The Terms of Surrender Part 35

The girl herself never mentioned the incident; but, when next they met, Power felt that a slight constraint of which he was sensible in her manner that morning had gone completely.

Sinclair's affairs in Patagonia were settled before he set out on that long trek into the wilds; but there still remained some odds and ends of business which detained him nearly a month in Carmen. During those placid days Power and Marguerite Sinclair were together constantly. They boated on the Rio Negro, fished in its swift current, rode long miles over the gray and treeless pampas. The girl was a woman now, and, were it not for that cruel disfigurement of one side of her face, a singularly attractive one. She was never dull, never at a loss for a new and original turn to the old topics. Her interests covered a surprisingly wide range. Whether singing Spanish songs to her own accompaniment on a guitar, or discoursing learnedly on the habits of the migratory wild-fowl with which Patagonia abounds, she never failed to acquit herself with vivacious charm. Indeed, the recluse of the Andes could not have been more favored by fortune in the choice of a companion. With sure touch, and a happy blend of raillery and sympathy, she led him back to the gracious intimacies of every-day existence. A keen and discriminating reader of contemporary literature, she set herself the congenial task of filling the immense gap of the years lost out of this remarkable man's life. On his part, so avid was he of the joys of regained citizenship of the world that he was blithely unaware of the place she filled in his thoughts until the day of parting.

He had traveled with father and daughter to Buenos Aires, whence he cabled to New York, and was placed in possession of ample funds. The Sinclairs were bound for England, and their steamer sailed almost immediately, and the vessel which would take him to New York was timed to start next day.

They lunched together in the Hotel de l'Europe, Plaza Victoria, and Sinclair had left the younger people for a few minutes while interviewing a lawyer who had charge of certain financial matters in the Argentine. Some chance remark led Power to realize that Marguerite Sinclair's bright personality would soon be merged with yesterday's seven thousand years, and the knowledge darkened his new-born optimism as the black portent of a tornado blots out the blue of a summer sky.

It was hardly surprising that the discovery came thus tardily. The philosophical habit of mind induced by constant a.s.sociation with fatalistic Indians was not to be cast off like a disused garment. When each day resembled its predecessor, when the needs of the hour rendered care for the morrow an additional burden, he had trained himself to live, and almost to think, according to savage ethics, and it was with a positive shock that he awoke to the fact that before many hours had sped he would be alone. But, once it had entered his soul, the leaven worked rapidly. They were talking in conventional strain about her father's plans for the future, which centered around a small sporting estate in Derbyshire, once owned by his family and now in the market, when Power rose suddenly.

"If you have finished luncheon," he said, "come with me into the gardens across the plaza. We'll leave word of our whereabouts with the hotel people, so that Mr. Sinclair will not think I have abducted you."

She paled slightly, and seemed to hesitate, but only for an instant.

"Why not?" she said, dropping the white double veil she always wore in public.

Power rather looked for some biting retort when he spoke of abducting her, and her unexpected meekness was somewhat disconcerting. Each was tongue-tied, and they walked away together in silence. A good many eyes followed them as they left the hotel, for the girl's slender, lissome figure and noticeably elegant carriage would have attracted the attention of more censorious critics than a gathering of Spanish-Americans, while the wealth of brown hair which crowned her shapely head and column-like neck was adequately set off by a smart hat.

Power, too, evoked some comment. People who saw him for the first time invariably asked who he was. A man who has twice established an empire, even among Indians, cannot possibly lack distinction, no matter how effectually the outfitting tailor may democratize him.

They entered the gardens, and Power led Marguerite to a seat under a tree whose spreading branches, broad-leafed and flower-laden, supplied grateful shade. If he could have peered beneath that heavy veil, he would have seen that his companion was obviously ill at ease; but there was no trace of nervousness in her voice when she said, with a laugh:

"This, I suppose, is the local Garden of Eden."

"Why?" he inquired.

"Because we are reclining under a Paradise tree."

"I don't see any serpents, and I cannot bring myself to regard you as either a cherub or a seraph."

"How unkind of you! Here have I been behaving angelically all day, just because you will soon see the last of me, and that is my reward."

"I believe the s.e.x of angels is a matter of fierce dispute in certain circles. I wouldn't dare form an opinion, and, just now at any rate, I am vexed by a different problem. If this tree is really the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, its influence will be helpful, because we should be moved to candor. I brought you here to ask you some questions of vital importance to myself. Are you promised to any man in marriage?"

"No. Is it likely?"

