Chapter 10
"And surely the Shining One is jealous of his own honor," said Constans, guardedly. "Will he not bring to naught these foolish contemners of his majesty? Without doubt, else he were no god."
It was the afternoon of the following day, and the two men had been busy with the care of the machinery in the great hall, polishing up the bright parts and examining with infinite patience the innumerable bearings, their oil-cups and dust-caps. The conversation had naturally been colored by the pious character of their task, and Prosper had spoken more unreservedly than was his wont, emboldening Constans to ask the question recorded above. "Else he were no god," he repeated, insistently. The old man turned on him.
"And who shall tell us whether he be a god or no?" he demanded, with startling vehemence. "What manner of divinity can he be who allows these feeble hands to call him into existence and again to reduce him to nothingness? A god! This senseless block of iron that lives only at my will and pleasure. Behold, boy! shall the Shining One suffer indignity such as this and not worthily avenge himself?" and as he spoke, he caught up a handful of refuse from the floor and deliberately threw it at the great dynamo before which they were standing.
"A god!" he reiterated, with contemptuous bitterness, and spat upon the mass of polished metal.
There was a moment of suspense so real that Constans, despite his vantage ground of superior knowledge, trembled with an inexplicable terror. Surely, the outraged divinity had started into life; it was preparing to strike down the blasphemer.
"Perchance he is on a journey, or he sleeps," said the old priest, coldly. "He is a wise man who knows in whom he believes, and the Shining One shall, doubtless, be justified of his children." Then, with a gesture of indescribable dignity, he drew a corner of his flowing outer cape across his face and passed out into the gathering shadows of the winter day.
The task was still unfinished, but not for worlds would Constans have remained alone in that echoing, wind-swept cavern, surrounded by these monstrous shapes of metal. Lever and piston, wheel and shaft, the familiar outlines had disappeared, and in their stead a vast, indefinable bulk loomed through the dusk. It hung in the background like a wild beast, eternally watchful and waiting, waiting. Of a sudden, Constans felt horribly afraid. Stumbling and panting he ran up-stairs and gained the shelter of his own little room. A fire was smouldering on the hearth; he blew the log into a flame and lighted every candle upon which he could lay his hand. Then as mind and body relaxed under the cheering influence of light and warmth he drew a chair to the fire and sat down to seriously consider his future course of action. The situation had forced itself upon him. How was he to grapple with it?
In the first place, here was this tremendous power whose secret he alone possessed; the day and hour might even now be at hand when he should be able to wrest this superior knowledge to advantage.
Secondly, there was the question of personal safety, and assuredly it would be to his interest to be numbered among the accredited servants of the Shining One. The people might have grown indifferent to the worship of their ancient gods, but superstition still counselled an outward measure of respect towards those who wore the priestly garb. Finally, there was the pressing necessity of putting food into his mouth, a commonplace but still cogent consideration. Constans had been living on short rations now for a week past, his provisions were just about exhausted, and the prospects for the future had caused him no little anxiety. In the service of the Shining One he would at least be fed. So he resolved to accept the issue that had been forced upon him: he had passed his word, and he would keep it until destiny itself absolved him.
Several days later Constans adventured forth, making directly for the Citadel Square and from thence into the Palace Road. His official garb, a long black soutane and hood, was a tolerable disguise in itself, while the emblem of the forked lightning, worked in gold thread upon his left sleeve, vouched for his sacerdotal character as a member of the inferior priesthood. The Doomsmen whom he encountered looked at him with indifference, a very few saluted him with a perfunctory respect. It was plain that his appearance awakened neither interest nor distrust, and during the course of his walk he was enabled to add materially to his stock of knowledge about the city and its defences.
Half way down the Palace Road he overtook a man, a squat, broad-shouldered fellow, who limped as he walked. Constans would have brushed by, but the man plucked at his sleeve, and he was forced to stop and accommodate his pace to that of his interlocutor. A disagreeable appearing personage, with a crafty face, yet he spoke civilly enough.
"A fair day, master. Eh! but a black cassock's a rare bird nowadays upon the Palace Road."
"Is it not wide enough for us both?" returned Constans, as easily as he could.
"Oh, of a most noble broadness; I've no complaint to make on that score. It's the length of the way that is troubling me just now--this cursed leg of mine! Might I be so bold to ask the loan of your arm so far as the fortress? An old sailorman with a sprung spar navigates but badly on these icy stones."
Constans could do nothing but comply, albeit somewhat ungraciously. His new acquaintance did not seem to notice his coldness. He went on volubly:
"A fair day, as I have said, but I should prefer a leaden sky and the fighting-deck of the _Black Swan_, with the oars ripping through the yeast of a north-wester."
"The _Black Swan_!" ejaculated Constans, forgetting himself for the moment.
