Oswald Langdon Part 25

"I am charmed with such refined tact. Discreet scruples would be set aside but for sure conviction that no want of the invalid is un.o.bserved or slighted.

"One day neither pa.s.senger appears on deck. This excites no comment. For over a week I catch only brief views of the younger man. It is then casually remarked:

"'The consumptive is dead.'

"I learn where the body lies, and that on the following day there is to be a burial at sea. I am admitted to the room where stretches mortal remnant of once complex, interwoven humanity.

"Odd fancies flit across my visual camera. Does that enfranchised soul look down from far observatory height at wave-rocked s.h.i.+p like mature manhood on baby rock-a-by? Fanned by soothing breezes of emerald-hued sea, does this glad convalescent meander at will along either tree-fringed sh.o.r.e, with happy child-impulsiveness gathering bouquets of that foliage which is for the 'healing of the nations'?

"Little need for further globe-trotting in case of this once observing traveler, who now--

'... has seen the secret hid Under Egypt's pyramid.'

"To-day occurs the brief ocean obsequies. These are unimportant. It signifies little when or where or how this ceremony is observed. By that mysterious, anciently affirmed gravity the real wanderer has found genial habitation. It matters not through what varying molds pa.s.ses the disintegrating and reincarnating dust. Essential ident.i.ty lasts always.

Ego consciousness is sure.

"This eccentric 'tramp' steamer pa.s.ses through many experiences. Being propelled by both wind and steam, she often veers with capricious 'trades,' making peculiar tacks, through some odd adjustment of time, air, and coal. Points not marked upon more pretentious charts receive and bill barter products. The vessel often drops anchor far from land, in channels having neither wharf nor breakwater.

"Queer methods of transfer from s.h.i.+p and sh.o.r.e amuse me. Seeing horses and cattle swimming to and from the vessel, their noses projecting over the sides of rowboats, is interesting. Even trained circus animals are subject to this moist ordeal. By crude tackle and steam-turned windla.s.s, suspended in midair, the poor beasts find s.h.i.+p asylum a most welcome port of entry. One pa.s.senger is both amusing and annoying. This odd-geared Teuton hails from Hamburg. Like most stuttering unfortunates, he is a chronic talker. He stutters garrulously in several tongues.

There are serious impediments in his pumping gestures. His tongue, hands, and feet, like stringed orchestra, seem trying to arrive at an amicable understanding, but never find the right chord.

"My reserve piques him. Professional solicitude is aroused. This German aesculapian expert is anxious for a diagnosis. Perhaps this still Englishman requires a prescription.

"For days I am amused and bored by the German's antics. Late at night, after an unusually hot day, the vessel drops anchor. A circus aggregation is taken aboard. After a two-hours' stop the s.h.i.+p moves on.

"All berths and available sleeping-places are occupied. The clown, trapeze performers, bareback riders, and various acrobatic artists are compelled to sleep on deck. This is but little inconvenience in such warm weather. They are stretched and curled in different shapes on benches along the outer railings.

"It is about two o'clock in the morning, and a storm is coming. Soon the waves dash and the rain pours down.

"I see a small bundle on the deck. It obstructs the approaches to the 'scupper' in front of my cabin door. About to step out and clear this watercourse, I see that 'sorrel-top,' corpulent, garrulous German doctor gently unwind the soaked package and tenderly gaze at an upturned childish face. Apparently not approving of this unorthodox baptismal procedure, the boy is borne away. Curled up in the German's warm berth, this little eight-year-old bareback rider, wearied with the night's performance, sleeps until the next evening, unconscious of what has happened. Our fussy old 'granny' sits out on deck, rolling and pitching with the boat's motion, wondering what ails that chap who never talks to anybody.

"From now on I believe in human transfiguration. Coa.r.s.e red hair is silky auburn; fat face is luminous with refined, expressive lights; stuttering voice is musical as mother's lullaby; and two gray eyes s.h.i.+ne like optics of those high sentinels who, keeping ceaseless childhood watch, 'do ever behold the face of our Father.'

"Such long voyage gives time for much reflection. Many old, indistinct recollections are photographed anew. Seen through readjusted visual lens, these create strange emotions. Things witnessed and heard in childhood now are understood more clearly. Vague impressions from books are brought out in more definite relief. My dreams take on changed trend from waking thoughts and emotional moods. Though fanciful tinting is somber-hued, I have growing a.s.surance that all tends to ultimate good.