Not often did the bitter consciousness of her marred beauty rise thus bluntly to her lips; but she blurted it out now involuntarily. In this supreme moment it came as a protest against the edict of the G.o.ds. Even while she trembled in the belief that a happiness she had not dared to think of sanely was about to be vouchsafed to her, she could not restrain her terror lest the disillusionment of her scarred face might cost her the love of the one man on earth she wanted to marry. It was the heartfelt cry of a woman denied her birthright. "Male and female created he them." The sorry trick of fate which had tarnished the fair tabernacle that enshrined so many gifts had never before exhibited its true malice. In a word, Marguerite Sinclair was a woman, and the great crisis of her life had found her unprepared and nearly hysterical.

Power, of course, was splendidly deaf to her satire and its cause.

"I should say it was the most likely thing imaginable," he replied. "I wish----" He broke off abruptly. "You and I should have no reservations," he went on, after a pause, "and it would not be quite honest if I voiced the ba.n.a.l notion I had in mind. Yet I must tell you something of my history. You know, I suppose, that I am going to ask you to marry me; but, before you answer, you must hear the plea, the defense, of a man who committed a crime and had to pay the penalty."

"You committed no crime, Derry," and the girl's utterance was so low and sweet that it swept through his inmost being like a chord of exquisite music. Some seconds elapsed before he understood that she had used a name which could not have come to her knowledge without a far more intimate acquaintance with his past life than he believed possible.

"Derry!" he repeated blankly. "How have you found out that those I once held dear called me 'Derry'?"

She forced herself to speak calmly; though her hands were clenched in sheer physical effort to quell the riot in heart and brain.

"I am not as other women," she said; "so I say shamelessly that I loved you practically from the hour we first met. Do you remember? You looked at me, and then turned your eyes away resolutely, lest you should hurt my feelings by seeming to gaze at my scarred features. I knew that night that you were a man scourged by the wrath of Heaven, and my sympathies went out to you; for, in my own small way, I realized what you felt. But your affliction was of the spirit, and mine of the flesh, and I could afford to laugh at my malaise except--except on an occasion like this, when a man says he wants to marry me, but says nothing of love. No, please! Hear me out. I am really answering your question, in a woman's way, perhaps, but candidly, with a frankness that should blight romance.

When we parted at Valparaiso, my thoughts dwelt with you. You are the one man I have ever cared for, in that way. During these weary years I have hugged the delusion that some day you would tell me that you loved me. Well, I admit that love was implied when you spoke of marriage; but you have often been annoyed or amused by my distorted method of looking at things, and you should not resent it now when it happens to describe the situation exactly--because you yourself almost began by saying that you wished we had met before another woman came into your life. Yes, I know--at any rate, I can guess--why you were buried alive for seven years. My action may sound contemptible; but a woman in love does not stop to weigh niceties of behavior. When I could get no news of you by other means, I wrote to a school friend at Denver. Among the people she met when making inquiries were a Dr. Stearn and a Mr. Benson. They did not tell her much; but feminine gossip is far-reaching, and sometimes it probes deeply. I know you loved Nancy Willard. I know how you were separated from her. I know you met her again in Newport. I know you blamed yourself for the death of your mother. I know that your friends thought you were mad, but pitied you, because yours was a grievous plight. You see now how I peeped and pried into your life. Oh! it was mean and despicable of me. It is not for _you_ to plead and make excuse.

That is _my_ wretched task. Is it any sort of vindication to tell you that my heart ached because of that far-away look ever in your eyes while we voyaged south? You have not forgotten that I said you resembled a man walking in his sleep? Well, I wanted to find out what sort of folly or suffering had induced that trance. My poor little heart sang with joy when you stepped ash.o.r.e at Carmen, and I saw that your obsession had gone, that you had come to life again, that no pale specters stood between us. Now you have heard my confession, it is for _you_ to take time--before--you commit yourself--to vows--which you may regret."

It was as much as she could do to utter those concluding words. The tears she might not repress were stealing silently down her cheeks, and small, dark patches showed where the tightly drawn veil touched the corners of her mouth. The hotel porch was visible between two clumps of tropical shrubbery, and, when a mule-drawn street-car moved out of the way, Power saw Sinclair's tall, thin figure standing in the doorway.

Evidently, his glance was searching the gardens for the missing pair, and the departure of the tram rendered them visible. He raised a hand, and opened and closed it twice. Power waved comprehension, and Sinclair vanished. Perhaps he had a shrewd notion of the subject of their talk, and was minded not to disturb them till the last moment.

"I take it your father means that we still have ten minutes at our disposal," said Power.

The girl nodded. If she spoke then, she would have screamed.

