ADVENTURES IN SEARCH OF THE POLE.

"Oh, by the way, Miss Friscoe will not trouble you, you will be glad to hear," said Lillie, lightly.

"Indeed?" said Silverdale. "Then she has drawn a prize after all! I cannot say as much for the young man. I hardly think she is a credit to your sex. Somehow, she reminded me of a woman I used to know, and of some verses I wrote upon her."

("If he had given me a chance, and not gone on to read his poetry so quickly," wrote Lillie in her diary that night, "I might have told him that his inference about Miss Friscoe was incorrect. But it is such a trifle—it is not worth telling him now, especially as he practically intimated she would have been an undesirable member, and I only saved him the trouble of trying her.")

Lord Silverdale read his verses without the accompaniment of the banjo, an instrument too frivolous for the tragic muse.

LA FEMME QUE NE RIT PAS.

"I don't see where the connection with Miss Friscoe comes in," said Lillie.

"No? Why simply if she acquired an enamelled complexion, it might be the salvation of her, don't you see? Like Henry I., she could never smile again."

Lillie smiled. Then producing a manuscript, she said: "I think you will be interested in this story of another of the candidates who applied during your expedition to the clouds. It is quite unique, and for amusement I have written it from the man's point of view."

"May I come in?" interrupted the millionaire, popping his head through the door. "Are there any Old Maids here?"

"Only me," said Lillie.

"Oh, then, I'll call another time."

"No, you may come in, father. Lord Silverdale and I have finished our business for the day. You can take that away with you and read it at your leisure, Lord Silverdale."

The millionaire came in, but without empressement.

That night Lord Silverdale, who was suffering from insomnia, took the manuscript to bed with him, but he could not sleep till he had finished it.

I, Anton Mendoza, bachelor, born thirty years ago by the grace of the Holy Virgin, on the fÊte-day of San Anton, patron of pigs and old maids, after sundry adventures by sea and land, found myself in the autumn of last year in the pestiferous atmosphere of London. I had picked up bad English and a good sum of money in South America, and by the aid of the two was enabled to thread my way through the mazes of the metropolis. I soon tired of the neighborhood of the Alhambra (in the proximity of which I had with mistaken patriotism established myself), for the wealthy quarters of all great cities have more affinities than differences, and after a few days of sight-seeing I resolved to fare forth in quest of the real sights of London. Mounting the box of the first omnibus that came along, I threw the reins of my fortunes into the hands of the driver, and drew a little blue ticket from the lottery of fate. I scanned the slip of paper curiously and learned therefrom that I was going fast to "The Angel," which I shrewdly divined to be a public-house, knowing that these islanders display no poetry and imagination save in connection with beer. My intuition was correct, and though it was the forenoon I alighted amid a double stream of pedestrians, the one branch flowing into "The Angel," and the other issuing therefrom. Extricating myself, I looked at my compass, and following the direction of the needle soon found myself in a network of unlovely streets. For an hour I paced forwards without chancing on aught of interest, save many weary organ-grinders, seemingly serenading their mistresses with upward glances at their chamber-windows, and I was commencing to fear that my blue ticket would prove a blank, when a savory odor of garlic struck on my nostrils and apprised me that my walk had given me an appetite. Glancing sideways I saw a door swinging, the same bearing in painted letters on the glass the words: "Menotti's Restaurant—Ici on parle Francais." It looked a queer little place, and the little back street into which I had strayed seemed hardly auspicious of cleanly fare. Still the jewel of good cookery harbors often in the plainest caskets, and I set the door swinging again and passed into a narrow room walled with cracked mirrors and furnished with a few little tables, a rusty waiter, and a proprietorial looking person perpetually bent over a speaking tube. As noon was barely arrived, I was not surprised to find the place all but empty. At the extreme end of the restaurant I caught a glimpse of a stout dark man with iron-gray whiskers. I thought I would go and lunch at the table of the solitary customer and scrape acquaintance, and thus perhaps achieve an adventure. But hardly had I seated myself opposite him than a shock traversed his face, the morsel he had just swallowed seemed to stick in his throat, he rose coughing violently, and clapping his palm over his mouth with the fingers spread out almost as if he wished to hide his face, turned his back quickly, seized his hat, threw half-a-crown to the waiter and scuttled from the establishment.

