Ainslee's, Vol. 15, No. 6, July 1905

Through the window that faced Lord Farquhart fluttered a faint breeze, and, suddenly, on its wings, floated a song caroled gayly by careless lips.

Lips that vie with the poppy’s hue,Eyes that shame the violet’s blue,Hearts that beat with love so true,Barb’ra, sweet, I come to you!

As the last line was reached, the window framed a figure; a figure that seemed as familiar to all as the voice that crossed the figure’s lips. And yet the figure was cloaked and hatted and masked in black.

“Lord Farquhart!” shouted a hundred voices, looking from the motionless prisoner to the picture in the window.

“Percy, Percy!” screamed the Lady Barbara, and it was to the window that her arms were stretched.

“The devil!” shouted Lord Grimsby, wavering back from the thrice encountered fiend.

“Yes, the devil, the Black Devil,” laughed the voice in the window. “But not Lord Farquhart, not your Percy, Lady Barbara. For he sits there as innocent as all the rest of you. But there’s your purse, Lord Grimsby; your purse and your seal and your rings that I took last night!” He flung the articles toward Lord Grimsby. “And there’s your broidered gauntlet, that you gave somewhat easily, my Lady Barbara.” The glove fell at Lady Barbara’s feet. “And here’s one of my lord bishop’s rings that I sent not back with the rest. I have five minutes more by your own word, Lord Grimsby. After that I’m yours – if you can take me!”

XX

The king’s guards, and the motley crowd that followed them, found no one on any road round about the court save Johan, the player’s boy, riding in most ungainly fashion on Mistress Judith’s nag in the direction of the Ogilvie woods. He had seen naught, he had heard naught, of any fugitive highwayman. He shivered and crossed himself when the Black Devil’s name was mentioned. He even begged one of the guards to mount and ride behind him until they should be beyond the danger zone, assuring the fellow that Mistress Judith would reward him well if he saved her favorite horse from the highwayman’s clutches.

At practically the same moment, Master Lindley came upon Johan, the player’s boy, stupidly asleep at the end of the lane, quite unmindful of the commotion that surged about him.

When Lindley had shaken him into some semblance of wakefulness, he only stammered:

“Ay, ay, Master Lindley, I know you. But I know naught of last night save that I sat late over my supper. I’ve not seen Mistress Judith to-day, at all. Yes, she’s spoken much of Lord Farquhart, but I know naught of him. Now I – ” And he had already drowsed off into sleep.

It was the first time that Lindley had ever seen the player’s boy by the light of day, and he was shocked by the sickly pallor of the lad’s face. The thin lips were feverishly bright and his black curls straggled across his brow. It was a stupid face, too, but Lindley could not stop then to marvel at the discrepancy between the clever brain and its covering. Instead he hurried eagerly after the throng that was in vain pursuing the gentleman highwayman, who seemed to possess the devil’s luck, if he were not, in reality, the devil himself.

XXI

Lord Farquhart’s imprisonment, his trial, his escape, had suffered the fate of all nine day wonders. There were some busybodies in London who occasionally commented on the fact that the Black Devil no longer frequented the highways, but they were answered by others who declared that, doubtless, the gentleman was otherwise amused. And those who commented and those who answered might and might not have had double meanings in their words.

As it happened, Lord Farquhart was otherwise engaged. His marriage to the Lady Barbara had been solemnized quite simply down at Gordon’s Court, and Lord and Lady Farquhart were enjoying a honeymoon on the continent. Harry Ashley was balked not only of his lady but also of his revenge, and his own black looks seemed to encounter naught save black looks in others, so he had taken himself out of the way. No one knew or cared whither.

Otherwise, the life and gossip of the town had returned to its wonted serenity. Everyone was moving on quietly and calmly in dead level ruts save Cecil Lindley. He found serenity in nothing. He could do nothing quietly or calmly. Twice he had communicated directly with his cousin, Mistress Judith, and twice she had returned his communications unread. In a personal interview with his uncle, Master James Ogilvie, he fared no better. Judith’s father shook his head over Judith’s obstinacy, but declared he could not shake her will.