"I dream of Promethean myth. Chained G.o.d writhes on Tarpeian rock, Jove's black eagle tearing at the quick flesh, senseless of the cruel feast. Poet's conceit is not too extravagant or remote. He who in any age filches from time-lock combination light for his kind, must have his Caucasus, whereon, blind scavangers of fate, batten harpy gorge, while not a kindly drop softens Olmypus' cold, drear scowl. No prayer moves those tense lips, but Caucasus groans with the voiceless pet.i.tion, and Olympus' huge molars chatter with the prophetic beseeching. No uttered pet.i.tion from bound victim, but unutterable longings of pa.s.sionate, helpless hearts and blood lift 'void hands' of imperious need. Earth and sea abjure allegiance to blind force, affirming endless fealty to human weal."

Numberless odd ethical impressions grow out of Oswald's peculiar experiences and inner consciousness. Former intense aspiring confidence in personal destiny no longer veils visions nor drowns voices then waiting their appropriate sense.

Uniquely worded sentiments, embodied in his father's sermons and parish talks, come to mind. Most of these are approved, but some seem strangely grotesque. To Oswald's tense perception the general tenor is along severely orthodox lines, but as to occult verities the style appears flippantly superficial. Many comments upon "rewards of virtue" and "refined craft in uprightness" seem gayly ironical. Such jar upon Oswald's strained sense.

Still that larger, if not better, view makes him less exacting. He is more tolerant of honest, dogmatic a.s.sertion, believing it to result from environment. Early precept and conviction are elements trans.m.u.ted by white heat of life's crucible.

Reverend Percy Langdon occupies a conspicuous place in all his son's plans, contingent on clearance from that horrible menacing shadow brooding over the stricken home. As to the idolized mother, it is different. She is left out.

One day the vessel anchors in a European port. Oswald hears the distinguished-appearing stranger talking about quitting the steamer for a brief stay. Soon will follow a trip to an English home. There is boyish enthusiasm at the prospect of a visit with loved ones after absence of years.

Oswald's straining sense hears no definite clew to the disembarking traveler's home port. Indistinct mention of some familiar English towns and scenery makes Oswald very curious, but he must not be inquisitive.

There is renewal of that fathomless homesickness, deep resolve, and high a.s.surance.

After partial unloading of cargo, taking on of other commodities, and the booking of a few new pa.s.sengers, the s.h.i.+p weighs anchor. Long cruising in continental waters, stopping at numerous unimportant points, making little steerage exchanges, she antic.i.p.ates extended voyage, and heading for the Atlantic, steams for New York.

Now the vessel veers little from direct courses. Late one cloudy afternoon she rounds Sandy Hook, and after a day's quarantine, finds a dock.

With strong sense of relief, Oswald quits the s.h.i.+p. He is taken by hack to a well-appointed hotel near junction of Thirty-third Street and Fifth Avenue.

CHAPTER XIX

THAMES PANTOMIMES

Covertly watching for new or suspicious faces, Pierre Lanier finds himself at the river-bank. His eyes bulge with frightened surprise.

Moving upstream, oars dipping in clear moonlight, is a familiar figure.

Stoop and motion cannot be mistaken.

The father stares after that disappearing form. His indecision is short.

Following along the bank, every sense alert, he resolves to watch his son and solve this enigma. Cautiously keeping out of view, Pierre is slightly in the rear of the boat. They are nearing the rustic seat where sat Oswald Langdon and Alice Webster on that fatal night years before.

The boat stops at a projecting tree-branch. Pierre is petrified with a new fear! Dagger in hand, Paul examines this obstruction, looking thence toward either bank. He resumes the oars, again pausing at thick overhanging bushes. Peering under, around, and through the foliage, Paul rubs the glistening blade on upturned shoe-sole. Sheathing his weapon, he slowly moves toward the point whence the two bodies had disappeared into swollen stream. Directly opposite the rustic seat, he stops.

Looking up, down, and across the river, Paul stands, steadying the boat with both oars, his thin-bladed dagger flas.h.i.+ng from close-set jaws.

Back and forth across the river, through moonlight shades, slowly moves this horrible tableau. Staring at reflected shadows, Paul shrinks backward. Dropping an oar, he grasps the pearl handle of his oft-whetted blade. With forward poise, in striking att.i.tude, every nerve at tense strain, stands this crazed tragedian. Pierre is near enough to hear mutterings. Soon the relaxing form is again seated, while boat and dozing occupant drift downstream.