I was considerably surprised at his abrupt departure, as if I had brought some infection with me. The momentary glimpse I had caught of his face had convinced me I had never seen it before, that it had no place in the photograph album of my brain, though now it would be fixed there forever. The nose hooked itself on to my memory at once. It must be that he had mistaken me for somebody else, somebody whom he had reason to fear. Perhaps he was a criminal and imagined me a detective. I called the proprietor and inquired of him in French who the man was and what was the matter with him. But he shook his head and answered: "That man there puzzles me. There is a mystery behind."

"Why, has he done anything strange before to-day?"

"No, not precisely."

"How then?"

"I will tell you. He comes here once a year."

"Once a year?" I repeated.

"No more. This has been going on for twelve years."

"What are you telling me there?" I murmured.

"It is true."

"But how have you remembered him from year to year?"

"I was struck by his face and his air the very first time. He seemed anxious, ill at ease, worried. He left his chop half eaten."

"Ha!" I murmured.

"Also he looks different from most of my clients. They are not of that type. Of course I forget him immediately—it is not my affair. But when he comes the second time I recall him on the instant, though a year has passed. Again he looks perturbed, restless. I say to myself: 'Aha, thou art not a happy man, there is something which preys on thy mind. However, thy money is good and to the devil with the rest.' So it goes on. After three or four visits I commence to look out for him, and I discover that it is only once a year he does me the honor to arrive. There are twelve years that I know him—I have seen him twelve times."

"And he has always this nervous air?"

"Not always. That varies. Sometimes he appears calm, sometimes even happy."

"Perhaps it is your fare," I said slily.

"Ah, no, monsieur, that does not vary. It is always of the first excellence."

"Does he always come on the same date?"

"No, monsieur. There is the puzzle. It is never exactly a year between his visits—sometimes it is more, sometimes it is less."

"There is, indeed, the puzzle," I agreed. "If it were always the same date, it would be a clue. Ah, an idea! He comes not always on the same date of the month, but he comes, perhaps, on the same day of the week, eh?"

Again the proprietor dashed me back into the depths of perplexity.

"No," he said, decisively. "Monday, Wednesday, Saturday,—it is all the same. The only thing that changes not is the man and his dress. Always the same broadcloth frock-coat and the same high hat and the same seals at the heavy watch-chain. He is a rich man, that sees itself."

I wrinkled my brow and tugged the ends of my moustache in the effort to find a solution. The proprietor tugged the ends of his own moustache in sympathetic silence.

"Does he always slink out if anybody sits down opposite to him?" I inquired again.

"On the contrary. He talks and chats quite freely with his neighbors when there are any. I have seen his countenance light up when a man has come to seat himself next to him."

"Then to-day is the first time he has behaved so strangely?"

"Absolutely."

Again I was silent. I looked at myself curiously in the cracked mirror.

"Do you see anything strange in my appearance?" I asked the proprietor.

"Nothing in the world," said the proprietor, shaking his head vigorously.

"Nothing in the world," echoed the waiter, emphatically.

"Then why does he object to me, when he doesn't object to anybody else?"

"Pardon," said the proprietor. "It is, after all, but rarely that a stranger sits at his table. He comes ordinarily so early for his lunch that my clients have not yet arrived, and I have only the honor to serve an accidental customer like yourself."

"Ah, then, there is some regularity about the time of day at least?"

"Ah, yes, there is that," said the proprietor, reflectively. "But even here there is no hard and fast line. He may be an hour earlier, he may be an hour later."

"What a droll of a man!" I said laughing, even as I wondered. "And you have not been able to discover anything about him, though he has given it you in twelve?"

"It is not my affair," he repeated, shrugging his shoulders.

"You know not his name even?"

"How should I know it?"

