Part 5

At the proper age and condition he developed the usual habit of forming mental pictures while looking into a grate fire, and enjoyed the usual introspective calm and comfort therein; but in him, the primordial inheritance also found expression at an age so early that it might have formed a part of his infant reproduction of the Stone Age. From the time he could crawl he loved the fire with the fixed, passionate devotion of the cat, and, like the cat, he would lie contentedly for hours on the rug before the hearth, or, to the scandal of the cook, remove the kitchen stove lids and scorch his face over the glowing coals.

He seemed to possess a salamander-like immunity from its effects; again and again he was burned, but never to the point of fear, utterly disproving the theory that burned children dread the fire. He loved fire, and played with it, setting the carpet of his play-room in flames at the age of three. At five he had made a bonfire of his toys, at seven burned the barn down, and at ten was a past master in the art of building camp fires in the woods--fires without smoke, fires of green wood, wet wood, and rotten wood; fires of great heat and little flame, and fires that went out without constant attention.

In playing Indian he was a valuable comrade, and though we did not meet until the mutations of schoolboy life brought us together in the same class--his early history coming to me later--I found this proficiency the one asset in George Morton's character. He was a high-strung, nervous lad, morbid and erratic at times, cowardly except in reference to fire, and a bully when he dared be. He even lacked the school-boy's sense of honor, which permits stealing anything eatable, and lying for any purpose except self-defense.

Our first meeting was momentous, determining and fixing our mutual attitude, and our nearly common interest in a third person, who was to strongly influence us both. I was crossing a vacant lot which was part of his wealthy father's property when I found him tormenting a small girl of four. He had rigged her doll to the tail of his kite, and was laughing gleefully at her anguish as the inanimate pet soared aloft. I claim no chivalric impulses at the time; I was bad boy of the village--a title I had earned by my health, strength, and willingness to fight--and here was a chance for a fight.

A short conflict ended in victory for me and a new emotion born of the child's happy smile as the doll was restored to her arms. It was solely paternal and protective in its nature, and had I not taken note of the wonderful beauty of the tot it would have remained so; but the pure little face stamped itself on my mind as an earthly picture of the super-human, and, though it made no sexual appeal, it protected me for years against the love affairs of boyhood and youth. She became my goddess, and has remained so.

But I was brought to earth by the impact of a stone on my head, and the whimpering voice of my late victim coming from a distance.

"That's my sister," he said, "and you leave her alone and mind your own business."

My pursuit of him was fruitless, for his legs were longer than mine; but it seemed to have aroused in him the same protective regard for his sister as had animated me, for from that time on he never teased her, and often left the boys to lead her away from possible annoyance from them--and from probable contact with me. There was danger from the latter, for on many occasions I "played hooky" to loll away the day in the bushes, satisfied with one glimpse of the child playing near the door. And I always returned to school bettered by the experience; for I studied harder, realizing my seafaring father's ambition that I should have an education, and responding to his advice that if I "_must_ be a sailor, to be the right kind--a naval officer." He, with his blood, his example, and his talk, had impressed upon me his love of the sea, but instead of crawling in the hawsepipes as he had done I compromised by winning, in a competitive examination, an appointment to Annapolis, at the age of sixteen.

My closest competitor was George Morton, from whom I received half-friendly hints that he would get even, and my warmest admirer his young sister, now about ten, to whom I, in my new capacity of prospective hero, had officially been introduced. She thought I was going to war, and earnestly asked me to be careful and not be killed.

Morton spent two years more at school before going to college, and in this time made good his threat to get even. He was a popular hero many times over before I had become sure that I could hold my own in study, and he acquired this distinction by timely use of his one talent. In the exclusive, restricted community of wealthy families there was little of the material from which firemen are drawn, and as a consequence a volunteer fire company had been formed, with palatial quarters, gorgeous uniforms, and an up-to-date equipment. Fires were so scarce, however, that its activity had found vent in parades, dinners, and balls, until George Morton joined it. Then, as though in response to the presence of its lover and master, fires broke out here and there in the manor, all of which he attended, and most of which were extinguished by his efforts or advice. He intuitively knew the thing to do--just where to play the stream, just when to pull down a wall. In six months he was made foreman, and in this time had saved much property and a few lives.

But his notable feats were performed later, and these were told me by his sister Grace, when I had finished my second year, and George was ready for college. My parents had died since my appointment, but I took my vacations at home, just to meet and be near her.

"He is brave as a lion," she said, with twelve-year-old enthusiasm. "Why, when Mr. Mills' big house burned down he went up a ladder to the third story, which hadn't caught fire yet, and went all through the building until he had found and brought out three servants who were unconscious from the smoke. Then he even went back for the dog, and saved him."

"That was good work," I responded, rather vacantly.

