"You are hard on the s.e.x, Mr. Farrar," she answered, "but perhaps justly so. And yet there are some women I know of who would not write an epitaph to his taste."
Farrar looked at her curiously.
"I beg your pardon," he said.
"Do not imagine I am touchy on the subject," she replied quickly; "some of us are fortunate enough to have had our eyes opened."
I thought the Celebrity stirred uneasily.
"Have you read The Sybarites?" she asked.
Farrar was puzzled.
"No," said he sententiously, "and I don"t want to."
"I know the average man thinks it a disgrace to have read it. And you may not believe me when I say that it is a strong story of its kind, with a strong moral. There are men who might read that book and be a great deal better for it. And, if they took the moral to heart, it would prove every bit as effectual as their own epitaphs."
He was not quite sure of her drift, but he perceived that she was still making fun of Mr. Allen.
"And the moral?" he inquired.
"Well," she said, "the best I can do is to give you a synopsis of the story, and then you can judge of its fitness. The hero is called Victor Desmond. He is a young man of a sterling though undeveloped character, who has been hampered by an indulgent parent with a large fortune.
Desmond is a b.u.t.terfly, and sips life after the approved manner of his kind,--now from Bohemian gla.s.s, now from vessels of gold and silver. He chats with stage lights in their dressing-rooms, and attends a ball in the Bowery or a supper at Sherry"s with a ready versatility. The book, apart from its intention, really gives the middle cla.s.ses an excellent idea of what is called "high-life."
"It is some time before Desmond discovers that he possesses the gift of Paris,--a deliberation proving his lack of conceit,--that wherever he goes he unwittingly breaks a heart, and sometimes two or three. This discovery is naturally so painful that he comes home to his chambers and throws himself on a lounge before his fire in a fit of self-deprecation, and reflects on a misspent and foolish life. This, mind you, is where his character starts to develop. And he makes a heroic resolve, not to cut off his nose or to grow a beard, nor get married, but henceforth to live a life of usefulness and seclusion, which was certainly considerate. And furthermore, if by any accident he ever again involved the affections of another girl he would marry her, be she as ugly as sin or as poor as poverty. Then the heroine comes in. Her name is Rosamond, which sounds well and may be euphoniously coupled with Desmond; and, with the single exception of a boarding-school girl, she is the only young woman he ever thought of twice. In order to save her and himself he goes away, but the temptation to write to her overpowers him, and of course she answers his letter. This brings on a correspondence.
His letters take the form of confessions, and are the fruits of much philosophical reflection. "Inconstancy in woman," he says, because of the present social conditions, is often pardonable. In a man, nothing is more despicable." This is his cardinal principle, and he sticks to it n.o.bly. For, though he tires of Rosamond, who is quite attractive, however, he marries her and lives a life of self-denial. There are men who might take that story to heart."
I was amused that she should give the pa.s.sage quoted by the Celebrity himself. Her double meaning was, naturally, lost on Farrar, but he enjoyed the thing hugely, nevertheless, as more or less applicable to Mr. Allen. I made sure that gentleman was sensible of what was being said, though he scarcely moved a muscle. And Miss Trevor, with a mirthful glance at me that was not without a tinge of triumph, jumped lightly to the deck and went in to see the invalids.
We were now working up into the lee of the island, whose tall pines stood clean and black against the red glow of the evening sky. Mr. Cooke began to give evidences of life, and finally got up and overhauled one of the ice-chests for a restorative. Farrar put into the little cove, where we dropped anchor, and soon had the chief sufferers ash.o.r.e; and a delicate supper, in the preparation of which Miss Thorn showed her ability as a cook, soon restored them. For my part, I much preferred Miss Thorn"s dishes to those of the Mohair chef, and so did Farrar. And the Four, surprising as it may seem, made themselves generally useful about the camp in pitching the tents under Farrar"s supervision. But the Celebrity remained apart and silent.
CHAPTER XI
Our first, night in the Bear Island camp pa.s.sed without incident, and we all slept profoundly, tired out by the labors of the day before. After breakfast, the Four set out to explore, with trout-rods and shot-guns.
Bear Island is, with the exception of the cove into which we had put, as nearly round as an island can be, and perhaps three miles in diameter.
It has two clear brooks which, owing to the comparative inaccessibility of the place, still contain trout and grayling, though there are few spots where a fly can be cast on account of the dense underbrush. The woods contain partridge, or ruffed grouse, and other game in smaller quant.i.ties. I believe my client entertained some notion of establishing a preserve here.
The insults which had been heaped upon the Celebrity on the yacht seemed to have raised rather than lowered him in Miss Thorn"s esteem, for these two ensconced themselves among the pines above the camp with an edition de luxe of one of his works which she had brought along. They were soon absorbed in one of those famous short stories of his with the ending left open to discussion. Mr. Cooke was indisposed. He had not yet recovered from the shaking up his system had sustained, and he took to a canvas easy chair he had brought with him and placed a decanter of Scotch and a tumbler of ice at his side. The efficacy of this remedy was a.s.sured. And he demanded the bunch of newspapers he spied protruding from my pocket.
The rest of us were engaged in various occupations: Mr. Trevor relating experiences of steamboat days on the Ohio to Mrs. Cooke; Miss Trevor buried in a serial in the Century; and Farrar and I taking an inventory of fishing-tackle, when we were startled by aloud and profane e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n. Mr. Cooke had hastily put down his gla.s.s and was staring at the newspaper before him with eyes as large as after-dinner coffee-cups.