"Ay, master, and I may well curse my luck in missing the chance," continued the fellow grumblingly. "There is always fat picking to be had under that same bird's beak, but this bad knee of mine has kept me out of it for twice a twelvemonth. Perhaps it might be worth my while," he added, hesitatingly, "to humble myself before the Shining One. Who knows but that he might help me, seeing that all the physicians have failed. How about a quarter of hung venison, my lord, and a gallon or so of the best apple-wine--just by way of a peace-offering?"
"The Shining One makes no bargains," answered Constans, sternly, in virtue of his assumed office. "Submit yourself to his will, and then perchance our lord may deign to hear. He grants his favors to his obedient children; he sells them to none."
"But, my father----"
"Our ways part here," said Constans, decidedly, for they had now reached the north gate of the citadel and he was beginning to feel more and more uncomfortable under those sharp eyes. "Farewell, my son, and remember that penitence precedes healing, whether of soul or of body."
Constans passed on, and the man stood looking after him with a certain malevolent curiosity.
"Now so surely as I am Kurt, the Knacker, there is more in this priestling than meets the eye," he muttered. "Is a blithe young chap, with such a pair of shoulders, to willingly prefer a black robe to a velvet jacket, a priest's empire over a score of silly women to a seat in a trooper's saddle, and the whole green world from which to pick and choose his pleasures? Bah! it isn't reasonable, and if this knee of mine will permit me to hobble into the presence of the Shining One some fine morning I will have another guess at the riddle.
"To-morrow, now, is Friday," he continued, thoughtfully, "and my little doves have been teasing me to give them an outing. There is the certainty of a smile or even a kiss from the black-browed Nanna to recompense my good-nature, and a possible secret hanging in the wind. Finally, the off chance that the Shining One is not so hopelessly out of fashion as we have been led to think. In this backsliding age he should appreciate the honor of my attendance in person, to say nothing of the venison and the wine." Kurt, the Knacker, laughed silently under his curtain of black beard, and then stumped over to a bench in the gateway, sheltered from the wind and open to the sun. There he sat him down and proceeded to enjoy the pleasures of social converse with the warders on guard, an occupation pleasingly diversified by an occasional black-jack of ale and innumerable pipefuls of Kinnectikut shag. A highly respected man among his fellow-citizens was Kurt, the Knacker.
* * * * *
It was the hour of the weekly sacrifice, and Prosper, the priest, stood before the altar of the Shining One, performing the uncouth and ofttimes wholly meaningless ritual of his office. Constans, in his capacity of acolyte, stood on the right of the altar. He felt out of place and somewhat ridiculous; he was conscious that he performed his genuflections and posturing awkwardly, and there were all these women watching him. Especially the two in the front row, accompanied by the limping scoundrel to whom he had yesterday lent his arm on the Palace Road. The one who seemed the elder of the two scanned him with bold, black eyes, unaffectedly amused by his clumsiness; the other, whose face was hidden by a veil, looked at him but once or twice, yet Constans felt sure that she, too, was laughing at him. His position was becoming an intolerable one. Would the farce never come to an end?
Now the service was over, and one by one the worshippers withdrew. Last of all the two women, escorted by the man who called himself Kurt, the Knacker. They passed within arm's-length of Constans, but he made as though to turn his head away; youth is proverbially sensitive to ridicule. He noticed, however, that the pilgrimage had not been of marked benefit to the lame man, for he limped as badly as ever. Then their eyes met, and Constans felt somewhat uncomfortable at being favored with a particularly sour smile of recognition. Still he need not concern himself. It was evident that these people were not true worshippers; it was mere curiosity that had brought them before the gates of the Shining One, and now that they had seen the show they were doubtless satisfied. Let them depart whence they came; it was but a passing incident.
The snow that covered the ground a week before had nearly disappeared under the influence of a three-days' warm rain. This morning had given promise of even more springlike weather, but as the day wore on it had grown cloudy and the air had turned chill. It had begun to snow again shortly before the hour of service, and so fast had the flakes come down that the fall was already over an inch in depth. Constans, turning the corner into the side-street to get a more extended view of the eastern sky, suddenly halted to contemplate a curious appearing mark in the pure white expanse--the imprint of a woman's foot.
It was an exquisitely moulded thing; even the slender arch of the instep had been preserved in unbroken line and curve, and yet Constans wondered vaguely why it should seem so beautiful to him. He put out his own foot and compared the two, laughed, half understood, and was silent.
He went on a little farther, following the successive footprints as they led down the street. Once his heavy boot half obliterated one of the delicately marked prints; he backed quickly away, as though his clumsiness had been an actual offence. Then he knit his brows over the absurdity of the affair and stopped to consider.
