Arms and the Woman - Harold MacGrath (polar express read aloud TXT) 📗

the garden flowers below. . . . "When I asked her why it could not be, she answered that she had no love to give in return for mine." Presently he rapped his pipe on the sill and drew in his head. His brow was wrinkled and his lips were drawn down at the corners. With some shame I remembered that I had thought only of myself during the past few months. "Jack," he said, "I have gone around with you for the excitement of it, for the temporary forgetfulness, and because I wanted to see you well cared for before I left you. The excitement took my mind from my own malady, but it has returned to-day with all its old violence. There is the same blood in our veins. We must have one woman or none. I must get away from all this. We are at the parting of the ways, old man. To-night I leave for India. The jungle is a great place. I am glad for your sake that you are not to go with me. Sometimes one gets lost."

"She may change her mind," I said, putting a hand on his. "Most women do."

"Most admit of exceptions," he replied, regarding me with earnest eyes as if to read what was going on behind mine. "There are some women who never change. Her Highness is one of these. As I remarked before, she has no love to give me; it is gone, and as it is gone without reward, she will make no attempt to recall it to give to another. I love her all the more for that. The game fate plays with our hearts is a cruel one. For one affinity there are ten unfinished lives. Her Highness loves a good man."

My hand fell from his, and I went over to the window. This was the first intimation he had given to me that he knew the secret, the secret which had made me so sad, the secret which I tried not to believe.

"You are determined to go to India?" I said, without turning my head. I could find no other words.

"Yes. It will be the best thing in the world."

"You will promise to write?"

"Whenever I strike the post. Marry and be happy; it is the lot of the few."

That night he started for Bombay, by the way of England, and the next morning I put out for the feudal inn.


CHAPTER XXV

I was passing along the highway, a pipe between my teeth. It was the beginning of twilight, that trysting hour of all our reveries, when the old days come back with a perfume as sweet and vague as that which hovers over a jar of spiced rose leaves. I was thinking of the year which was gone; how I first came to the inn; of the hour when I first held her in my arms and kissed her, and vowed my love to her; of the parting, when she of her own will had thrown her arms about my neck and confessed. The shadows were thickening on the ground, and the voices of the forests were hushed. I glanced at the western sky. It was like a frame of tarnished gold, waiting for night with her diadem of stars to step within. The purple hills were wrapping themselves in robes of pearly mists; the flowing river was tinted with dun and vermilion; and one by one the brilliant planets burst through the darkening blues of the heavens. The inn loomed up against the sky, gray and lonely. Behind me, far away down the river, I could catch occasional glimpses of the lamps of the village. Presently there came a faint yellow glow in the east, and I knew that Diana was approaching.


She tosses loose her locks upon the night,
And, through the dim wood Dian threads her way.


A wild sweetness filled the air. I was quite half a mile from the inn, yet I could smell the odor of her roses, Gretchen's roses. It was a long and weary year which had intervened. And now she was there, only a short way from my arms. But she did not know that I was coming. A million diamonds sprang into the air whenever I struck the lush grasses with my cane. Everywhere I breathed the perfume of her roses. They seemed to hide along the hedges, to lurk among the bushes, red roses and white. On the hill, across the valley, I saw the little cemetery with its white stones. I arrested my steps and took off my hat. The dust of Hillars lay there. I stood motionless for some time. I had loved the man as it is possible for one man to love another. I had not thought of him much of late; but in this life we cannot always stand by the grave of those who have gone before. He had loved Gretchen with a love perhaps less selfish than mine, for he had sacrificed his life uselessly for her that she might-be mine! Mine! I thought. And who was I that she should love me instead of him? All the years I had known him I had known but little of him. God only knows the hearts of these men who rove or drift, who, anchorless and rudderless, beat upon the ragged reels of life till the breath leaves them and they pass through the mystic channel into the serene harbor of eternity. A sudden wave of dissatisfaction swept over me. What had I done in the world to merit attention? What had I done that I, and not he, should know the love of woman? Why should I live to-day and not he? From out the silence there came no answer; and I continued on. It was life. It was immutable, and there was no key.