"Come here," he shouted over at us. "Come here, Crocker," he repeated, seeing we were slow to move. "For G.o.d"s sake, come here!"
In obedience to this emphatic summons I crossed the stream and drew near to Mr. Cooke, who was busily pouring out another gla.s.s of whiskey to tide him over this strange excitement. But, as Mr. Cooke was easily excited and on such occasions always drank whiskey to quiet his nerves, I thought nothing of it. He was sitting bolt upright and held out the paper to me with a shaking hand, while he pointed to some headlines on the first page. And this is what I read:
TREASURER TAKES A TRIP.
CHARLES WREXELL ALLEN, OF THE MILES STANDISH BICYCLE COMPANY, GETS OFF WITH 100,000 DOLLARS.
DETECTIVES BAFFLED.
THE ABSCONDER A BACK BAY SOCIAL LEADER.
Half way down the column was a picture of Mr. Allen, a cut made from a photograph, and, allowing for the crudities of newspaper reproduction, it was a striking likeness of the Celebrity. Underneath was a short description. Mr. Allen was five feet eleven (the Celebrity"s height), had a straight nose, square chin, dark hair and eyes, broad shoulders, was dressed elaborately; in brief, tallied in every particular with the Celebrity with the exception of the slight scar which Allen was thought to have on his forehead.
The situation and all its ludicrous possibilities came over me with a jump. It was too good to be true. Had Mr. Charles Wrexell Allen arrived at Asquith and created a sensation with the man who stole his name I should have been amply satisfied. But that Mr. Allen had been obliging enough to abscond with a large sum of money was beyond dreaming!
I glanced at the rest of it: a history of the well-established company followed, with all that Mr. Allen had done for it. The picture, by the way, had been obtained from the St. Paul agent of the bicycle. After doing due credit to the treasurer"s abilities as a hustler there followed a summary of his character, hitherto without reproach; but his tastes were expensive ones. Mr. Allen"s tendency to extravagance had been noticed by the members of the Miles Standish Company, and some of the older directors had on occasions remonstrated with him. But he had been too valuable a man to let go, and it seems as treasurer he was trusted implicitly. He was said to have more clothes than any man in Boston.
I am used to thinking quickly, and by the time I had read this I had an idea.
"What in h.e.l.l do you make of that, Crocker?" cried my client, eyeing me closely and repeating the question again and again, as was his wont when agitated.
"It is certainly plain enough," I replied, "but I should like to talk to you before you decide to hand him over to the authorities."
I thought I knew Mr. Cooke, and I was not mistaken.
"Authorities!" he roared. "d.a.m.n the authorities! There"s my yacht, and there"s the Canadian border." And he pointed to the north.
The others were pressing around us by this time, and had caught the significant words which Mr. Cooke had uttered. I imagine that if my client had stopped to think twice, which of course is a preposterous condition, he would have confided his discovery only to Farrar and to me. It was now out of the question to keep it from the rest of the party, and Mr. Trevor got the headlines over my shoulder. I handed him the sheet.
"Read it, Mr. Trevor," said Mrs. Cooke.
Mr. Trevor, in a somewhat unsteady voice, read the headlines and began the column, and they followed breathless with astonishment and agitation. Once or twice the senator paused to frown upon the Celebrity with a terrible sternness, thus directing all other eyes to him. His demeanor was a study in itself. It may be surmised, from what I have said of him, that there was a strain of the actor in his composition; and I am prepared to make an affidavit that, secure in the knowledge that he had witnesses present to attest his ident.i.ty, he hugely enjoyed the sensation he was creating. That he looked forward with a profound pleasure to the stir which the disclosure that he was the author of The Sybarites would make. His face wore a beatific smile.
As Mr. Trevor continued, his voice became firmer and his manner more majestic. It was a task distinctly to his taste, and one might have thought he was reading the sentence of a Hastings. I was standing next to his daughter. The look of astonishment, perhaps of horror, which I had seen on her face when her father first began to read had now faded into something akin to wickedness. Did she wink? I can"t say, never before having had a young woman wink at me. But the next moment her vinaigrette was rolling down the bank towards the brook, and I was after it. I heard her close behind me. She must have read my intentions by a kind of mental telepathy.
"Are you going to do it?" she whispered.
"Of course," I answered. "To miss such a chance would be a downright sin."
There was a little awe in her laugh.
"Miss Thorn is the only obstacle," I added, "and Mr. Cooke is our hope.
I think he will go by me."
"Don"t let Miss Thorn worry you," she said as we climbed back.
"What do you mean?" I demanded. But she only shook her head. We were at the top again, and Mr. Trevor was reading an appended despatch from Buffalo, stating that Mr. Allen had been recognized there, in the latter part of June, walking up and down the platform of the station, in a smoking-jacket, and that he had climbed on the Chicago limited as it pulled out. This may have caused the Celebrity to feel a trifle uncomfortable.
"Ha!" exclaimed Mr. Trevor, as he put down the paper. "Mr. Cooke, do you happen to have any handcuffs on the Maria?"
But my client was pouring out a stiff helping from the decanter, which he still held in his hand. Then he approached the Celebrity.
"Don"t let it worry you, old man," said he, with intense earnestness.