"And then," she went on, "when the big, new schoolhouse caught fire he happened to be right there to notice it from the outside, and after getting all the children out safely he entered the building at the head of his fire company and extinguished the fire. He went right into the blazing basement with a fire extinguisher and put it out himself. None of the rest wanted to go in, either."

I grunted my approval. I had never liked him, but evidently had misjudged him. The child continued:

"But the bravest thing he did was when the seminary caught fire at night. He was asleep when the alarm sounded and he rushed to the fire half clothed. The whole lower story was afire, and above were the dormitories with over a hundred girls fast asleep; but he went up, right through the flames coming from the windows, and wakened everybody. Then he pulled up ladders with a rope, and helped the girls down. He was the last to come out, and just in time, for the walls fell in a moment later."

"You have a fine brother," I responded, joining the girl in her enthusiasm, and willing to do him justice. "I never thought he had courage at all, but he certainly has proved it."

"Oh, he has," she rejoined. And then, with sisterly single-mindedness, she gave me this: "He isn't afraid of you any more, and says he is going to thrash you."

"Me--why?" I asked in amazement. "What for?"

"Oh, papa says the same, too. They say that a man of your age ought to be thrashed for talking to a girl of twelve. But I don't see why. I like to talk to _you_."

The disparity in our ages had not influenced me when younger, and as it was growing less each day that we lived I had not given it a thought. But this new attitude of her father and brother compelled me to, and in helpless anger and chagrin--for I was either the same bad boy of the village, or, still worse, a man playing the boy--I forswore her society and went back to my third term at the academy, resolved not to seek her again until she was of age. And with me on the train, as it pulled out of town, was George Morton, bound for college, but we did not speak.

I manfully held to my resolution until I had finished my course at the academy and my two years of sea service. Then I graduated, a commissioned officer of the United States Navy, and with this backing, and the heart hunger strong upon me, I returned to my old home, bound to see my boyhood divinity at any cost. But I did not see her; instead, I saw her brother at the door, and the stormy scene that followed assured me that conventional social relations with her were impossible. So, convinced that he had nursed the old antagonism through the years, I fumed and sulked while waiting for sea orders, and even half-heartedly planned unconventional relations--I sought to meet her outside her home. But before I had met with any success, orders came from Washington, sending me, not to a seagoing ship, but into retirement until possible war should make my services of value to my country.

With my career ended in the navy, and without friends, money, or influence, I did the next best thing in the way of a livelihood. I went to sea in the merchant service, beginning as third mate, and learned real seafaring, which is good for sulks and heartaches. In three years I was first mate, with the confidence of my skipper and owners, and the prospect of a command; which attainment, and my assured education and social position as a graduate of Annapolis, might give me hope and courage to again approach my goddess. But, gradually and imperceptibly--unknown to myself because there was none to tell me--the little niceties and refinements of speech, manner, and dress acquired at the academy, and which make a naval officer eligible to any society in the world, had worn away from me under the harder work and rougher associations of the merchant service; so that, when paid off at Philadelphia in my twenty-sixth year, I was as hardy a specimen of the typical "Yankee mate" as could be found on the water front. I shaved for comfort, not appearance, and wore my clothes for utility rather than beauty.

Thus arrayed and conditioned I killed time while waiting for word to join my ship, and one day ran over to Asbury Park, finding the huge resort half deserted, as it was in October; but there was enough of life there to suit me, the air was clean and salt as that at sea, and I decided to remain a few days.

I remained too long for my peace of mind and immediate welfare. The quiet and solitude brought back the old morbid melancholy, and in this mood I wandered about the beach and through the streets lined with deserted cottages, fighting with myself and reviling the fates that had made sport of my life and ideals. In this mood I was ripe for any adventure, and spying, late at night, a figure slinking by me in the darkness, that reminded me of George Morton, I softly followed, keeping him in sight, but not letting him see me. He entered a dark, two-story house in a row of other dark cottages, and I mechanically walked on, halting before the house, with a hazy idea that perhaps it _was_ George Morton, and that his family lived there. No light appeared from within, however, and I slowly retraced my steps, pausing at the next street lamp to fire up my pipe.

While puffing at the half-lit tobacco a dark figure darted from across the street and joined me in the lamplight. It was a girl, all but her face hidden by a hooded cloak, and this face was so white, drawn, and terror-haunted, that I could barely recognize in it some little resemblance to that of the child I had loved. Then she spoke, and before my brain had grasped the fact that Grace Morton must have grown up, I knew her voice. And the next moment, without leave or ceremony, I had her in my arms, and kissed the frightened face until she struggled free.

"Oh, Jack," she said brokenly, "and it is really you, after all! I saw you to-day from the parlor of the hotel, but I could not be sure--you have changed so much. Where have you been all these years? I have needed you so much, _so much_, and I could trust no one but you. You must help me to-night, Jack."