There seemed nothing in all the world for Lindley to do save to wander back and forth on the roads that lay between Ogilvie’s woods and London, hoping to meet thereon some chance that would lead him to his lady’s feet or something that would open his lady’s heart to him. And then, quite suddenly, when he had almost given up hope of ever winning word with her or look from her, he received a note written in her round, clerkly hand, saying that she would meet him at two o’clock of the afternoon of Thursday, the twentieth day of November, at the tavern known as The Jolly Grig, the tavern hosted by Marmaduke Bass.

As it happened, by chance or by Mistress Judith’s own will, the lady was first at the inn. The room was quite empty and deserted. The hour named for the tryst savored little of conviviality. The rotund innkeeper slumbered peacefully in front of his great hearth, and small patches of November sunshine lay on the floor, while merry November motes danced in the yellow beams.

Johan, the player’s boy, had said that Mistress Judith was no beauty; but no one in all England would have agreed with that verdict had they seen her lightly poised on the threshold of the old inn, the gray plumes of her high crowned riding hat nodding somewhat familiarly to the motes in the sunshine. Her gray velvet riding skirt was lifted high enough to reveal her dainty riding boots; her hair, bright and burnished as a fox’s coat, fell in curls about her shoulders, and mischief gleamed from her tawny eyes, even as mischief parted her red lips over teeth as white as pearl. It almost seemed as though she were about to cross the room on tiptoe, and yet she stopped full in the doorway, sniffing the air with dainty nostrils, before she turned back to meet her father, who followed close on her footsteps.

“Faugh!” she cried, shrugging her shoulders, holding a kerchief to her nose. “Why, the place reeks of wine and musty ale. A pretty place, I must say, for a lover’s tryst.”

“But, Judith, my love,” remonstrated her father, “the place is of your own choosing. You stated that ’twas here you’d meet your cousin Lindley, and nowhere else. Surely you’re not going to blame him if a tavern reeks of a tavern’s holdings.”

“In truth, I fancy I’ll blame my cousin Lindley for whatsoever I choose to blame him,” answered the girl, her small mouth seeming but a scarlet line over her dainty chin, under her tilting nose. She was still standing in the black frame of the doorway, her merry eyes noting each detail of the room within, still excluding her father from the place.

“I hope, Judith, my dear, as I’ve said a hundred times, that you’ve not induced your cousin to meet you here merely that you may flout him.” The words evidently cost Master Ogilvie great effort. “For my sake – ”

“Flout him!” laughed the girl. “Flout my cousin Lindley!” Then her voice grew suddenly serious. Turning, she put both hands caressingly on her father’s shoulders. “Let us pray Heaven, rather, that there be no flouting on either side!” She bent her head slightly and kissed him on either cheek. Then her serious mood fled as quickly as it had come. “Though I’m in no way bound to give my reason for choosing a wayside inn for this meeting with my cousin – you’ll admit, sir, that I’m not bound so to do? Well, I’ve no objection to telling you that I meet him here so that, if I like him not, I can leave him on the instant. If I had him come to my own house, if I met him anywhere save on the common ground of a public place, and liked him not, or saw that he liked me not at all – why, there would be certain courtesies due from a lady to a gentleman, and I choose not to be held by those. And – and I may have had another reason for choosing The Jolly Grig, and then – I may not. But I think, sir, that the innkeeper solicits your attention.”

Marmaduke Bass had, for several moments, been hovering officiously in the wake of Master James Ogilvie.

“It’s many a day since I’ve seen your honor at The Jolly Grig,” murmured Marmaduke, with a certain obsequious familiarity that he reserved for old and well-known patrons.

“Ay, I’ve had little time for jollity this many a year,” agreed Master Ogilvie, with a ponderous wink behind his daughter’s back. “My hands and my head have been full.”

Judith’s small nose was still sniffing the air while she moved lightly about the long, dark room.

