by George Gibbs
CHAPTER II
NEW YORK
The Duke-errant had prepared himself for the first glimpse of thebattlements of lower New York, but as the _Bermudian_ came up the baythat rosy spring afternoon, the western sun gilding the upper half ofthe castellated towers which rose from a sea of moving shadows, itseemed a dream city, the fortress of a fairy tale. His fingers tingledto express this frozen music, to relieve it from its spell ofenchantment, and phrases of Debussy's "Cathedrale Engloutie" camewelling up within him from almost forgotten depths.
"_Parbleu!_ She's grown some, Pete, since I saw her last!"
This from his grotesque companion who was not moved by concord of sweetsounds. "They've buried the Trinity clean out of sight."
"The Trinity?" questioned Peter solemnly.
"Bless your heart----" laughed Coast, "I'd say so----But I mean, thechurch----And that must be the Woolworth Building yonder. Where's yerSt. Paul's and Kremlin now? Some village,--what?"
"Gorgeous!" muttered Peter.
"Hell of a thing to tackle single-handed, though, eh, boh?"
Something of the same thought was passing through Peter's mind but heonly smiled.
"I'll find a job," he said slowly.
"Waitin'!" sneered Coast. "Fine job that for a man with your learnin'.'Hey, waiter! Some butter if you please,'" he satirized in mincingtones, "'this soup is cold--this beef is underdone. Oh, _cawn't_ yougive me some service here!' I say, don't you hear 'em--people that neversaw a servant in their own home town. Pretty occupation for an old warhorse like me or a globe-trotter like you. No. None for me. I'll fry myfish in a bigger pan. _Allons!_ Pete. I like you. I'll like you morewhen you grow some older, but you've got a head above your ears thatain't all bone. I can use you. What d'ye say? We'll get ashore, someway, and then we'll show the U. S. A. a thing or two not written in thebooks."
"We'll go ashore together, Jim. Then we'll see."
"Righto! But I'll eat my hat if I can see you balancin' dishes in aBroadway Chop House."
Peter couldn't see that either, but he didn't tell Jim Coast so. Theirhour on deck had struck, for a final meal was to be served and they wentbelow to finish their duties. That night they were paid off anddischarged.
The difficulties in the way of inspection and interrogation of PeterNichols, the alien, were obviated by the simple expedient of his goingashore under cover of the darkness and not coming back to the ship--thisat a hint from the sympathetic Armitage who gave the ex-waiter ahandclasp and his money and wished him success.
Midnight found Peter and Jim Coast on Broadway in the neighborhood ofForty-second Street with Peter blinking comfortably up at the electricsigns and marveling at everything. The more Coast drank the deeper washis cynicism but Peter grew mellow. This was a wonderful new world hewas exploring and with two thousand dollars safely tucked on the insideof his waistcoat, he was ready to defy the tooth of adversity.
In the morning Peter Nichols came to a decision. And so over the coffeeand eggs when Coast asked him what his plans were he told him he wasgoing to look for a job.
Coast looked at him through the smoke of his cigar and spoke at last.
"I didn't think you'd be a quitter, Pete. The world owes us alivin'--you and me----Bah! It's easy if you'll use your headpiece. Ifthe world won't give, I mean to take. The jobs are meant for littlemen."
"What are you going to do?"
"An enterprisin' man wouldn't ask such a question. Half the people inthe world takes what the other half gives. You ought to know what half_I_ belong to."
"I'm afraid I belong to the other half, Jim Coast," said Peter quietly.
"_Sacre--!_" sneered the other, rising suddenly. "Where you goin' towait, Pete? At the Ritz or the Commodore? In a month you'll be waitin'on _me_. It'll be _Mister_ Coast for you then, _mon garcon_, but you'llstill be Pete." He shrugged and offered his hand. "Well, we won'tquarrel but our ways split here."
"I'm sorry, Jim. Good-by."
He saw Coast slouch out into the street and disappear m the crowd movingtoward Broadway. He waited for a while thinking deeply and then with adefinite plan in his mind strolled forth. First he bought a second-handsuit case in Seventh Avenue, then found a store marked "Gentlemen'sOutfitters" where he purchased ready-made clothing, a hat, shoes,underwear, linen and cravats, arraying himself with a sense of somesatisfaction and packing in his suitcase what he couldn't wear, wentforth, found a taxi and drove in state to a good hotel.