"Ah, very well, you shall see!" I said, buttoning up my coat resolutely and rising to my feet. "You shall see that I will find out everything in once. I, a stranger in London, who love the oceans and the forests better than the cities, I, who know only the secrets of Nature, behold, I will solve you this mystery of humanity."

"As monsieur pleases," replied the proprietor. "For me the only question is what monsieur will have for his lunch."

"I want no lunch," I cried. Then seeing his downcast face and remembering the man must be out of sight by this time and nothing was to be gained by haste, I ordered some broth and a veal and ham pie, and strode to the door to make sure there was no immediate chance of coming upon him. The little by-street was almost deserted, there was not a sign of my man. I returned to my seat and devoted myself to my inner man instead. Then I rebuttoned my coat afresh—though with less facility—and sauntered out joyously. Now at last I had found something to interest me in London. The confidence born of a good meal was strong in my bosom as I pushed those swinging doors open and cried "Au revoir," to my host, for I designed to return and to dazzle him with my exploits.

"Au revoir, monsieur, a thousand thanks," cried the proprietor, popping up from his speaking-tube. "But where are you going? Where do you hope to find this man?"

"I go not to find the man," I replied airily.

"Comment!" he exclaimed in his astonishment.

"I go to seek the woman," I said in imposing accents. And waving my hand amicably I sallied forth into the dingy little street.

But alas for human anticipations! The whole of that day I paced the dead and alive streets of North London without striking the faintest indication of a trail. After a week's futile wanderings I began to realize the immensity of the English metropolis—immense not only by its actual area, but by the multiplicity of its streets and windings, and by the indifference of each household to its neighbors, which makes every roof the cover of manifold mysterious existences and potentialities. To look for a needle in a bundle of hay were child's play to the task of finding a face in a London suburb, even assuming as I did my enigma lived in the northern district. I dared not return to the restaurant to inquire if perchance he had been seen. I was ashamed to confess myself baffled. I shifted my quarters from Leicester Square to Green Lanes and walked every day within a four mile radius of the restaurant, but fortune turned her face (and his) from me and I raged at my own folly in undertaking so futile a quest. At last, "Patience!" I cried. "Patience, and shuffle the cards!" It was my pet proverb when off the track of anything. To cut yourself adrift from the old plan and look at the problem with new eyes—that was my recipe. I tried it by going into the country for some stag hunting, which I had ascertained from a farmer whom I met in a coffee-house, could be obtained in some of the villages in the next county. But English field-sports I found little to my taste, for the deer had been unhorned and was let out of a cart, and it was only playing at sport. The Holy Mother save me from such bloodless make-believe! Though the hunting season was in full swing I returned in disgust to the town, and again confiding my fortunes to a common or garden omnibus, I surveyed the street panorama from my seat on the roof till the vehicle turned round for the backward journey. This time I found myself in Canonbury, a district within the radius I had previously explored. The coincidence gave me fresh hope—it seemed a happy augury of ultimate success. The saints would guide my footsteps after all; for he who wills aught intensely cajoles Providence. The dusk had fallen and the night lamps had been lit in the heavens and on the earth, though without imparting cheerfulness to the rigid rows of highly respectable houses. I walked through street after street of gray barracks, tall narrow structures holding themselves with the military stiffness and ranged in serried columns, the very greenery that relieved their fronts growing sympathetically symmetrical and sombre. I sighed for my native orange-groves, I longed for a whiff of the blue Mediterranean, I strove to recall the breezy expanses of the South American Pampas whence I had come, and had it not been for the interest of my search, I should have fled like St. Anthony from the lady, though for very opposite reasons. It seemed scarcely possible that romance should brood behind those dull faÇades; the grosser spirit of prose seemed to shroud them as in a fog.