“I – I like not the smell of your place, Master – Master – ”

“’Tis Marmaduke Bass, my love,” interrupted her father.

“Ah, yes,” she assented. “I’d forgotten for the moment. This hearth has an air of comfort, though, and as for this chair – ” She had seated herself in the chair that fronted Marmaduke’s settle. “Ah, Master Bass, I should say that your chair would induce sleep.” She yawned luxuriously, and her feet, in their dainty riding boots, were stretched over far in front of her for a well-brought-up damsel. But it must not be forgotten that Mistress Judith Ogilvie had been brought up quite apart from other girls, quite without a woman’s care. “If I were only a man, now,” she continued, “I’d call for a glass of – what would I ask for, Master Bass? Would it be Geldino’s sherris or Canary Malmsey, or would I have to content myself with a royal port lately brought from France?” She sprang to her feet, laughing gayly, while old Marmaduke scratched his head, wondering of what her words reminded him. She touched his shoulder lightly and added: “If my father calls for wine, later – later, mind you, we’ll have the sherris, Geldino’s own.”

Her words and Marmaduke’s efforts to collect his thoughts were interrupted here by the clatter of horse’s hoofs in the court. The next instant Lindley was entering the room.

“I’m not late?” he cried. “Surely, I’m not late?”

“No, my boy, ’tis not yet two,” Master Ogilvie answered, hurriedly, but Judith answered nothing. She still stood in front of the deep hearth. “Come, come, Judith, girl,” cried her father, “surely you need no introduction to Cecil Lindley?”

“No, surely I know my cousin well.” The girl’s voice fell soft and full of singing notes as a meadow lark’s. “But I think he questions if he knows me.”

Her brown eyes were on a level with his, and he was remembering at that instant that Johan had said Mistress Judith’s lips would be level with his. Ay, they were level with his, and they were near his, too, for she had come straight to him and given him both her hands.

“Judith!”

That was all he said, and it seemed to the girl that he drew back, away from her. And possibly he did, for he knew that he must not draw her close, not yet, oh, not yet, anyway.

And after he had spoken that one word, after he had said her name, he seemed to find no words to offer her, and she looked for none. He still held her hands, however, and she still looked straight and deep into his eyes.

Once the red line of her mouth widened into a smile, once it twisted into a mutinous knot. But she would not speak, nor would she help him to find words.

Master Ogilvie and Marmaduke Bass had passed into the room behind the hearth. The girl and the man were alone.

“You are as familiar to me as my own self, Judith,” he said at last. “It seems to me that I have known you always, that we have never been apart.”

“And even to me, we seem not quite strangers,” answered the soft, singing voice that held the meadow lark’s notes.

“You wrote me that love lay all in the chance of meeting, Judith!” The man’s voice was tremulous with desire.

“Ay, so I believe it does,” she answered, her eyes falling for an instant before his.

“You said that you might meet me and find me the man of your heart’s desire, Judith.”

“Well, if love lies in chance, why might I not chance to love you?” Her words were brave, her eyes were again steady, were again deep in his, but the red line of her mouth was tremulous.

“When will you know, when will you tell me that I am the man of your heart’s desire, Judith? I – I love you, Judith.”

“Must I tell you unasked? Might you not ask me now and see?”

Her white lids drooped over her tawny eyes, and just for an instant the red lips that were level with his met his.

But suddenly the girl drew back, withdrew her hands from his. She had not meant to yield so easily. She had not meant to give so much. She had not meant to yield at all until Cecil knew – until he knew – why, certain things that he must know before he could take what she so longed to give.

“I – I must speak, my cousin, there is something I must tell you,” she faltered, and no one would have known the trembling voice for that of Mistress Judith Ogilvie.

“Ah, sweetheart, speak, speak all you will,” cried Lindley. “Your voice is music in my ears. Say that you love me, say it over and over, for whatever else you say, whatever else you tell me, that is all I’ll hear.”

“Nay, but, Master Lindley – ”

Cecil’s brain sprang to the sound, and all at once he seemed to recognize a perfume familiar, yet all unfamiliar.