* * * * *
New York assimilates its immigrants with surprising rapidity. Throughthis narrow funnel they pour into the "melting pot," their racialcharacteristics already neutralized, their souls already inoculated withthe spirit of individualism. Prepared as he was to accept with a goodgrace conditions as he found them, Peter Nichols was astonished at theease with which he fitted into the niche that he had chosen. His roomwas on the eighteenth floor, to which and from which he was shot in anenameled lift operated by a Uhlan in a monkey-cap. He found that itrequired a rather nice adjustment of his muscles to spring forth atprecisely the proper moment. There was a young lady who presided overthe destinies of the particular shelf that he occupied in this enormouscupboard, a very pretty young lady, something between a French Duchessand a lady's maid. Her smile had a homelike quality though and it wasworth risking the perilous catapulting up and down for the mere pleasureof handing her his room key. Having no valuables of course but his moneywhich he carried in his pockets there was no danger from unprincipledpersons had she been disposed to connive at dishonesty.
His bedroom was small but neat and his bathroom was neat but small,tiled in white enamel, containing every device that the heart of a cleanman could desire. He discovered that by dropping a quarter into variousapertures he could secure almost anything he required from tooth pasteto razor blades. There was a telephone beside his bed which rang atinconvenient moments and a Bible upon the side table proclaimed thereligious fervor of this extraordinary people. A newspaper was sent into him every morning whether he rang for it or not, and every time hedid ring, a lesser Uhlan brought a thermos bottle containing iced water.This perplexed him for a time but he was too much ashamed of hisignorance to question. You see, he was already acquiring the firstingredient of the American character--omniscience, for he found that inNew York no one ever admits that he doesn't know everything.
But it was all very wonderful, pulsing with life, eloquent ofachievement. He was in no haste. By living with some care, he found thatthe money from his ruby would last for several months. Meanwhile he wasstudying his situation and its possibilities. Summing up his ownattainments he felt that he was qualified as a teacher of the piano orof the voice, as an instructor in languages, or if the worst came, as awaiter in a fashionable restaurant--perhaps even a head-waiter--whichfrom the authority he observed in the demeanor of the lord of the hoteldining room seemed almost all the honor that a person in America mighthope to gain. But, in order that no proper opportunity should slip by,he scanned the newspapers in the hope of finding something that he coulddo.
As the weeks passed he made the discovery that he was being immenselyentertained. He was all English now. It was not in the least difficultto make acquaintances. Almost everybody spoke to everybody without theslightest feeling of restraint. He learned the meaning of the latestAmerican slang but found difficulty in applying it, rejoiced in thesyncopation of the jazz, America's original contribution to the musicalart, and by the end of a month thought himself thoroughly acclimated.
But he still surprised inquiring glances male and female cast in hisdirection. There was something about his personality which, disguise itas he might under American-made garments and American-made manners,refused to be hidden. It was his charm added to his general good natureand adaptability which quickly made Peter Nichols some friends of thebetter sort. If he had been willing to drift downward he would have castin his lot with Jim Coast. Instead, he followed decent inclinations andfound himself at the end of six weeks a part of
a group of youngbusiness men who took him home to dine with their wives and gave him thebenefit of their friendly advice. To all of them he told the same story,that he was an Englishman who had worked in Russia with the Red Crossand that he had come to the United States to get a job.
It was a likely story and most of them swallowed it. But one clever girlwhom he met out at dinner rather startled him by the accuracy of herintuitions.
"I have traveled a good deal, Mr. Nichols," she said quizzically, "butI've never yet met an Englishman like you."
"It is difficult for me to tell whether I am to consider that asflattery or disapproval," said Peter calmly.
"You talk like an Englishman, but you're entirely too much interested ineverything to be true to type."
"Ah, really----"
"Englishmen are either bored or presumptuous. You're neither. Andthere's a tiny accent that I can't explain----"
"Don't try----"
"I must. We Americans believe in our impulses. My brother Dick saysyou're a man of mystery. I've solved it," she laughed, "I'm sure you'rea Russian Grand Duke incognito."
Peter laughed and tried bravado.
"You are certainly all in the mustard," he blundered helplessly.
And she looked at him for a moment and then burst into laughter.
These associations were very pleasant, but, contrary to Peter'sexpectations, they didn't seem to be leading anywhere. The efforts thathe made to find positions commensurate with his ambitions had ended inblind alleys. He was too well educated for some of them, not well enougheducated for others.
More than two months had passed. He had moved to a boarding house in adecent locality, but of the two thousands dollars with which he hadentered New York there now remained to him less than two hundred. Hewas beginning to believe that he had played the game and lost and thatwithin a very few weeks he would be obliged to hide himself from theseexcellent new acquaintances and go back to his old job. Then the tide ofhis fortune suddenly turned.