Sophistry suggested that it might be the missing girl, Esmay, and certainly she who had walked here was the veiled woman of the temple worshippers; there were the footprints, broader and heavier in appearance, of her companion, and the halting progress of the black-chapped ruffian, who had accompanied them, was also plainly visible. Constans followed the trail at a smart pace, for it was snowing harder than ever, and it would not take long to obliterate the marks. But three blocks farther on the three sets of footprints suddenly turned at right angles to the sidewalk and disappeared.
A mystery whose solution should have been apparent at once from the wheel-tracks parallel with the curb, but for a minute or two Constans did not realize their true nature. The ordinary vehicle in use among the House People was a springless cart, whose wheels were simply sections of an elm-tree butt, and these primitive constructions creaked horribly upon their axles, unless liberally greased, and left a track six inches or more in width. It is not surprising, then, that Constans was momentarily puzzled by the narrow, delicately lined marks that betokened the passage of a real carriage. For while Doom contained many examples of the ancient coach-builder's skill, they were not in general use. The old Dom Gillian occasionally employed a carriage in taking the air--at least, so Ulick had told him, but Constans had never seen it. For all that the check was but a momentary one; his wits had been sharpened by use, and now they helped him to the truth. He ran on at top speed.
A course of a mile or more and he was entering a poorer part of the city a little north of east and close to the shore of the Lesser river. It was a region of tenement dwellings, a huddle of nondescript buildings, flanked by huge factories and sprawling coal and lumber yards--an unpromising region, surely, in which to look for Master Quinton Edge's particular retreat. And yet it would have marked the subtlety of the man to have set his secret here, where it would have been at once so easily seen and overlooked. Every labyrinth has its clew, but the fugitive walks safely in a crowd.
The wheel-tracks turned sharply to the right, going straight down a side street to the river-front. On the left were the ruins of one of the ancient plants for the manufacture of illuminating gas. The yard was but a wilderness of rusty iron tanks and fallen bricks; surely there was nothing here to interest.
On the right, however, there was an enclosed area that comprised the greater part of the block. It was separated from the highway by a brick wall ten feet in height, and the general level of the ground was considerably higher than that of the street. Constans could see trees growing and the ruins of a pergola and trellises for fruit; it actually looked like a garden, and through the naked branches of the trees there gleamed the white stuccoed walls of a dwelling-house, with a flat roof, surmounted by a cupola. The estate, for it possessed certain pretensions to that title, looked as though it had been transported from some more favored region and set down all in a piece among these hideous iron tanks and dingy, cliff-like factories.
Constans quickened his pace; his imagination was on fire. Yes, there was a gateway, and surely the carriage had passed through but a few minutes before. Constans halted at the barrier and studied it attentively. It was snowing hard now, and he ran but small risk of being observed from the house.
The doors of the driveway were of heavy planking studded with innumerable bands and rivets, and they were suspended between massive brick piers. A structure of light open iron-work spanned the gateway and supported a central lantern, with a coat of arms immediately below it. The device upon the shield was three roundels in chief and the crest, an arm holding a hammer.
In the left wing of the gate proper a small door had been cut for pedestrian use. It had been painted a dark green, the knocker and door-plate being of brass. Constans by dint of rubbing away some of the verdigris succeeded in making out the inscription. It read:
ARCADIA HOUSE RICHARD VAN DUYNE 1803
Actuated by a daring impulse he lifted the knocker and let it fall. The rat-tat sounded hollowly, but there was no response. Constans looked longingly at the wall, but without some special appliance, such as a notched pole or grappling-hooks, it was unscalable. There were no signs of life to be seen in or about the house. Not a light in any of the windows or curl of smoke from a chimney-pot. The wheel-tracks leading through the gateway had already become obliterated by the rapidly falling snow; the silence was profound. The whole adventure seemed to be vanishing into thin air; the wheel-tracks having led him into this land of folly had disappeared after the accustomed fashion of those mocking spirits whose delight is in leading the unwary traveller astray. Involuntarily, Constans glanced over his shoulder; he almost expected to see some shadowy bulk stealing up behind him preparing to make its spring.
Yet as he retraced his steps to the temple of the Shining One he resolved that he would pay another visit to Arcadia House. "To-morrow," thought Constans, "I may find some one to answer the door."
XV
A MAN AND A MAID
In spite of that brave "to-morrow," it was several days before Constans found opportunity to revisit Arcadia House. A misstep upon an icy flag-stone had resulted in a sprained ankle, and for that there was no remedy but patience.
Yet the time was not wasted. Here was a fascinating problem to be solved, and, yielding to importunity, Prosper was finally induced to talk freely of the sacred mysteries of the Shining One. He was even persuaded to put the machinery in operation, outside the canonical hours, in order that Constans might test the theories derived from his books. One experiment interested them greatly.
