinous stables, and outhouses more or less tumbledown, and, of course, the fourth side of the quadrangle was closed in by the wall upon which the young man was seated. What with the gray wall, the beautifully shaped oriels, the peaked roofs of mellow red tiles, and the mantle of greenery which overspread all, the place looked like a picture from the Christmas Number of The Graphic.
Yet if the house was neglected, the garden and lawn certainly were not. The turf was as smooth as a billiard-table, and the beds of flowers were carefully tended, as he could see from the absence of weeds and the efflorescence of blossoms. These were chiefly those of humble cottage flowers. Tall hollyhocks, golden snapdragon, sweet-william, pansies, marigolds, ragged robin, and musk carnations: all these grew in artistic profusion and confusion, making the quadrangle a world of beauty and color and perfume. In the center of the lawn rose an antique sundial, supported by three battered female figures, and over all this dreamy, old-world haven of rest arched the shadowy sky, blending night and day in vapory blue and rosy flushings. Haskins felt that a new planet had "swam into his ken"--all that he had dreamed of, as too fair for earth, was here transmuted from the ideal into the real. "I must certainly be in Dreamland," thought the young man, "or in Paradise, or in Prospero's Enchanted Island, or in the Vale of Avilion, where it doth neither rain nor snow."
But his poetic musings were cut short by a rustle among the coppery leaves of the beech. He looked down from his wall and saw a vision of loveliness rising from the foliage like Undine from the well. "I went to see what Bellaria was doing," explained Mavis breathlessly, and perched on a sloping bough, so near to the wall that the young man could have embraced her without difficulty. He felt very much inclined to do so, for he was rapidly falling fathoms deep in love. But a feeling of respect for the unprotected girl restrained him, and he listened spellbound to the music of her voice. "Bellaria was cooking the supper, you know," went on the girl prosaically, "so there is no chance of her coming to call me for half-an-hour."
"And what then?" asked Gerald soberly.
"You must go away. Bellaria would be very angry if she knew that my fairy prince had come."
"Am I the fairy prince?" asked Haskins softly.
Mavis raised her brows with a trill of heavenly laughter. "Of course you are, since you came over the wall. I have been watching here for months to see you arrive. You would not have come had you not got my message."
"No," acknowledged Haskins sensibly; "that is very certain. No one would look for a fairy princess in this tangle of woods. But," he hesitated and smiled, "you are not sleeping."
"Yes, I am! Not with my eyes closed, of course; but I am sleeping through life. All my days I have lived in this dull old place, and my guardian will not let me go out and see the world."
"Who is your guardian?" asked Gerald, and received a shock.
"Major Rebb!"
"Good Lord! Major Rebb! Huh!" So this was the elderly relative whom the man had come to see. Haskins congratulated himself that he had not questioned the Major. Had he done so there would have been a speedy end to romance. The word "elderly" had apparently been used by Rebb to conceal the existence of this lovely girl from too inquiring youth. No young man would search for anything elderly. Haskins felt like Saul--as though he had gone to seek his father's asses and had found a kingdom.
"Do you know my guardian?" asked Mavis, quickly noting his surprise.
"Well, yes! I have met him in London."
"Oh, London! London!" The girl clapped her hands in a childish way. "How I wish to see London. My guardian says that he will take me there some day, and then--oh, and then, and then, and then----"