Dick Sheldon, the brother of the girl who was "all in the mustard,"aware of Peter's plight, had stumbled across the useful bit ofinformation and brought it to Peter at the boarding house.
"Didn't you tell me that you'd once had something to do with forestry inRussia?" he asked.
Peter nodded. "I was once employed in the reafforestation of a largeestate," he replied.
"Then I've found your job," said Sheldon heartily, clapping Peter on theback. "A friend of Sheldon, Senior's, Jonathan K. McGuire, has a bigplace down in the wilderness of Jersey--thousands of acres and he wantsa man to take charge--sort of forestry expert and generalsuperintendent, money no object. I reckon you could cop out threehundred a month as a starter."
"That looks good to me," said Peter, delighted that the argot fell soaptly from his lips. And then, "You're not spoofing, are you?"
"Devil a spoof. It's straight goods, Nichols. Will you take it?"
Peter had a vision of the greasy dishes he was to escape.
"Will I?" he exclaimed delightedly. "Can I get it?"
"Sure thing. McGuire is a millionaire, made a pot of money somewhere inthe West--dabbles in the market. That's where Dad met him. Crusty oldrascal. Daughter. Living down in Jersey now, alone with a lot ofservants. Queer one. Maybe you'll like him--maybe not."
Peter clasped his friend by the hands.
"Moloch himself would look an angel of mercy to me now."
"Do you think you can make good?"
"Well, rather. Whom shall I see? And when?"
"I can fix it up with Dad, I reckon. You'd better come down to theoffice and see him about twelve."
Peter Sheldon, Senior, looked him over and asked him questions and theinterview was quite satisfactory.
"I'll tell you the truth, as far as I know it," said Sheldon, Senior(which was more than Peter Nichols had done). "Jonathan K. McGuire is astrange character--keeps his business to himself----. How much he'sworth nobody knows but himself and the Treasury Department. Does a gooddeal of buying and selling through this office. A hard man in a deal butreasonable in other things. I've had his acquaintance for five years,lunched with him, dined with him--visited this place in Jersey, but Igive you my word, Mr. Nichols, I've never yet got the prick of a pinbeneath that man's skin. You may not like him. Few people do. Butthere's no harm in taking a try at this job."
"I shall be delighted," said Nichols.
"I don't know whether you will or not," broke in Sheldon, Senior,frankly. "Something's happened lately. About three weeks ago Jonathan K.McGuire came into this office hurriedly, shut the door behind him,locked it--and sank into a chair, puffing hard, his face the color ofputty. He wouldn't answer any questions and put me off, though I'd havegone out of my way to help him. But after a while he looked out of thewindow, phoned for his car and went again, saying he was going down intoJersey."
"He was sick, perhaps," ventured Peter.
"It was something worse than that, Mr. Nichols. He looked as though hehad seen a ghost or heard a banshee. Then this comes," continued thebroker, taking up a letter from the desk. "Asks for a forester, a goodstrong man. You're strong, Mr. Nichols? Er--and courageous? You're notaddicted to 'nerves'? You see I'm telling you all these things so thatyou'll go down to Black Rock with your eyes open. He also asks me toengage other men as private police or gamekeepers, who will act underyour direction. Queer, isn't it? Rather spooky, I'd say, but if you'regame, we'll close the bargain now. Three hundred a month to start withand found. Is that satisfactory?"
"Perfectly," said Peter with a bow. "When do I begin?"
"At once if you like. Salary begins now. Fifty in advance for expenses."
"That's fair enough, Mr. Sheldon. If you will give me the directions, Iwill go to-day."
"To-morrow will be time enough." Sheldon, Senior, had turned to his deskand was writing upon a slip of paper. This he handed to Peter with acheck.
"That will show you how to get there," he said as he rose, brusquely."Glad to have met you. Good-day."
And Peter felt himself hand-shaken and pushed at the same time, reachingthe outer office, mentally out of breath from the sudden, swift movementof his fortunes. Sheldon, Senior, had not meant to be abrupt. He wasmerely a business man relaxing for a moment to do a service for afriend. When Peter Nichols awoke to his obligations he sought outSheldon, Junior, and thanked him with a sense of real gratitude andSheldon, Junior, gave him a warm handclasp and Godspeed.
