CHAPTER III
MR. RUSHCROFT DISSOLVES, MR. JONES INTERVENES, AND TWO MEN RIDE AWAY
Mr. Rushcroft explained that he had had his supper. In fact, he went onto confess, he had been compelled, like the dog, to "speak" for it.What could be more disgusting, more degrading, he mourned, than thespectacle of a man who had appeared in all of the principal theatres ofthe land as star and leading support to stars, settling for his supperby telling stories and reciting poetry in the tap-room of a tavern?
"Still," he consented, when Barnes insisted that it would be a kindnessto him, "since you put it that way, I dare say I could do with a littlesnack, as you so aptly put it. Just a bite or two. Like you, my dearfellow, I loathe and detest eating alone. I covet companionship,convivial com--what have you ready, Miss Tilly?"
Miss Tilly was a buxom female of forty or thereabouts, with spectacles.She was one of a pair of sedentary waitresses who had been so long inthe employ of Mr. Jones that he hated the sight of them. Closeproximity to a real star affected her intensely. In fact, she wasdazzled. For something like twenty years she had nursed an ambitionthat wavered between the desire to become an actress or an authoress.At present she despised literature. More than once she had confessed toMr. Rushcroft that she hated like poison to write out the bill-o'-fare,a duty devolving solely upon her, it appears, because of a localtradition that she possessed literary talent. Every one said that shewrote the best hand in the county.
Mr. Rushcroft's conception of a bite or two may have staggered Barnesbut it did not bewilder Miss Tilly. He had four eggs with his ham, andother things in proportion. He talked a great deal, proving in that waythat it was a supper well worth speaking for. Among other things, hedilated at great length upon his reasons for not being a member of ThePlayers or The Lambs in New York City. It seems that he had promisedhis dear, devoted wife that he would never join a club of anydescription. Dear old girl, he would as soon have cut off his righthand as to break any promise made to her. He brushed something awayfrom his eyes, and his chin, contracting, trembled slightly.
"Quite right," said Barnes, sympathetically. "And how long has Mrs.Rushcroft been dead?"
A hurt, incredulous look came into Mr. Rushcroft's eyes. "Is itpossible that you have forgotten the celebrated case of Rushcroft vs.Rushcroft, not more than six years back? Good Lord, man, it was one ofthe most sensational cases that ever--But I see that you do not recallit. You must have been abroad at the time. I don't believe I ever knewof a case being quite so admirably handled by the press as that onewas. She got it after a bitter and protracted fight. Infidelity.Nothing so rotten as cruelty or desertion,--no sir!"
"Ahem!" coughed Miss Tilly.
"The dear old girl married again," sighed Mr. Rushcroft, helpinghimself to Barnes' butter. "Did very well, too. Man in the wine trade.He saves a great deal, you see, by getting it at cost, and I can assureyou, on my word of honour, sir, that he'll find it quite an item. Whatis it, Mr. Bacon? Any word from New York?"
Mr. Bacon hovered near, perhaps hungrily.
"Our genial host has instructed me to say to his latest guest that therates are two dollars a day, in advance, all dining-room checks payableon presentation," said Mr. Bacon, apologetically.
Rushcroft exploded. "A scurvy insult," he boomed. "Confound his--"
The new guest was amiable. He interrupted the outraged star. "Tell Mr.Jones that I shall settle promptly," he said, with a smile.
The "heavy leads" lowered his voice. "He told me that he had had ahorrible thought."
"He never has anything else," said Mr. Rushcroft.
"It has just entered his bean that you may be an actor, Mr. Barnes,"said Bacon.
Miss Tilly, overhearing, drew a step or two nearer. A sudden interestin Mr. Barnes developed. She had not noticed before that he was anuncommonly good-looking fellow. She always had said that she adoredstrong, "athletic" faces.
"Hence the insult," said Mr. Rushcroft bitterly. He raised both arms ina gesture of complete dejection. "My God!"
"Says it looks suspicious," went on Mr. Bacon, "flocking with us as youdo. He mentioned something about birds of a feather."