Suddenly, as I paced with clogged footsteps in these heavy regions, I heard a voice calling somebody, and looking in the direction of the sound I could not but fancy it was myself whose attention was sought. A gentleman standing at the hall-door of one of the houses, at the top of the white steps, was beckoning in my direction. I halted, and gazing on all sides ascertained I was the sole pedestrian. Puzzled as to what he could want of me, I tried to scan his features by the rays of a street lamp which faced the house and under which I stood. They revealed a pleasant but not English-looking face, bearded and bronzed, but they revealed nothing as to the owner's designs. He stood there still beckoning, and the latent hypnotism of the appeal drew me towards the gate. I paused with my hand on the lock. What in the name of all the saints could he possibly want with me? I had sundry valuables about my person, but then they included a loaded revolver, so why refuse the adventure?

"Do come in," he said in English, seeing my hesitation. "We are only waiting for you."

The mysterious language of the invitation sealed my fate. Evidently I had again been mistaken for somebody else. Was it that I resembled someone this man knew? If so, it would probably be the same someone the other man had dreaded. I seemed to feel the end of a clew at last, the other end which was tied to him I sought. Putting my hand to my breast pocket to make sure it held my pistol, I drew back the handle of the gate and ascended the steps. There was an expression of satisfaction on the face of my inviter, and, turning his back upon me he threw the door wide open and held it courteously as I entered. A whiff of warm stuffy air smote my nostrils as I stepped into the hall where an india-rubber plant stood upon a rack heavily laden with overcoats. My host preceded me a few paces and opened a door on the right. A confused babble of guttural speech broke upon my ear, and over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of a strange scene—a medley of swarthy men, wearing their hats, a venerable-looking old man who seemed their chief being prominent in a grim, black skull cap; there was a strange weird wick burning in a cup of oil on the mantelpiece, and on a sofa at the extreme end of the room sat a beautiful young lady weeping silently.

My heart gave a great leap. Instinct told me I had found the woman. I made the sign of the cross and entered.

A strange look of relief passed over the faces of the company as I entered. Instinctively I removed my hat, but he who had summoned me deprecated the courtesy with a gesture, remarking, "We are commencing at once."

I stared at him, more puzzled than ever, but kept silence lest speech should betray me and snatch the solution from me on the very eve of my arrival at it.

It was gathering in my mind that I must strikingly resemble one of the band, that the man of the restaurant had betrayed us, and that he went in fear of our vengeance. Only thus could I account for my reception both by him and by the rest of the gang.

The patriarchal-looking chieftain got up and turned his back to the company, as if surveying them through the mirror. He then addressed them at great length with averted face in a strange language, the others following him attentively and accompanying his remarks with an undercurrent of murmured sympathy, occasionally breaking out into loud exclamations of assent in the same tongue. I listened with all my ears, but could not form the least idea as to what the language was. There were gutturals in it as in German, but I can always detect German if I cannot understand it. There was never a word which had the faintest analogy with any of the European tongues. I came to the conclusion it was a patter of their own. The leader spoke hurriedly for the most part, but in his slower passages there was a rise and fall of the voice almost amounting to a musical inflection. Near the end, after an emphatic speech frequently interrupted by applause, he dropped his voice to a whisper and a hushed silence fell upon the room. The beautiful girl on the couch got up and, holding a richly-bound book in her hand, perused it quietly. Her lovely eyes were heavy with tears. I drifted upon a current of wonder into perusing her face, and it was with a start that, at the sudden resumption of the leader's speech, I woke from my dreams. The address came to a final close soon after, and then another member wound up the proceedings with a little speech, which was received with great enthusiasm.

While he was speaking, I studied the back of the patriarch's head. He moved it, and my eyes accidentally lighted on something on the mantelpiece which sent a thrill through my whole being. It was a photograph, and unless some hallucination tricked my vision, the photograph of the man I sought. I trembled with excitement. My instinct had been correct. I had found the woman. Saint Antony had guided my footsteps aright. The company was slowly dispersing, chatting as it went. Everybody took leave of the beautiful girl, who had by this time dried her eyes and resumed the queen. I should have to go with them, and without an inkling of comprehension of what had passed! What had they been plotting? What part had I been playing in these uncanny transactions? What had they been doing to bring suffering to this fair girl, before whom all bowed in mock homage? Was she the unwilling accomplice of their discreditable designs? I could not see an inch in the bewildering fog. And was I to depart like the rest, doomed to cudgel my brains till they ached like caned schoolboys? No, my duty was clear. A gentle creature was in trouble—it was my business to stay and succor her.