The lights of the inn cheered me and lifted the gloom. Should I enter by stealth or boldly? I chose the second method. Gretchen and the innkeeper were in the old hall. I entered and threw my traps into a corner. As they turned and saw me consternation was written on their faces.

"I have found you at last," I said, holding out a hand to each of them. The innkeeper thrust his hands behind his back and sauntered leisurely toward the window. Gretchen showed signs of embarrassment, and her eyes were studiously fixed on the cracks which yawned here and there in the floor. My hands fell unnoticed.

"You have been looking for us?" she asked in even tones. "Why have you?"

Vaguely I gazed at her, at the innkeeper, then at my traps in the corner. It was apparent that I was an intruder. I struck my forehead in anger and despair. Triple fool that I was! I was nothing to her. She had told me so, and I had not believed.

"Yes; why?" asked the innkeeper, turning around.

"I believe," said I, my voice trembling, "that I am an unwelcome guest. Is it not so?"

"Oh, as for that," said the innkeeper, observing Gretchen, "this is a public inn, on the highway. All wayfarers are of necessity welcome."

"Go, then, and prepare me a supper," said I. "I am indeed hungry, having journeyed far." I wanted him out of the room.

The innkeeper appeared not to have the slightest intention of leaving the room to do my bidding.

"Yes, Hermann," said Gretchen, coloring, "go and prepare Herr Winthrop's supper."

"Thank you," said I, with a dismal effort to be ironical.

The innkeeper, a puzzling smile on his lips, passed out.

"Gretchen," I burst forth, "in heaven's name what does this mean? I have hunted for you day after day, week after week, month after month. I have traveled the four ends of the continent. I have lived-Oh, I do not know how I have lived! And when I do find you, it is for this!" My voice broke, and I was positively on the verge of tears.

"And was all this fair to her?" asked Gretchen, coldly.

"To her? I do not understand."

"I mean, was all this fair to my sister?"

"Gretchen," a light piercing the darkness, "has she not written to you?"

"A long time ago. She wanted to see me on an important matter, but I could not change my plans at the time. I shall see her at the palace next week. Ought you not to be with her instead of here?"

"Why should I be with her?"

Gretchen laughed, but the key was false.

"Are you not going to marry her? Surely, it is easy after the King has given his permission. Have you already fallen out of love with her, after all your efforts to make her a Princess? Truly, man is as unstable as sand and water! Ah, but you fooled us all to the top of our bent. You knew from the first that she was a Princess; but you could not find the proofs. Hermann and I were the means to the end. But who shall blame you? Not I! I am very grateful to you for having given to me a sister. And if you fooled me, I returned measure for measure. It is game and quit. Time hung heavy on my hands, and the victory, however short, was amusing."

"I never loved her!" I cried. Where were the words I needed?

"So much the worse for you," disdainfully. "But here comes Hermann to announce your supper."

"I shall not break the bread of inhospitality," said I, in the bitterness of my despair. I gathered up my traps-and then I let them tumble back. The needed words came with a rush to my lips. I went close to her. "Why did you humiliate yourself in begging my life of the Prince? Why, if my life was nothing to you? Answer. Why did you stoop to your knees to that man if I was worthless to you? Why?"

Her cheeks grew red, then white; her lips formed words which she could not speak.

"Herr Winthrop's supper is ready," announced the innkeeper.

"Go and eat it!" I said childishly.

"Your appetite is gone then?" imperturbably.

"Yes, and get you gone with it!"

The innkeeper surveyed me for a space. "Will you kindly tell me from whom you received the information that Her Highness was at the inn?"

I produced the unsigned letter. He read it carefully, while Gretchen looked on nervously.

"Ach!" said the innkeeper, "that Stahlberg! He shall be dismissed."

Unhappily for him, that individual was just passing along the corridor. The innkeeper signaled him to approach.

"How dared you?" began the innkeeper, thrusting the letter under Stahlberg's nose.

"Dare?-I?-Herr," said the big fellow, "I do not understand. What is it you accuse me of?"

"This," cried the innkeeper: "You have written to Herr Winthrop and told him that Her Highness was at the inn. And you were expressly