Pierre Lanier feels bewildered. These fearfully real hallucinations have neither antidote nor specific. Of what avail is craft against such emotional outlawry? This irresponsible infatuation of his son will rise like Banquo wraith, a menacing interloper at all councils, doggedly irresponsible, yet insistent.

Truly the Furies are ma.s.sing their evasive yet resistless squares against this guilty soul.

How dread is the coherence of crimes and their effects!

That father and son might have luxurious refinements, trusting business a.s.sociate deliberately is hara.s.sed under friendly guise of sympathetic interest to bankruptcy and death. As sworn legal representative, trust funds are misappropriated and retained through perjured accounting. To insure immunity from prosecution and continued possession of stolen estate, is planned the marriage between his son and defrauded ward. That girlish opposition to such hateful union may be crushed occurs the villainous conspiracy, involving remaining pittance of once princely estate, William Dodge's unfortunate connivance, and Paul's murderous a.s.saults. This fearful category is followed by enforced concealments in disreputable dens of poverty, disguised skulkings along unlighted streets, furtive watches, deceitful ruses, scared embarkings for distant ports, new schemes for wealthy alliance, horrible tableaus, attempts at other murders, suspense of imprisonment, strange releases, and hara.s.sing uncertainty, compelling renewed flight, resulting in purposeless return of arch-criminals to scene of their most heinous crimes.

In this hunted maze, taxing every power of crafty, defensive vigilance, yawns a new pursuing vortex. From such menacing depths may not the eye withdraw nor step recede. This fearful presence is neither chimera of transient nightmare nor creation of evanescent day-dream. Like ever-present sprite, its boding menace pose s.h.i.+fts in accord with each changing view and altered visual range.

Stunned by this shock, Pierre Lanier gropingly stumbles along the Thames bank, following the drifting boat. Through all this bewilderment, self-preserving interest guides his course. Keeping close watch of that relaxed, dozing form, he recklessly tramples all impediments. Habitual, calculating craft of years is merged in this all-absorbing zeal to prevent indefinite exposure and contingent reckoning. It matters not that Nemesis, keeping pace with his own course, rustles through obstructing foliage. Crackling branches and pursuing footstep echoes are unheeded by this new, engrossing fear.

By great effort Pierre has followed the boat for miles, only briefly losing sight of his son. They are nearing the starting-point. Round a small curve the boat drifts with the s.h.i.+fting current. Pierre spurts forward to regain the lost view. Striking a gra.s.s-concealed bowlder, he pitches forward, falling heavily upon the bank. By hard effort he prevents rolling over into the stream. Regaining his feet, Pierre finds that one leg is badly sprained. He continues down the sh.o.r.e, but moves slowly. The boat and Paul are out of sight.

There is return of cautious fear. When scrambling back from the yawning depths, Pierre caught sight of a face partly screened by foliage of near bushes. He is startled. With certainty that his son has pa.s.sed out of sight, the father now seeks to elude this mute intruder. Moving downstream, each step causing a groan, he is aware that this spy is following him, but at a cautious pace. After painful, hara.s.sed hours, this limping form, slowly descending those rickety cellar stairs, enters at a low opening, and totally collapsing, falls upon the stone floor.

The dim twilight is streaming through barred cellar transom when Pierre Lanier opens his eyes from that long swoon. It is several minutes before he vaguely comprehends what has happened. Gradually the situation dawns upon his mind. Recalling his weaned entrance at the cellar door and habitual testing of its catch, his memory is thereafter a blank. He mutters:

"How came I on Paul's cot? Why such comfortable arrangement of pillows and quilts? What means that array of bottles, cups, saucers, and gla.s.ses on the chair at my head? Can it be that I am in hospital ward?"

Pierre starts up with fright, stares wildly, and settles back with a groan. His leg pains terribly. Removing the light coverlid, he sees that the foot and ankle are tightly bandaged. Again he mutters: "There is odor of liniment! Who but an expert could have so neatly sewed those bands? Surely this is our own room. Has a doctor called and performed professional service? Where is Paul?"

By much effort Pierre gets up and staggers to the transom. The outside scenery is familiar. The door is locked. Turning the catch, he looks out and up the stairs, but sees no one. With puzzled expression he says: "Everything belonging to our room and wardrobe is here except Paul's usual London disguise. Paul must be out on some venturesome craze!"