"You have relieved me of a highly disagreeable task," he went on composedly. "Of course, I accept none of the unkind and unjust strictures you pa.s.sed on yourself. This has been a strange wooing; but it is the best apology for the real thing I can contrive in the conditions. Some day, soon, I shall take you in my arms and tell you that I love you. When that day dawns, I shall be hindered by no ghosts; none other, that is, than a lurking fear lest such a wreck of a man may not be deemed worthy of the pure, sweet love of a woman like you. Good G.o.d! Can it be possible that so great a happiness is entering into my broken life?"

Then the delirium of joy vanquished the girl's fears, and she contrived to say haltingly:

"Derry, do you really care for me? Do you think that such a poor scarecrow as I can make you forget all that you have endured?"

He laughed, and the blithe ring of his mirth was so eloquent of his real feelings that the blood raced in her veins like quicksilver.

"We must begin by refusing to call each other hard names," he cried. "In truth, I regard myself as a tolerably compact wreck, while 'scarecrow,'

as applied to you, would make a cat laugh. Suppose we stick to 'Derry'

and 'Meg' until the wonder pa.s.ses, and we venture among those endearing terms in which our language is so rich. But, if you must have my opinion about your face--if you won't be happy till you get it--I want to tell you now that before I kiss your lips I shall kiss that dear, scarred cheek, because I know well that, by G.o.d's providence, when the Indians thrust you into the flames of your ranch, a mark was set on you that reserved you for me. Were it not for that, you could never have waited for me during the long years since we traveled together on the _Panama_.

Why, Meg, there is no woman to compare with you in all this great city!

But, look here! Confound my impudence! Man-like, I blandly ignore my own defects. How about my limp?"

"Derry, in my eyes, there is no man in all the world to compare with you."

"Then we are profoundly satisfied with one another, and I really don't see what we have to bother about otherwise. I am going now to tell your father that we have arranged to be married as soon as I arrive in England, which will be not more than two months from this day. I think he likes me, and will endure me as a son-in-law. If I obeyed my own impulses, I should not leave you again. I suppose that common sense urges me to visit New York and Colorado, just to look into my business affairs. In fact, in view of our marriage, I simply must go there. But I shall hurry, never fear. Come along, Meg. I'm wide awake now. You have exorcised the evil spirit that possessed me; but I shall be in a new fever till next we meet, and there is no more parting in this life."

Thus was love reborn in Power's heart. The pity of it was that he did not yield to the tiny G.o.d's ardent whispers, and refuse to relinquish his chosen bride, even for a brief s.p.a.ce. But, as he said, common sense demanded his presence in America, and common sense has shattered many dreams.

CHAPTER XVI

POWER DRIVEN INTO WILDERNESS

Power arrived at New York in mid-winter. He found that crowded hive humming, as usual, with life and its activities, but in a new and perplexing way. The Waldorf Hotel had become the Waldorf-Astoria, and, while doubling its name, had increased fourfold in size. Its main corridor had the bustle and crush of a busy street; but every face had an aspect of aloofness, almost of hostility. The old, intimate life of America had vanished. None paid heed to the newcomer. The spick-and-span occupants of the reception bureau evidently regarded him as Room Number So-and-so. Confused and mystified by the well-dressed throng of the hotel's patrons, he failed to notice, at first, that it was composed of individuals, or groups, as unknown to one another as he was to the ma.s.s; that, in very truth, it was

"... no other than a moving row Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go."

He reached the hotel early in the evening, and was fortunate in being able to secure a suite of rooms. Soon wearying of the traffic in that world's fair which caustic New York has nicknamed "Rubberneck Alley," he bought a newspaper, and retired to his apartments. But the day's record held no interest for him. He knew little of the men and women who figured therein; even less of the events which called for big type and immense headlines.

But his eye was caught by an announcement of a performance that night of Gounod's "Faust" at the Metropolitan Opera House. He resolved to go there, never dreaming that the odds were hundreds to one against the chance of obtaining a seat; for New York had just entered the lists against the other capitals of the world, and was determined to capture the leading place in the grand-opera tourney.

He telephoned the office, "Kindly get me a stall for the Metropolitan this evening."

And, behold! a blase clerk was actually stirred out of boredom by the surprising statement received from the box-office that a stall had just been returned, and he could have it now if he closed at once. So Power never knew what a trick Fortune had played him, since there can be little doubt that the impression made by the marvelous music and extraordinarily human appeal of "Faust" insensibly prepared him for the tragic events of the coming day. Imagine a man of musical bent, who had dwelt seven years among veritable savages, renewing his acquaintance with the muses by hearing the most poignant of stage love-stories told in Gounod's impa.s.sioned strains and interpreted by famous singers and a superb orchestra!

The exquisite tenderness of the doomed lover's first address to Marguerite thrilled his inmost being.