Constans took a "live" wire and allowed its free end to hang in close proximity to a leaden water-pipe. Then he placed a piece of oily rag near by and saw it answer his expectation by bursting into flame. He looked triumphantly around at Prosper, to whom he had previously explained the nature of the experiment.
"Would the fire descend wherever the wire led?" demanded the priest.
"Yes," answered Constans, confidently. "Under the same conditions, of course--a broken circuit and inflammable material close at hand."
The old man frowned. "It is wonderful," he said, grudgingly, "but it proves nothing. Is your viewless, formless electricity anything more or anything less than my god? What am I to believe? Is it the spirit of the lightning-cloud that thrills in this little wire, or have you learned how to bottle fire and thunder, even as a House-dweller who fills his goat-skins with apple-wine? Is the Shining One at once so great and so small that we can be both his servants and his lords?"
Constans would not be drawn into an argument, being as little versed in theological subtleties as was the old priest in scientific terminology. But he noticed that Prosper was studying the subject after his own fashion. Nearly every night now he would start up the machinery and spend hours in watching the revolutions of the giant dynamo. It was not unusual for Constans to fall to sleep, lulled by the monotonous humming of the vibratory motor and awake to find the machinery still in motion.
It was within this week that the _Black Swan_ returned to port. On the fourth day after the accident to his ankle Constans managed to hobble to one of his posts of observation, and he discovered immediately that the galley was lying at her accustomed pier. It was vexatious! to have Quinton Edge return at this precise time. Annoying! that this fair field should be closed before he had had a chance to explore it. Well, it was fortune, and he must accept it; he was all the more eager now to make a second call at Arcadia House.
It was a dull, thawy afternoon when Constans found himself standing again before the closed door that bore the name of the inhospitable Mr. Richard van Duyne. He had brought with him a rope ladder, provided with grappling-hooks, and the mere scaling of the barrier should not present any great difficulty. It would be well, however, to reconnoitre a little further before he attempted it.
Following the wall down to the river, he saw that it was continued to the very edge of the water, where it joined a solidly constructed sea-wall. There were the remains of a wooden pier running out from the end of the street proper, and Constans adventured upon its worm-eaten timbers, intent on obtaining a more extended view of this singular domain of Arcadia House.
A large and somewhat imposing structure it was, albeit of a curiously composite order of architecture.
Originally, it must have been a villa of the true Dutch type built of stuccoed brick, with many-gabled roof and small-paned, deeply embrasured windows. A subsequent proprietor had enlarged its ground-plan, added an upper story, and changed the roof to one of flat pitch crowned by a hideous cupola. Still a third meddler had tried to make it over into a colonial homestead by painting the stucco white and joining on an enormous columned porch. The final result could hardly have been otherwise than an artistic monstrosity, yet the old house had acquired that certain unanalyzable dignity which time confers, and the gentle fingers of the years had softened down insistent angles and smoothed out unlovely curves. It was a house with a soul, for men had lived and died, rejoiced and suffered within its walls.
A house--and such a house!--set in its own garden amid the incongruous surroundings of tenement buildings and malodorous gas-works. How to account for it, what theory could be invented to reconcile facts so discordant? In reality, the explanation was simple enough; as between the house and its environment, the former had all the rights of prior possession. In the early days of the settlement of the city the banks of the Lesser river had been a favorite place of residence for well-to-do burghers and merchants. But foot by foot the muddy tide of trade and utilitarianism had risen about these green water-side Edens; one by one their quiet-loving owners had been forced farther afield.
Yet now and then the standard of rebellion had been raised; here and there might be found a Dutchman as stiff-necked as the fate that he defied. His father and his father's father had lived here upon the Lesser river, and nothing short of a cataclysm of nature should avail to budge him. The commissioners might cut up his cabbage-patch into building sites and reduce his garden to the limits of a city block, but they could not touch his beloved Arcadia House, with its white-porticoed piazza that gave upon the swirl and toss of the river--a delectable spot on a hot June morning. Let them lower their accursed streets to their thrice-accursed grade; it would but leave him high and dry in his green-embowered island, secure of contamination to his fruit trees from unspeakable gas and sewer pipes. A ten-foot brick wall, with its top set with broken bottles, would defend his quinces and apricots from the incursion of the street Arabs, and wind and sky were as free as ever. Yes, he would hold his own against these vandals of commercialism, while one brick of Arcadia House remained upon another. So, let us fancy, quoth Mynheer van Duyne away back in _anno Domini_ 1803, and when he died in 1850 or thereabouts, the estate, having but a moderate value as city property goes, was allowed to remain in _statu quo_; the heirs had ground-rents enough and to spare without it, and Arcadia House might be considered a proper memorial of the ancient state and dignity of the Van Duynes. But this is getting to be pure conjecture; let us return to Constans and the facts as he saw them.