"Of course," I answered. "What is it?"

"My brother--you know him. Did you know?--no, you couldn't. Jack, he has gone into the house there--the house we have lived in all summer; and I think, I almost know, he is setting fire to it. You followed him. I saw you. Did you notice a bundle?"

"Setting fire!" I exclaimed in amazement. "Why, I thought--"

"Yes," she interrupted. "We all thought him a fire hater, because he did not fear it. But he loves it. He set fire to every house and building that he later helped put out; Mr. Mills' house--remember--and the school, and the seminary. He joined the church since then, and confessed to father and me. But father is dead now, and I am alone with him. Come, you must stop him. Stop him by force, before it is too late. Come! I am afraid of him alone. He is insane--at these times."

She seized my hand and hurried me back, puzzled and astounded at this new revelation of human nature.

"He carried a bundle under his arm," she whispered as we reached the door. "It is very likely a can of kerosene, purchased in Philadelphia, where he went this morning. I was to go to New York, but I suspected him and came back."

She opened the door with a key and we softly passed in. At once I detected a faint odor of kerosene, but there was no light, no sound. Grace led me through the lower rooms, but there was no sign of fire, smoke, or firebug. We opened the cellar door and peered down into the blackness, and the cool, odorless air told us that he was not there with his oil.

"Upstairs," she whispered.

"Why not sing out?" I asked, in her ear. "It'll stop him."

"Don't you see?" she answered. "I want to catch him in the act, to shock him, overwhelm him--and cure him."

I acquiesced, and we climbed the stairs, making no noise and sensing more strongly as we went the rank smell of kerosene. She led me into the front room, the door of which stood open. All was dark, and there was no significant odor.

"This is his room," she whispered. "He must be in mine, in the rear."

We passed into the hall and peeped into this room. From a lighted house on the next street a faint illumination showed up every corner in it; and there in the middle, stooping low over his work, was George Morton, laying a trail of oil from the nozzle of a can, back and forth across the carpet. This done, he made a neat pile of newspapers against the wall, emptied the can upon it, and applied a match. A nudge from the girl started me and I walked in upon him. He uttered one snarling yell as he glared into my face, then sprang upon me.

I was a strong, healthy man, large of frame, heavy, and well-trained in most forms of personal combat; but I soon realized that I was fighting a maniac. He writhed, twisted, and bent himself, forcing me again and again to change or renew my hold upon him. Even though I held him at arm's length, I could not retain my grip without help from the other hand, and then I would likely feel one or both of his feet on my chest. It was like wrestling with a panther. I shook him, and, flail-like, whirled him around me, but I could not conquer him without hurting him, and this I did not wish to do. As the fight resolved itself into a struggle of endurance, I heard a few broken words from Grace, barely distinguishable above the noise of the scuffle, and a later glance around told me that she was gone.

And still I fought on, endeavoring to master the firebug without hurting him--just why, I have never been able to explain to myself. Possibly, I dimly felt at the time that his sister would not like it, for I spared him the weight of my fist and the throttling clutch that would have ended the fight in a moment, even though his own hands had torn my coat to shreds, and my face was scorched and smeared with kerosene in one of my whirling lunges toward his bonfire. He, too, must have felt the heat, for his snarling utterances took on a note of pain, and for a few moments he struggled in my grasp more furiously than ever; then he paused, became limp in my hands, and seemed to sink down. It was a clever ruse, for no sooner had I relaxed my hold than he broke away and shot out of the room, down the stairs, and into the street. I let him go, but looked around; the room was in flames on two sides, while several trails of burning oil traversed the floor.

I believe that some men in my position would have followed him; but I know that any fireman, policeman, soldier, or sailor would have done exactly as I did--remain to put out the fire. I dragged the blankets from the bed, whipped the flames from the walls and windows as I could, and when they were burned beyond use threw the fragments on to the still burning bonfire to smother it. As I labored I heard shouts of "Fire!" in the streets, and welcomed the news that assistance was coming. Then I heard the clatter and clang of the engines and voices and footsteps on the stairs. I whipped away at the flames, and just as I laid the last damaged blanket on the now smouldering fire, a policeman burst into the room and seized me.

"Caught wi' the goods, hev! Stand still," he said. "Stand still, or I'll fan you."

I ceased my momentary struggle with him as firemen came in with hose and an extinguisher, and stopped myself in a half-uttered sentence of explanation. This was a matter of family honor that need not be made public.

"It's a job all right, isn't it, Bill?" asked the officer of a fireman who was calmly playing a small stream from the extinguisher on the remaining flames.

"Surest job I ever saw," answered the man, turning for a look at me in the darkening light. "Pretty tough-looking customer. Don't belong to this town. Smell the kerosene?"