Mr. Rushcroft arose majestically. "I shall see the man myself, Mr.Barnes. His infernal insolence--"
"Pray do not distress yourself, my dear Rushcroft," interrupted Barnes."He is quite within his rights. I may be even worse than an actor. Imay turn out to be an ordinary tramp." He took a wallet from hispocket, and smiled engagingly upon Miss Tilly. "The check, please."
"For both?" inquired she, blinking.
"Certainly. Mr. Rushcroft was my guest."
"Four twenty five," she announced, after computation on the back of themenu.
He selected a five dollar bill from the rather plethoric purse andhanded it to her.
"Be so good as to keep the change," he said, and Miss Tilly went awayin a daze from which she did not emerge for a long, long time.
Later on she felt inspired to jot down, for use no doubt in some futureliterary production, a concise, though general, description of themagnificent Mr. Barnes. She utilised the back of the bill-of-fare andshe wrote with the feverish ardour of one who dreads the loss of afirst impression. I herewith append her visual estimate of the hero ofthis story.
"He was a tall, shapely speciman of mankind," wrote Miss Tilly."Broad-shouldered. Smooth shaved face. Penetrating grey eyes. Shortcurly hair about the colour of mine. Strong hands of good shape. Facetanned considerable. Heavy dark eyebrows. Good teeth, very white.Square chin. Lovely smile that seemed to light up the room foreverybody within hearing. Nose ideal. Mouth same. Voice aristocraticand reverberating with education. Age about thirty or thirty one. Richas Croesus. Costume resembling the picture in the English novel thewoman forgot and left here last summer. Well turned legs. Would make agood nobleman."
All this would appear to be reasonably definite were it not for thenote regarding the colour of his hair. It leaves to me the simple taskof completing the very admirable description of Mr. Barnes byannouncing that Miss Tilly's hair was an extremely dark brown.
Also it is advisable to append the following biographical information:Thomas Kingsbury Barnes, engineer, born in Montclair, New Jersey, Sept.26, 1885. Cornell and Beaux Arts, Paris. Son of the late Stephen S.Barnes, engineer, and Edith (Valentine) Barnes. Office, MetropolitanBuilding, New York City. Residence, Amsterdam Mansions. Clubs: (Lack ofspace prevents listing them here). Recreations: golf, tennis, andhorseback riding. Author of numerous articles resulting fromexpeditions and discoveries in Peru and Ecuador. Fellow of the RoyalGeographic Society. Member of the Loyal Legion and the Sons of theAmerican Revolution.
Added to this, the mere announcement that he was in a position toindulge a fancy for long and perhaps aimless walking tours through moreor less out of the way sections of his own country, to say nothing ofexcursions in Europe.
Needless to say, he obtained a great deal of pleasure from these lonelyjaunts, and at the same time laid up for future use an ample supply ofmind's ease. His was undoubtedly a romantic nature. He loved thefancies that his susceptibilities garnered from the hills and dales andfields and forests. He never tired of the changing prospect; the simplemeadow and the inspiring mountain peak were as one to his generousimagination. He found something worth while in every mile he traversedin these long and solitary tramps, and he covered no fewer than twentyof them between breakfast and dinner unless ordered by circumstance toloiter along the way.
Each succeeding spring he set out from his "diggings" in New Yorkwithout having the remotest idea where his peregrinations would carryhim. It was his habit to select a starting point in advance, approachthat spot by train or ship or motor, and then divest himself of allpurpose except to fare forward until he came upon some haven for thenight. He went east or west, north or south, even as the winds ofheaven blow; indeed, he not infrequently followed them.
For five or six weeks in the early spring it was his custom to forgehis daily chain of miles and, when the end was reached, cli
mbcontentedly aboard a train and be transported, often by arduous means,to the city where millions of men walk with a definite aim in view. Heliked the spring of the year. He liked the rains and the winds of earlyspring. They meant the beginning of things to him.