But then there fell upon their ears a clash of swords in the court. Lindley and the girl, standing near the window, were thrust aside by Master Ogilvie and the innkeeper.

“Mr. Ashley and his servant are quartered here,” sputtered the latter, “and like as not ’tis one of them. The man’s as quarrelsome as his master.”

“Aie!” cried Judith, suddenly, “’tis Johan, the player’s boy, and Johan cannot fight. He will be killed! Stop it, good Marmaduke. Have a care, boy! Protect yourself! Hit under! Ay, now, to the left! ’Fend yourself, Johan!”

“But if ’tis Johan, the player’s boy,” cried Lindley, “he needs no instructions. He’s master of the art of fighting.”

But Judith was heedless of the meaning in his words.

“He knows not one end of the sword from t’other,” she cried, impetuously, the hot blood in her cheeks. Leaning far from the window, it seemed almost as though she fought with Johan’s sword, so fast her instructions followed one the other, so exactly her motions portrayed what he should do.

The fight in the yard was summarily stopped by the intervention of Marmaduke and Master Ogilvie. Then Judith, drawing back into the room, met Lindley’s eyes for just a second.

“Ah, what have I done?” she cried.

“Oh, Judith, Judith!” he exclaimed. “Johan, Johan, and I never for an instant knew it!”

“Ay, Johan, the player’s boy,” she answered. The words were almost a sob, and yet Lindley heard the same tremulous laugh that had rung through the woods the night when Johan had killed the highwayman. “Johan, the player’s boy, and Judith, the play actor!”

“But – ”

“No, there is no but,” she answered, quickly. “’Twas that, too, that I was trying to tell you. But I’ve been Johan to you for all this time, though I’ve had to play so many parts. And love did lie in the chance of meeting, too. I loved you when first I laid eyes on you, when I lay feigning sleep in that chair by the hearth, when Lord Farquhart entertained his guests, when you took my part and begged that I might be let to sleep, when you vouched for my conscience. And I think my conscience should have wakened then, but it did not. And I loved you even more that same night when we rode through the moonlit roads together, when you vowed to win Judith’s love in spite of Judith’s hate. See, I’ve the golden crown you threw to Johan to bind your bargain with him.” She drew from her bosom the golden piece of money strung on a slender chain.

Her words had poured forth so tumultuously that Lindley had found no chance to interrupt. Now he said, almost mechanically, the first words that had occurred to him.

“You were the lad asleep in the chair that night?” He was holding her close, as though she might escape him.

“Ye-es,” she answered, faintly, “and – and, oh, Cecil, shall I tell you all? I was Johan all the time, you know. You only saw the real Johan twice; once that night at the edge of our woods, when he told you that I had gone to London, and – and once on the day of the trial, when you saw him asleep at the end of the lane. And – and – of course you know that I disguised myself as the Lady Barbara that night in hopes of gaining a word with Lord Farquhart. I did that well, did I not, Cecil?” There was a touch of bravado in the voice for a second, but it quickly grew tremulous once more. “’Tis harder to be a woman than a man, I think, harder to play a woman’s part than a man’s. And – well, I was the woman in the court who stopped Lord Grimsby’s sentence. ’Twas Lady Barbara’s gown that she had ready for her wedding journey with Lord Farquhart. It was a beautiful gown, did you not think so?” Again the bravado quivered in and out of her voice. “I ruined it outright, for Johan and I shoved it, gown and hat and all, under Star’s saddle cloth, and I rode on it all the way from London to Ogilvie’s woods, with a king’s guard mounted behind for part of the way. I’ve played all those parts, Cecil, and it’s been a wearying, worrisome thing, part of the time, with quick work and rapid changes, but it’s all over now. I’ve learned my lesson and I’ve done with mumming forever.”

“And those are all the parts you’ve played?” Lindley’s question was almost careless, for he was tasting again the girl’s sweet lips.

“No,” she answered, slowly, with long hesitations between the words. “There was one other. But – but must you know all, every one?” For an instant the eyes and lips were mutinous.

