CHAPTER 15

If Marion had not come into my life at this time, I doubt if my courage would have borne up. I was as one struck down by lightning; dazed, but not dead. Dick and I had been inseparable pals, and his sudden, tragic, withal heroic, death, all but dispirited me. The bright star of femininity that had so unexpectedly risen in my firmament kept alive an otherwise drooping soul. My unhappy lot it was to attend to the remains of my beloved friend, and have the casket sent to his home, and at the same time to look after Marion, whose safety demanded my presence. The hardest of my duties over, duties whose performance wrought gloomily and despairingly upon me, even as they might upon a widow burying her son, I arranged for the resumption of our westward journey. We were given other tickets and Pullman reservations, and Marion and I went onward in the same car. With her arm in a sling, I must necessarily be something of a servant, but a very willing and watchful one. At ten o’clock, forenoon, of the third day out, we ferried across the bay from Oakland to San Francisco. Marion had sent a telegram home the day after the accident, and in anticipation of our arrival an elderly gentleman, whom Marion introduced as “ Daddy, ” met us at the station.

Instantly my early guess about Marion was verified—she was, indeed, born and raised to wealth. Everything about this dear “ Daddy ” revealed it. I felt uncomfortable, having an idea that a poor fellow like me, without family, and showing plainly that I was a son of toil, would not interest such a man as Mr. Carrel.

The introduction over, Marion began to pour forth a rapid fire praise of me, and to explain, in a very impressive way, all that I had done for her (to me, little enough), and she insisted that I accompany them to their home. To this Mr. Carrel gladly consented, shaking my hand warmly, and in other ways expressing his pleasure and gratitude. So off we set, and engaging a taxicab, we were soon flying over the streets to Marion’s home. Marion had told me that her home was in the suburbs, overlooking the bay, but had modestly refrained from picturing the magnificence of the estate, simply saying that it was a “ grand old home. ” Indeed, it was a “ grand old home. ” When it broke into view, I judged it must have cost a pretty fortune, and that art, culture, and love directed its making; but when I entered the grounds, when I saw the house close-up, and then entered it, I mentally added another cipher. What I beheld made me dizzy. My knees shook and my voice faltered—my hands grew stiff and “ speechless. ” Marion looked at me with a broad smile and a nod of encouragement, but behind it all there was a hint of mystery. She turned to her father and said,

“ Where is Quong? ”

Her father rang a bell, and a moment later the Chinaman, smiling, soft-footed, entered, and Marion greeted him in a very jolly manner. Then she told him to show me to a room, whereupon Quong led me upstairs.

And such a room! If there was anything known to man for furnishing and beautifying a bedroom, anything that might add to comfort and restfulness, both the designer and the outfitter of this room had known of it, and got it. Over the polished oak floor lay a thick velvet rug whose price I dared not estimate, whose colors were so rich, so wonderfully and intricately blended, whose substance was so soft and cushiony I marvelled that man could have designed and woven it. The furniture was Flemish oak, in period style, hand-carved and as I afterward learned, imported from Brussels. A silver-plate, crystal, chandelier hung from the center of the room, while other lighting devices were set about the walls. These were of different colors and candle-power, so any shade or power of light might be had, soft, dim, bright, or even like moonlight. Rich curtains of Irish importation draped the windows; several paintings, works of rare art, if my judgment be good, adorned the walls. In a niche in one wall was a clock of very old and quaint design, a thermometer and a barometer attached to it. A silver ash tray on a smoker’s stand occupied a corner. Besides the door through which I entered were two others, one opening into a roomy and happily arranged closet whose drawers offered a supply of fine linen; the other one, when opened, revealed the bathroom, tiled and immaculate, all white save the ceiling, which was pale blue with a gold star in the center. There was a rare and delicate fragrance about the place which I learned was incense, a bit of Quong’s doing. The walls were papered in blue and gold, in fine harmony with the view one beheld through the windows. There, the eye wandered over the hazy, yellowish headlands to the pale, purplish mountains in the distance, or turned to the expanse of water narrowing until it drew itself together and squeezed through the Golden Gate.

As I stood, bewildered, taking in in meek wonder all this beauty and splendor, Quong patiently abided, waiting for me to recover. He could not talk to me, in the signs, but he grimaced and pointed and smiled, which I understood to mean that I must make myself at home, this after having shown me the closet and the bathroom. Then bowed himself out, softly closing the door.