He was rich. Perhaps not as riches are measured in these Midas-likedays, but rich beyond the demands of avarice. His legacy had been anample one. The fact that he worked hard at his profession from oneyear's end to the other,--not excluding the six weeks devoted to thesementally productive jaunts,--is proof sufficient that he was notcontent to subsist on the fruits of another man's enterprise. He was aworker. He was a creator, a builder and a destroyer. It was part of hisambition to destroy in order that he might build the better.
The first fortnight of a proposed six weeks' jaunt through Upper NewEngland terminated when he laid aside his heavy pack in the littlebed-room at Hart's Tavern. Cock-crow would find him ready and eager tobegin his third week. At least, so he thought. But, truth is, he hadcome to his journey's end; he was not to sling his pack for many a dayto come.
After setting the mind of the landlord at rest, Barnes declined Mr.Rushcroft's invitation to "quaff" a cordial with him in the tap-room,explaining that he was exceedingly tired and intended to retire early(an announcement that caused unmistakable distress to the actor, whoheld forth for some time on the folly of "letting a thing like that gowithout taking it in time," although it was not made quite clear justwhat he meant by "thing"). Barnes was left to infer that he consideredfatigue a malady that ought to be treated.
Instead of going up to his room immediately, however, he decided tohave a look at the weather. He stepped out upon the wet porch andclosed the door behind him. The wind was still high; the lanterncreaked and the dingy sign that hung above the steps gave forthraucous, spasmodic wails as it swung back and forth in the stiff, rawwind. Far away to the north lightning flashed dimly; the roar ofthunder had diminished to a low, half-hearted growl.
His uneasiness concerning the young woman of the cross-roads increasedas he peered at the wall of blackness looming up beyond the circle oflight. He could not see the towering hills, but memory pictured them asthey were revealed to him in the gathering darkness before the storm.She was somewhere outside that sinister black wall and in thesmothering grasp of those invisible hills, but was she living or dead?Had she reached her journey's end safely? He tried to extract comfortfrom the confidence she had expressed in the ability and integrity ofthe old man who drove with far greater recklessness than one would havelooked for in a wild and irresponsible youngster.
He recalled, with a thrill, the imperious manner in which she gavedirections to the man, and his surprising servility. It suddenlyoccurred to him that she was no ordinary person; he was rather amazedthat he had not thought of it before.
She had confessed to total ignorance regarding the driver of thatramshackle conveyance; to being utterly at sea in the neighbourhood; tohaving walked like any country bumpkin from the railroad station,lugging an unconscionably heavy bag; and yet, despite all this, sheseemed amazingly sure of herself. He recalled her frivolous remarkabout her jewels, and now wondered if there had not been more truththan jest in her words. Then there was the rather significantalteration in tone and manner when she spoke to the driver. The soft,somewhat deliberate drawl gave way to sharp, crisp sentences; thequaint good humour vanished and in its place he had no difficulty inremembering a very decided note of command.
Moreover, now that he thought of it, there was, even in the agreeablerejoinders she had made to his offerings, the faint suggestion of anaccent that should have struck him at the time but did not for theobvious reason that he was then not at all interested in her. HerEnglish was so perfect that he had failed to detect the almostimperceptible foreign flavour that now took definite form in hisreflections. He tried to place this accent. Was it French, or Italian,or Spanish? Certainly it was not German. The lightness of the Latin wasevident, he decided, but it was all so faint and remote thatclassification was impossible, notwithstanding his years of associationwith the peoples of many countries where English is spoken moreperfectly by the upper classes, who have a language of their own, thanit is in England itself.
He took a few turns up and down the long porch, stopping finally at theupper end. The clear, inspiring clang of a hammer on an anvil fellsuddenly upon his ears. He looked at his watch. The hour was nine,certainly an unusual time for men to be at work in a forge. Heremembered the two men in the tap-room who were bare-armed and wore theshapeless leather aprons of the smithy.
He had been standing there not more than half a minute peering in thedirection from whence came the rhythmic bang of the anvil,--at no greatdistance, he was convinced,--when some one spoke suddenly at his elbow.He whirled and found himself facing the gaunt landlord.