“All, every one, sweetheart,” he answered.

“Well,” she said, slowly again and with still longer hesitations, “there was one other, but – but ’twas – well, the blackest kind of a black devil that tempted me, that led me on, that showed me the excitement of it all, that taught me the ease of escape and flight!”

“A – a – black devil!” Cecil was echoing her words, and yet Judith was well aware that not yet did he know the truth.

“Ay, a black devil,” she answered. “The Black Devil himself. I was the Black Devil. I was that black highwayman. But ’twas only a joke of a highwayman, Cecil, only a joke when I held up all those stupid, cowardly lords. Only a joke when I frightened the poor old bishop. Only a joke when I made Grimsby come to poor Jack’s rescue. Only a joke to frighten Barbara. It was all a joke, until I knew what a scrape I’d got Lord Farquhart into. And then I knew I had to rescue Farquhart. And rescue him I did. So I’ve never hurt anyone. I’ve never injured anyone. I robbed no one really, you know, and, oh, Cecil, Cecil, can’t you see that ’twas only done for fun, all of it? And it’s all gone from me now, gone from me forever, every bit of it. And, Cecil, it’s love, love for you, that’s exorcised it. Even the devil himself can be exorcised by love. Even the Black Devil himself can be exorcised by the kind of love I have for you.”

It was not only her words that pleaded. Love itself pleaded in the tawny eyes, on the tender lips, with the clinging hands, and in very truth it is doubtful if the devil himself could have found place between her lips that clung to his, within his arms that clasped her close.

And in Geldino’s sherris, opened by Marmaduke Bass, Lindley only repeated a former toast, offered in the same place; for, with laughing eyes on Judith’s, he said:

“Shall we drink once more, and for the last time, to the Gentleman of the Highways?”

FROM GARDENS OVER SEAS

(A Rondel After Catulle Mendes)I am the merle for whistling known,And you, the sweet branch small and light;I, gold and black; you, green and white;I, full of songs; you, flower full-blown.Take if you will my merry toneAnd with your rose-blooms me requite;I am the merle for whistling known,And you the sweet branch small and light.But should your blossoms – overthrownBy storm’s or wind’s or water’s might —Be swept to earth in sudden plight,Count not on me for grief or groan;I am the merle for whistling known.Thomas Walsh.

AN EDITORIAL

SYNOPSIS OF CHAPTERS I-XV OF “THE DELUGE,” BY DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS

Matthew Blacklock, the central figure of the story, is essentially a self-made man, who has made himself a power to be reckoned with. He is a man of great natural force, immense egotism, insatiable greed for notoriety and unswerving adherence to his own standards of morality. He has two devouring ambitions: First to become one of the inner circle that controls high finance and second to become one of the elect in society.

The opening chapters explain these ambitions. The magnate of the financial world is Roebuck, who has from time to time made use of Blacklock’s peculiar abilities and following. The latter has become dissatisfied with his role as a mere instrument and demands of Roebuck that he shall be given a place among the “seats of the mighty.” Roebuck makes a pretense of yielding to the demand.

Blacklock’s social ambition is awakened and stimulated by his meeting with Anita Ellersly, a young society girl whose family have been the recipients of many financial favors from him.

Using these obligations as a lever, he secures the entree to the Ellersly home, though it is soon made plain to him that his intentions with respect to Anita are extremely distasteful to her.

His first impulse is to regard his plans as hopeless, but his vanity comes to his rescue and strengthens his resolution to succeed. For assistance he turns to Monson, the trainer of his racing stable, an Englishman of good birth and breeding. Under Monson’s tuition he makes rapid progress in adapting himself to the requirements imposed upon aspirants for social distinction.

Blacklock persists in his attention to Anita and finally becomes engaged to her, though it is perfectly understood by both that she does not love him and accepts him only because he is rich and her family is poor.