And here was I, Michael Dunmore, otherwise “ Mickey Dunmore, ” he who had been fished out of the wide sea, saved from the maw of a shark, the same boy that had boldly and innocently struck out alone over the streets of New York, the boy of adoption, of dreams, the wanderer, winding up in a veritable palace wherein dwelt a wonderful and beautiful deaf maiden! I confess I believed in the actuality and power of Aladdin’s lamp!

After such a journey a hot bath and a change of linen were very welcome and refreshing. My toilet finished, I ventured timidly down the great stairs and again entered that wonderful reception room, the room of art and luxury which had caused me to add the other cipher. I drew forth a book from the library shelf and sank down in a huge, overstuffed chair to read.

But I could not read. Who, brought a stranger into such a place, could quietly compose himself with a book? My head filled with all kinds of thoughts—the wonderful place, the beautiful girl, the fine old man. And what a striking figure Mr. Carrel was! Handsome, of fine build and erect carriage. His face was the picture of health and intellectuality, yet there was an unmistakable mark of sorrow in those fine features, and the eyes seemed to have lost their sparkle—the dim lustre of sadness was unquestionably there. From such thoughts my mind would turn to things about me, and I wondered that this great and magnificent place, this massive and lavishly furnished mansion should be occupied by only this old gentleman and his daughter—and Quong, lucky fellow! I could not solve it, nor even conjecture. I opened my book again, but only gazed upon its pages. I fell into a reverie.

Then Marion entered. Her light step on the soft rug made no sound, no vibration, and she may have been standing before me several seconds before I looked up and into her glowing face.

A new sling supported her injured arm. She wore a dark blue skirt and a white middy, quite in keeping with the proximity of the sea.

“ Are you awake, now, Michael? If so, tell me, what do you think of my home? ”

I rose and advanced. “ Honestly, I don’t know what to think. I never expected to find anything like this—I seem to be dreaming. But tell me, Marion, who are you—a princess? And is Mr. Carrel a king, incognito? Really, I mean it! ”

Her lips parted in a merry laugh. She caught my hand, nodding quite reproachfully. “ No, no! I’m just Marion Carrel, and your king is just Daddy, and Quong’s a heathen man from China. We all live here quietly and in peace with the world, except when I am in New York, at the old studies—but I’m not going back—I won’t! ” She stamped her foot and set her lips with unmistakable decision. “ Daddy has told me he is a man of sorrow, but I don’t know what he means. He ought to be happy with all this big home—and me, and very obliging Quong. ”

She dropped down on the soft velour couch and motioned me to be seated.

“ I am almost dazed by all this splendor, Marion, and awfully curious and interested. I want to know what it means, and how it all came to be. It’s a wonderful collection of splendidly chosen art and furnishings. ”

“ I can’t answer you there—I really don’t know—exactly. I have grown up to it. When I was a little bud of a girl we traveled all over the world—Daddy and I—and he would buy anything that struck his fancy; and here they are. ”

“ But your mother, Marion. You haven’t told me about her. ”

“ I don’t know anything about her—Daddy never told me about her. He has her picture, taken when she was young—she must have been very beautiful. ” I thought so, too, judging by the daughter before me. We paused in our absorbing conversation, I, trying to fathom the situation, and she, lips curling with amusement, watching me curiously. At last she broke the silence.

“ You’re a splendid boy, Michael, but you haven’t told me one thing about yourself, and I’ve known you a whole, big week! ”

“ All right, ” I laughed—“ here goes. I’m Mickey Dunmore, as my old friends used to call me. I was swimming in the ocean once when a shark tried to swallow me. A sailor pulled me into his boat, I’ve been wandering around since, and here I am. ”

Marion’s eyebrows rose, one degree at a time, until they reached their limit, when her mouth parted and she clapped her hands in laughter.

“ That’s wonderful—you must tell Daddy. It will tickle him. ”

But it wasn’t necessary to “ tell Daddy. ” To our surprise and momentary embarrassment, we found him standing by, near the portieres of the adjoining dining room, quietly watching us. We had been spelling mostly, and Mr. Carrel could understand. A tinge of pink swiftly spread over Marion’s naturally tinted cheeks; I, too, was conscious of momentary confusion. Our conversation had been too frank, too personal. Marion and I had come together by an accident; we had known each other but a week. What business had I to ask such questions of her? I had blundered.