"Good Lord! You startled me," he exclaimed. He had not heard theapproach of the man, nor the opening and closing of the tavern door.His gaze travelled past the tall figure of Putnam Jones and rested onthat of a second man, who leaned, with legs crossed and arms folded,against the porch post directly in front of the entrance to the house,his features almost wholly concealed by the broad-brimmed slouch hatthat came far down over his eyes. He too, it seemed to Barnes, hadsprung from nowhere.
"Fierce night," said Putnam Jones, removing the corn-cob pipe from hislips. Then, as an after thought: "Sorry I skeert you. I thought youheerd me."
"I was listening to the song of the anvil," said Barnes, as thelandlord moved forward and took his place beside him. "It has alwayspossessed a singular charm for me."
"Special hurry-up job," said Jones, and no more.
"Shoeing?"
"Yep. You'd think these hayseeds could git their horses in here durin'regular hours, wouldn't you?"
"I dare say they consider their own regular hours instead of yours, Mr.Jones."
"I didn't quite ketch that."
"I mean that they bring their horses in after their regular day's workis done."
"I see. Yes, I reckon that's the idee." After a few pulls at his pipe,the landlord inquired: "Where'd you walk from to-day?" "I slept in afarm-house last night, about fifteen miles south of this place I shouldsay."
"That'd be a little ways out of East Cobb," speculated Mr. Jones.
"Five or six miles."
"Goin' over into Canada?"
"No. I shall turn west, I think, and strike for the Lake Champlaincountry."
"Canadian line is only a few miles from here," said Jones. "Last summerwe had a couple of crooks from Boston here, makin' a dash for theborder. Didn't know it till they'd been gone a day, however. Theofficers were just a day behind 'em. Likely lookin' fellers, too. Lastmen in the world you'd take for bank robbers."
"Bank robbers, as a rule, are very classy looking customers," saidBarnes.
Mr. Jones grunted. After a short silence, he branched off on a newline. "What you think about the war? Think it'll be over soon?"
"It has been going on for nearly two years, and I can't see any signsof abatement. Looks to me like a draw. They're all tired of it."
"Think the Germans are going to win?"
"No. They can't win. On the other hand, I don't see how the Allies canwin. I may be wrong, of course. The Allies are getting stronger everyday and the Germans must surely be getting weaker. As a matter of fact,Mr. Jones, I've long since stopped speculating on the outcome of thewar. It is too big for me. I am not one of your know-it-alls who figurethe whole thing out from day to day, and then wonder why the foolgenerals didn't have sense enough to perform as expected."
"I wish them countries over there would let me fix 'em out withgenerals," drawled Mr. Jones. "I could pick out fifteen or twenty menright here in this district that could show 'em in ten minutes just howto win the war. You'd be surprised to know how many great generals wehave running two by four farms and choppin' wood for a livin' up here.And there are fellers settin' right in there now that never saw a bodyof water bigger'n Plum Pond, an' every blamed one of 'em knows more'n
the whole British navy about ketchin' submarines. The quickest way toend the war, says Jim Roudebush,--one of our leadin' ice-cutters,--isfor the British navy to bombard Berlin from both sides, an' he don'tsee why in thunder they've never thought of it. I suppose you'vetravelled right smart in Europe?"
"Quite a bit, Mr. Jones."
"Any partic'lar part?"
"No," said Barnes, suddenly divining that he was being "pumped." "Oneend to the other, you might say."
"What about them countries down around Bulgaria and Roumania? I've beenconsiderable interested in what's going to become of them if Germanygets licked. What do they get out of it, either way?"
Barnes spent the next ten minutes expatiating upon the future of theBalkan states. Jones had little to say. He was interested, and drank inall the information that Barnes had to impart. He puffed at his pipe,nodded his head from time to time, and occasionally put a leadingquestion. And quite as abruptly as he introduced the topic he changedit.
"Not many automobiles up here at this time 'o the year," he said. "Iwas a little surprised when you said a feller had given you a lift.Where from?"