"I smell it all right. You can smell it a mile, and he's got it on his clothes, too. Come on wi' me, my jewel. You're good for a few years at Trenton."

Under a fictitious name I spent the night in jail, and in the morning, before the time for court to open, received a visit from Mr. George Morton.

"Want to get at the person higher up, Mr. Morton?" asked the jailer, as they appeared before my cell. "Well, I can give you about half an hour."

"Yes, yes," answered my visitor. "I want to talk with him privately; so, leave us alone, if you will. But don't get beyond call, please--not too far away."

"Right. I'll come if I hear from you."

He admitted Morton and locked him in with me, then left us alone. Morton was clean and well-dressed, with only a nervousness of speech and movement to indicate that a few hours before he had fought for liberty and honor with the man he was now facing. He took a seat at the end of my plank, while I sat at the other end, and took his measure; thinner and older, of course, than when I had known him at school, but with the same graceful figure, and handsome, though unpleasant, face.

"Well," I said, with what sarcasm I could command. "Are you here to get me to tell who hired me to set fire to your house?"

"Not exactly," he answered, eying me closely. "I'm here to find out what you mean to do."

"I'm waiting on you," I said sharply. "I've kept quiet on your sister's account, but I expect you to clear up this matter, in any way you can."

"How? By pleading guilty myself? I am also interested in my sister, and I do not think she would like it."

I looked at him.

"It lies between you and me," he went on. "The evidence at present is all against you, while there is nothing against me, and nothing in my record to indicate that I would set fire to the house I had lived in, but did not own."

"But if your record was known," I growled, "there would be indications bearing upon this."

"I see. You have listened to my sister. Do you think she would come into court and swear away the liberty of her brother?"

A chill passed through me at this, but I answered doggedly: "Don't know. It depends, I suppose, upon how much she thinks of her precious brother."

"And also," he said softly, "upon how much _you_ think of _her_. She took you--in my behalf, of course, though that might not be proved--into her home at midnight when I was supposed to be in Philadelphia. Do you care to have her cross-examined upon that point, first by the prosecuting attorney who will try you, and then by my lawyer in case I am tried?"

"Damn your wretched heart and soul!" I yelled. "Would you shield yourself behind your sister's good name? Would you permit it, even to save your miserable life?"

"Not so loud, please. I answer that question in kind. Would you?"

"No!" I thundered. "A thousand times no!"

"Then plead guilty. My sister, who is a very resourceful and self-possessed girl, turned in the fire alarm as the quickest way to end our little difficulty, and she is in New York this morning, believing that you and I walked out. But it was I who notified the policeman of my discovering a firebug at work in my deserted home. You have given a wrong name, and she will not be interested in the little noise your trial will make--unless, I suppose, you arouse that interest."

He got up to call the warden, and I was upon him as the words left his lips. But I did not harm him much; I had not the time. I dropped him at the muzzle of the warden's pistol, and cooled down at my leisure.

I did not plead guilty; I remained doggedly silent, however, and not even the efforts of the lawyer appointed to defend me availed to mitigate my sentence. I had been caught red-handed, had made a furious assault upon the kindly disposed tenant of the house I had fired, and this, indicating a deep, dark vengeance based upon some real or fancied wrong, brought me the swift, harsh decree of Jersey justice--five years in the Trenton penitentiary. And so not even notifying my captain, I sank out of sight as completely as though I had signed for a voyage and sailed.

Five years behind the bars will alter the character--yes, even the soul--of any man living. And I do not claim that mine was changed for the better. I began that five years with the faint hope that, somehow, Grace Morton would learn of my plight and devise means to free me. Then, as this hope left me with the passing of the months, a dull, apathetic inertia took possession of me, and I worked, ate, and slept as mechanically as an animal. Then came the meridian of my imprisonment, when two years and a half had expired, and I could look forward to release. With this prospect in view my mind woke to a keener activity than it had ever known under the spur of ambition; for that ambition was based upon a love for a girl that was now eclipsed by a hatred for her brother. I looked forward to freedom, not that I might win that girl, but that I might find that man--somewhere, and alone.

As for Grace Morton, the doubt often came to my mind as to whether I ever had loved her. I had really known her only as a prattling child; I had met her once, as a woman, and in the fervor of my sudden emotion had embraced and kissed her. Was that love? Was her acquiescence the sign of a mental invitation, or only the acceptance of a matter of course? Was the sister of such a brother worth loving?

Yet these unsettled doubts invariably crystallized unto the hope that she would so prove herself, and with this hope in mind my plans for vengeance never embraced the killing of my enemy, only the meeting with him, alone in some secluded place, where I could use my superior strength and skill and thrash him within an inch of his life.