* * * * *
The Pennsylvania Station caused the new Superintendent of Jonathan K.McGuire to blink and gasp. He paused, suit case in hand, at the top ofthe double flight of stairs to survey the splendid proportions of thewaiting room where the crowds seemed lost in its great spaces. In Europesuch a building would be a cathedral. In America it was a railwaystation. And the thought was made more definite by the Gregorian chantof the train announcer which sounded aloft, its tones seeking concordamong their own echoes.
This was the portal to the new life in which Peter was to work out hisown salvation and the splendor of the immediate prospect uplifted himwith a sense of his personal importance in the new scheme of things ofwhich this was a part. He hadn't the slightest doubt that he would beable to succeed in the work for which he had been recommended, for apartfrom his music--which had taken so many of his hours--there was nothingthat he knew more about or loved better than the trees. He had providedhimself the afternoon before with two books by American authorities andother books and monographs were to be forwarded to his new address.
As he descended the stairs and reached the main floor of the station,his glance caught the gaze of a man staring at him intently. The man wasslender and dark, dressed decently enough in a gray suit and soft hatand wore a small black mustache. All of these facts Peter took note ofin the one glance, arrested by the strange stare of the other, whichlingered while Peter glanced away and went on. Peter, who had anexcellent memory for faces, was sure that he had never seen the manbefore, but after he had taken
a few steps, it occurred to him that inthe stranger's eyes he had noted the startled distention of surprise andrecognition. And so he stopped and turned, but as he did so the fellowdropped his gaze suddenly, and turned and walked away. The incident wascurious and rather interesting. If Peter had had more time he would havesought out the fellow and asked him why he was staring at him, butthere were only a few moments to spare and he made his way out to theconcourse where he found his gate and descended to his train. Here heensconced himself comfortably in the smoking car, and was presently shotunder the Hudson River (as he afterwards discovered) and out into thesunshine of the flats of New Jersey.
He rolled smoothly along through the manufacturing and agriculturaldistricts, his keenly critical glances neglecting nothing of the wasteand abundance on all sides. He saw, too, the unlovely evidences ofpoverty on the outskirts of the cities, which brought to his mind othercommunities in a far country whose physical evidences of prosperity wereno worse, if no better, than these. Then there came a catch in histhroat and a gasp which left him staring but seeing nothing. The feelingwas not nostalgia, for that far country was no home for him now. At lasthe found himself muttering to himself in English, "My home--my home ishere."
After a while the mood of depression, recurrent moments of which hadcome to him in New York with diminishing frequency, passed into one ofcontemplation, of calm, like those which had followed his nights ofpassion on the Dnieper, and at last he closed his eyes and dozed.Visions of courts and camps passed through his mind--of brilliantuniforms and jeweled decorations; of spacious polished halls,resplendent with ornate mirrors and crystal pendant chandeliers; ofdiamond coronets, of silks and satins and powdered flunkies. And thenother visions of gray figures crouched in the mud; of rain coming out ofthe dark and of ominous lights over the profile of low hills; ofshrieks; of shells and cries of terror; of his cousin, a tall, beardedman on a horse in a ravine waving an imperious arm; of confusion andmoving thousands, the creak of sanitars, the groans of men calling uponmothers they would never see. And then with a leap backward over theyears, the vision of a small man huddled against the wall of a courtyardbeing knouted until red stains appeared on his gray blouse and thenmingled faintly in the mist and the rain until the small man sank to thefull length of his imprisoned arms like one crucified....
Peter Nichols straightened and passed a hand across his damp forehead.Through the perspective of this modern civilization what had beenpassing before his vision seemed very vague, very distant, but he knewthat it was not a dream....
All about him was life, progress, industry, hope--a nation in themaking, proud of her brief history which had been built around an ideal.If he could bring this same ideal back to Russia! In his heart hethanked God for America--imperfect though she was, and made a vow thatin the task he had set for himself he should not be found wanting.
Twice he changed trains, the second time at a small junction amid anugliness of clay-pits and brickyards and dust and heat. There wereperhaps twenty people on the platform. He walked the length of thestation and as he did so a man in a gray suit disappeared around thecorner of the building. But Peter Nichols did not see him, and in amoment, seated in his new train in a wooden car which reminded him ofsome of the ancient rolling stock of the St. Petersburg and MoscowRailroad, he was taken haltingly and noisily along the last stage of hisjourney.