"The cross-roads, a mile down. He came from the direction of Frogg'sCorner and was on his way to meet some one at Spanish Falls." Barnesshrewdly leaped to the conclusion that the landlord's interest in theEuropean War was more or less assumed. The man's purpose was beginningto reveal itself. He was evidently curious, if not actually concerned,about his guest's arrival by motor.
"That's queer," he said, after a moment. "There's no train arrivin' atSpanish Falls as late as six o'clock. Gets in at four-ten, if she's ontime. And she was reported on time to-day."
"It appears that there was a misunderstanding. The driver didn't meetthe train, so the person he was going after walked all the way to theforks. We happened upon each other there, Mr. Jones, and we studied thesign-post together. She was bound for a place called Green Fancy."
"Did you say SHE?"
"Yes. I was proposing to help her out of her predicament when thebelated motor came racing down the slope. As a matter of fact, I waswrong when I said that a man brought me here in an automobile. It wasshe who did it. She gave the order. He merely obeyed,--and not verywillingly, I suspect."
"What for sort of looking lady was she?"
"She wore a veil," said Barnes, succinctly.
"Young?"
"I had that impression. By the way, Mr. Jones, what and where is GreenFancy?"
Jones looked over his shoulder, and his guest's glance followed. Theman near the entrance had been joined by another.
"Well," began the landlord, lowering his voice, "it's about two mileand a half from here, up the mountain. It's a house and people live init, same as any other house. That's about all there is to say about it."
"Why is it called Green Fancy?"
"Because it's a green house," replied Jones succinctly.
"You mean that it is painted green?"
"Exactly. Green as a gourd. A man named Curtis built it a couple o'year ago and he had a fool idee about paintin' it green. Might ha' beena little crazy, for all I know. Anyhow, after he got it finished hesettled down to live in it, and from that day to this he's never beenoff'n the place. He didn't seem sick or anything, so we can't make outhis object in shuttin' himself up in the house an' seldom ever stickin'his nose outside the door."
"Isn't it possible that he isn't there at all?"
"He's there all right. Every now an' then he has visitors,--just likethis woman to-day,--and sometimes they come down here for supper. Theydon't hesitate to speak of him, so he must be there. Miss Tilly has gotthe idee that he is a reecluse, if you know what that is."
"It's all very interesting. I should say, judging by the visitor whocame this evening, that he entertains extremely nice people."
"Well," said Jones drily, "they claim to be from New York. But," headded, "so do them cheapskate actors in there." Which was as much as tosay that he had his doubts.
Further conversation was interrupted by the irregular clatter ofhorses' hoofs on the macadam. Off to the left a dull red glow of lightspread across the roadway, and a man's voice called out: "Whoa, dangye!"
The door of the smithy had been thrown open and some one was leadingforth freshly shod horses.
A moment later the horses,--prancing, high-spirited animals,--theirbridle-bits held by a strapping blacksmith, came into view. Barneslooked in the direction of the steps. The two men had disappeared.Instead of stopping directly in front of the steps, the smith led hischarges quite a distance beyond and into the darkness.
Putnam Jones abruptly changed his position. He insinuated his long bodybetween Barnes and the doorway, at the same time rather loudlyproclaiming that the rain appeared to be over.
"Yes, sir," he repeated, "she seems to have let up altogether. Ought tohave a nice day to-morrow, Mr. Barnes,--nice, cool day for walkin'."
Voices came up from the darkness. Jones had not been able to cover themwith his own. Barnes caught two or three sharp commands, rising abovethe pawing of horses' hoofs, and then a great clatter as the mountedhorsemen rode off in the direction of the cross-roads. The beat of thehoofs became rhythmical as the animals steadied into a swinging lope.
Barnes waited until they were muffled by distance, and then turned toJones with the laconic remark:
"They seem to be foreigners, Mr. Jones." Jones's manner became naturalonce more. He leaned against one of the posts and, striking a match onhis leg, relighted his pipe.
"Kind o' curious about 'em, eh?" he drawled.
"It never entered my mind until this instant to be curious," saidBarnes.
"Well, it entered their minds about an hour ago to be curious aboutyou," said the other.
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