Meantime, he has to some extent lost his hold upon his affairs in Wall Street and suddenly awakens to the fact that he has been betrayed by Mowbray Langdon, one of Roebuck’s trusted lieutenants, who, knowing that Blacklock is deeply involved in a short interest in Textile Trust stock, has taken advantage of the latter’s preoccupation with Miss Ellersly to boom the price of the stock. With ruin staring him in the face, Blacklock takes energetic measures to save himself.

He sees Anita, tells her the situation and frees her, but she refuses to accept her release when she hears of Langdon’s duplicity.

With the aid of money loaned to him by a gambler friend, he succeeds the next day, by means of large purchases of Textile Trust, in postponing the catastrophe.

Calling at the house of the Ellerslys, he has a violent scene with Mrs. Ellersly, who attempts to break the engagement between him and Anita, but it ends in his taking her with him from the house.

They go to the house of Blacklock’s partner, Joseph Ball, where they are married, after which Blacklock takes his wife to his own apartments, despite her protest that she wishes to go to her uncle’s.

Anita plainly shows her aversion to her husband, though he treats her with the greatest delicacy and consideration.

After some days the young wife receives a call from her parents, who seek to persuade her to leave Blacklock, telling her that they have private information that he will soon be a bankrupt. Anita refuses to go unless they will return to her husband all the money they have obtained from him.

All this she frankly tells Blacklock, who scoffs at the idea that he is in sore straits financially, though in his secret heart he knows that his position is indeed precarious.

In his extremity he goes to Roebuck, to ascertain, if he can, if he too is in the plot to ruin him.

THE DELUGE

By David Graham Phillips

[FOR SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS INSTALLMENTS SEE PRECEDING PAGE]

XV – (Continued)

When Roebuck lived near Chicago, he had a huge house, a sort of crude palace such as so many of our millionaires built for themselves in the first excitement of their new wealth – a house with porches and balconies and towers and minarets and all sorts of gingerbread effects to compel the eye of the passer-by. But when he became enormously rich, so rich that his name was one of the synonyms for wealth, so rich that people said “rich as Roebuck” where they used to say “rich as Crœsus,” he cut away every kind of ostentation, and avoided attention more eagerly than he had once sought it. He took advantage of his having to remove to New York, where his vast interests centered; he bought a small and commonplace and, for a rich man, even mean house in East Fifty-second Street – one of a row and an almost dingy looking row at that. There he had an establishment a man with one-fiftieth of his fortune would have felt like apologizing for. The dishes on his table, for example, were cheap and almost coarse, and the pictures on his walls were photographs or atrocious bargain-counter paintings. To his few intimates who were intimate enough to question him about his come-down from his Chicago splendors, he explained that with advancing years he was seeing with clearer eyes his responsibilities as a steward of the Lord, that luxury was sinful, and no man had the right to waste the Lord’s gifts that way. The general theory about him was that advancing years had developed his natural closeness into the stingiest avariciousness. But my notion is he was impelled by the fear of exciting envy, by the fear of assassination – the fear that made his eyes roam restlessly whenever strangers were near him, and so dried up the inside of his body that his dry tongue was constantly sliding along his dry lips. I have seen a convict stand in the door of his cell and, though it was impossible that anyone could be behind him, look nervously over his shoulder every moment or so. Roebuck had the same trick – only his dread, I suspect, was not the officers of the law, even of the divine law, but the many, many victims of his merciless execution of “the Lord’s will.” This state of mind is more common than is generally supposed, among the very rich men, especially those who have come up from poverty. Those who have inherited great wealth, and have always been used to it, get into the habit of looking upon the mass of mankind as inferiors, and move about with no greater sense of peril than a man has in venturing among a lot of dogs with tails wagging. But those who were born poor and have risen under the stimulus of a furious envy of the comfortable and the rich, fancy that everybody who isn’t rich has the same savage hunger which they themselves had, and is ready to use the same desperate methods in gratifying it. Thus, where the rich of the Langdon sort are supercilious, the rich of the Roebuck sort are nervous and often become morbid on the subject of assassination as they grow richer and richer.