But he was aware of the familiar odor of the pine balsam in hisnostrils, and as he rolled through dark coverts the scent of the growingthings in the hidden places in the coolth and damp of the sandy loam. Hesaw, too, tea-colored streams idling among the sedges and charredwildernesses of trees appealing mutely with their blackened stumps likewounded creatures in pain, a bit of war-torn Galicia in the midst ofpeace. Miles and miles of dead forest land, forgotten and uncared for.There was need here for his services.
With a wheeze of steam and a loud crackling of woodwork and creaking ofbrakes the train came to a stop and the conductor shouted the name ofthe station. Rather stiffly the traveler descended with his bag andstood upon the small platform looking about him curiously. The baggageman tossed out a bundle of newspapers and a pouch of mail and the trainmoved off. Apparently Peter Nichols was the only passenger with PickerelRiver as a destination.
And as the panting train went around a curve, at last disappearing, itseemed fairly reasonable to Peter Nichols that no one with the slightestchance of stopping off anywhere else would wish to get off here. Thestation was small, of but one room and a tiny office containing, as hecould see, a telegraph instrument, a broken chair with a leathercushion, a shelf and a rack containing a few soiled slips of paper, butthe office had no occupant and the door was locked. This perhapsexplained the absence of the automobile which Mr. Sheldon had informedhim would meet him in obedience to his telegram announcing the hour ofhis arrival. Neither within the building nor without was there anyperson or animate thing in sight, except some small birds fluttering andquarreling along the telegraph wires.
There was but one road, a sandy one, wearing marks of travel, whichemerged from the scrub oak and pine and definitely concluded at therailroad track. This, then, was his direction, and after reassuringhimself that there was no other means of egress, he took up his blacksuitcase and set forth into the wood, aware of a sense of beckoningadventure. The road wound in and out, up and down, over what at one timemust have been the floor of the ocean, which could not be far distant.Had it not been for the weight of his bag Peter would have enjoyed theexperience of this complete isolation, the fragrant silences broken onlyby the whisper of the leaves and the scurrying of tiny wild things amongthe dead tree branches. But he had no means of knowing how far he wouldhave to travel or whether, indeed, there had not been some mistake onSheldon, Senior's, part or his own. But the directions had been quiteclear and the road must of course lead somewhere--to some village orsettlement at least where he could get a lodging for the night.
And so he trudged on through the woods which already seemed to bepartaking of some of the mystery which surrounded the person of JonathanK. McGuire. The whole incident had been unusual and the more interestingbecause of the strange character of his employer and the evident fear hehad of some latent evil which threatened him. But Peter Nichols hadaccepted his commission with a sense of profound relief at escaping theother fate that awaited him, with scarcely a thought of the dangerswhich his acceptance might entail. He was not easily frightened and hadwelcomed the new adventure, dismissing the fears of Jonathan K. McGuireas imaginary, the emanations of age or an uneasy conscience.
But as he went on, his bag became heavier and the perspiration poureddown his face, so reaching a cross-path that seemed to show signs ofrecent travel he put the suitcase down and sat on it while he wiped hisbrow. The shadows were growing longer. He was beginning to believe thatthere was no such place as Black Rock, no such person as Jonathan K.McGuire and that Sheldon, Senior, and Sheldon, Junior, were engaged in aconspiracy against his peace of mind, when above the now familiarwhisperings of the forest he heard a new sound. Faintly it came at firstas though from a great distance, mingling with the murmur of thesighing wind in the pine trees, a voice singing. It seemed a child'svoice--delicate, clear, true, as care-free as the note of abird--unleashing its joy to the heavens.
Peter Nichols started up, listening more intently. The sounds werecoming nearer but he couldn't tell from which direction, for every leafseemed to be taking up the lovely melody which he could hear quiteclearly now. It was an air with which he was unfamiliar, but he knewonly that it was elemental in its simplicity and under thesecircumstances startlingly welcome. He waited another long moment,listening, found the direction from which the voice was coming, andpresently noted the swaying of branches and the crackling of dry twigsin the path near by, from which, in a moment, a strange figure emerged.
At first he thought it was a boy, for it wore a pair of blue denimoveralls and a wide-brimmed straw hat, from beneath which the birdlikenotes were still emitted, but as the figure paused at the sight of
him,the song suddenly ceased--he saw a tumbled mass of tawny hair and a pairof startled blue eyes staring at him.
"Hello," said the figure, after a moment, recovering its voice.
"Good-afternoon," said Peter Nichols, bowing from the waist in the mostapproved Continental manner. You see he, too, was a little startled bythe apparition, which proclaimed itself beneath its strange garments inunmistakable terms to be both feminine and lovely.