Then suddenly the thought flashed upon me that she loved the man who had betrayed us, that she had pleaded with fear for his life, and that her petition had been granted. The solution seemed almost complete, yet it found me no more willing to go. Had I not still to discover for what end we were leagued together?

As I stood motionless, thus musing, the minutes and the company slipped away. I was left with the man of the doorstep, the second speaker, and the beautiful girl.

While I was wondering by what pretext to remain, the second speaker came up to me and said cordially: "We are so much obliged to you for coming. It was very good of you."

His English was that of a native, as I enviously noted. He was a young, good-looking fellow, but, as I gazed at him, a vague resemblance to the stranger of the restaurant and to the photograph on the mantelpiece forced itself on my attention.

"Oh, it was no trouble; no trouble at all," I remarked cheerfully. "I will come again if you like."

"Thank you; but this is our last night, with the exception of Saturday, when one can get together twenty quite easily, so there is no need to trouble you, as you perhaps do not reside in the neighborhood."

"Oh, but I do," I hastened to correct him.

"In that case we shall be very pleased to see you," he replied readily. "I don't remember seeing you before in the district. I presume you are a newcomer."

"Yes, that's it," I exclaimed glibly, secretly more puzzled than ever. He did not remember seeing me before, nor did the man of the doorstep vouchsafe any information as to my identity. Then I could certainly not have been mistaken for somebody else. And yet—what was the meaning of that significant invitation: "We are waiting only for you?"

"I thought you were a stranger," he replied. "I haven't the pleasure of knowing your name."

This was the climax. But I concealed my astonishment, having always found the nil admirari principle the safest in enterprises of this nature. Should I tell him my real name? Yes, why not? I was utterly unknown in London, and my real name would be as effective a disguise as a pseudonym.

"Mendoza," I replied.

"Ah," said the man of the doorstep. "Any relation to the Mendozas of Highbury?"

"I think not," I replied, with an air of reflection.

"Ah well," said the second speaker, "we are all brothers."

"And sisters." I remarked gallantly, bowing to the beautiful maiden. On second thoughts it struck me the remark was rather meaningless, but second thoughts have an awkward way of succeeding first thoughts, which sometimes interferes with their usefulness. On third thoughts I went on in my best English, "May I in return be favored with the pleasure of knowing your name?"

The second speaker smiled in a melancholy way and said, "I beg you pardon, I forgot we were as strange to you as you to us. My name is Radowski, Philip Radowski; this is my friend Martin, and this my sister Fanny."

I distributed elaborate bows to the trinity.

"You will have a little refreshment before you go?" said Fanny, with a simple charm that would have made it impossible to refuse, even if I had been as anxious to go as I was to stay.

"Oh no, I could not think of troubling you," I replied warmly, and in due course I was sipping a glass of excellent old port and crumbling a macaroon.

This seemed to me the best time for putting out a feeler, and I remarked lightly, pointing to the photograph on the mantelpiece, "I did not see that gentleman here to-night." Instantly a portentous expression gathered upon all the faces. I saw I had said the wrong thing. The beautiful Fanny's mouth quivered, her eyes grew wistful and pathetic.

"My father is dead," she said in a low tone.

Dead? Her father? A great shock of horror and surprise traversed my frame. His secret had gone with him to the grave.

"Dead?" I repeated involuntarily. "Oh, forgive me, I did not know."

"Of course not, of course not. I understand perfectly," put in her brother soothingly. "You did not know whom it was we had lost. Yes, it was our father."

"Has he been dead long?"

He seemed a little surprised at the question, but answered: "It is he we are mourning now."

I nodded my head, as if comprehending.

"Ah, he was a good man," said Martin. "I wish we were all so sure of Heaven."

"There are very few Jews like him left," said Fanny quietly.

"Alas, he was one of the pious old school," assented Martin, shaking his head dolefully.

My heart was thumping violently as a great wave of light flooded my brain. These people then were Jews—that strange, scattered race of heretics I had often heard of, but never before come into contact with in my wild adventurous existence. The strange scene I had witnessed was not, then, a meeting of conspirators, but a religious funereal ceremonial; the sorrow of Fanny was filial grief; the address of the venerable old man a Hebrew prayer-reading; the short speech of Philip Radowski probably a psalm in the ancient language all spoke so fluently. But what had I come to do in that galley?

All these thoughts flashed upon me in the twinkling of an eye. There was scarce a pause between Martin's observation and Radowski's remark that followed it.

"He was, indeed, pious. It was wonderful how he withstood the influence of his English friends. You would never imagine he left Poland quite thirty years ago."

So I had found the Pole! But was it too late? Anyhow I resolved to know what I had been summoned for? The saints spared me the trouble of the search.

"Yes," returned Martin, "when you think how ready he was to go to the houses of mourners, I think it perfectly disgraceful that we had such difficulty in getting together ten brother-Jews for the services in his memory. But for the kindness of Mr. Mendoza I don't know what we should have done to-night. In your place, Philip, I confess I should have felt tempted to violate the law altogether. I can't see that it matters to the Almighty whether you have nine men or ten men or five men. And I don't see why Fanny couldn't count in quite as well as any man."

"Oh! Martin," said Fanny with a shocked look. "How can you talk so irreligiously? Once we begin to break the law where are we to stop? Jews and Christians may as well intermarry at once." Her righteous indignation was beautiful to see.

Two things were clear now. First, I had been mistaken for a Jew, probably on account of my foreign appearance. Secondly, Fanny would never wed a Christian. But for the first fact I would have regretted the second. For a third thing was clear—that I loved the glorious Jewess with all the love of a child of the South. We are not tame rabbits, we Andalusians: the flash from beauty's eye fires our blood and we love instantly and dare greatly. My heart glowed with gratitude to my patron saint for having brought about the mistake; a Jew I was and a Jew I would remain.

"You are quite right, Miss Radowski," I said, "Jew and Christian might as well intermarry at once."

"I am glad to hear you say so," said Fanny, turning her lovely orbs towards me. "Most young men nowadays are so irreligious."

Martin darted a savage glance at me. I saw at once how the land lay. He was either engaged to my darling or a fiancÉ in the making. I surveyed him impassively from his head to his shoes and decided to stand in them. It was impossible to permit a man of such dubious religious principles to link his life with a spiritually-minded woman like Fanny. Such a union could only bring unhappiness to both. What she needed was a good pious Jew, one of the old school. With the help of the saints I vowed to supply her needs.

"I think modern young women are quite as irreligious as modern young men," retorted Martin, as he left the room.

"Yes, it is so," sighed Fanny, the arrow glancing off unheeded. Then, uplifting her beautiful eyes heavenwards, she murmured: "Ah, if they had been blessed with fathers like mine."

Martin, who had only gone out for an instant, returned with Fanny's hat and a feather boa, and observing, "You must really take a walk at once—you have been confined indoors a whole week," helped her to put them on. I felt sure his zeal for her health was overbalanced by his enthusiasm for my departure. I could not very well attach myself to the walking party—especially as I only felt an attachment for one member of it. Disregarding the interruption I remarked in tones of fervent piety:

"It will be an eternal regret to me that I missed knowing your father."

She gave me a grateful look.

"Look!" she said, seating herself on the sofa for a moment and picking up the richly-bound book lying upon it. "Look at the motto of exhortation he wrote in my prayer-book before he died. Our minister says it is in the purest Hebrew."

I went to her side and leaned over the richly-bound book, which appeared to be printed backwards, and scanned the inscription with an air of appreciation.

"Read it," she said. "Read it aloud! It comforts me to hear it."

"Read it aloud," she said. "It comforts me."