Mr. Carrel came forward, one hand to his chin, meditatively. Drawing a heavy chair closer to us, he sat down and began to talk, slowly spelling his words when he saw I could not read the lips. Naturally, his first thoughts were of Marion, and he asked questions about the fracture and manner of setting it; and judging from the scientific terms he used I guessed that he must once have been a physician, or at least have studied medicine and surgery. My replies, and those of Marion seemed to set his mind at ease, and he turned to me, wanting to know all about me, and whence I came. He was a bit humorous, thus setting me at ease. At last he said, “ Wouldn’t you like to take a stroll about our place—the grounds? ” He rose, and we followed him, passing out through the great door with its fantastic iron knocker. The grounds must have covered five acres, and were charmingly laid off. All kinds of native and foreign trees and plants were there, and Mr. Carrel and Marion told me their names—names that were new to me. But what aroused my interest greatly was a tide fountain. In a sunken garden that fell below sea level was a small pond, out of which, in the center, rose a whale’s head, a huge iron casting. By an ingenious arrangement of pipes running into the bay the whale would spout water with the rising tide! I thought it the most wonderfully clever device I had ever seen.

One o’clock came and we went back to the house where Quong served us at luncheon. The table offered a repast largely of seafood. It was all very novel to me, and I am sure that Marion and Mr. Carrel enjoyed my behavior over it as much as I did the food.

Luncheon over, Marion shortly retired to her room, and her father led me to his den, or office. I felt a little uneasy as we entered and he closed the door. I recalled a glance of sadness Marion had cast toward me as she left, which at the moment I did not pay heed to. It was not long before my fears were borne out, and I understood Marion’s glance. What I had been passing through was, indeed, analogous to that wonderful lamp I have mentioned; but if pain must follow joy, I was willing to bear it for a taste of what was there.

Mr. Carrel told me what Marion had told him, that I had been a gentleman, a friend, and a hero. That I had been ever at her side, protecting her and watching over her and seeing her safely home. And now, what could he, her father, do for me? I told him I wanted nothing, that Marion had exaggerated matters, that I had done nothing but my duty, and also that I had become so interested in Marion that her safety was more to me than my own. I only begged permission to see her occasionally. To my astonishment, it was refused! When he told me that, however gently, I looked straight into his face, my own face quivering and revealing every trace of grief and wounded pride. And this man saw it, cognizant—read my inner soul, and, no doubt, suffered a pang even as I. He took my hand and pressed it, then turned and paced back and forth. At last he addressed me.

“ Michael, I cannot grant what you want—what you ask of me, and for reasons that I cannot now reveal. Someday, maybe, I will tell you. ”

I recalled what Marion had said about his being a man of sorrow.

“ But I can and will give you money, or anything reasonable it will buy, and gladly. ” He paused a moment. “ You have saved from harm and brought home to me that which is both my greatest joy and my deepest sorrow—Marion. ”

“ I—I am very glad that I have brought her safely to you, ” I stammered, choking back my grief. I turned to go.

“ But you must take something. I could give you the necessary money to start you in something here, or wherever you may be going. I want to help make your life easier. I don’t want you to toil. I will give you a thousand dollars to start you in some business, and you will be saved long years of effort and discouragements. ” He drew from his coat pocket a checkbook.

“ Mr. Carrel, ” I said protestingly, placing my hand upon his shoulder, “ I thank you, but I must refuse. ” This time I turned to the door, and while he was still seated, writing the check, I left the room.

I went upstairs and to my room. There I gathered together my few belongings, took a farewell look over that wonderful bedchamber, a glance out of the window over that glorious landscape, turned to the door, opened it to go—and met—Marion.

By her tear-stained eyes I knew that she knew.

We walked down the stairs together, saying nothing until I had taken my overcoat and hat from the hall seat. Then Marion said, “ Come and say good-bye to Daddy, don’t feel hard toward him. He likes you, but he is queer, and—he’s Marion’s Daddy. ”

I followed her back to the office and she opened the door. Carrel was pacing the floor, his hands locked behind him. He turned, his face seeming to redden, then pale, and there was a look of anguish in that splendid face that went to my heart. The next moment he grasped my hand, said something aloud which I could not interpret, and pointed kindly to the door, beckoning to Marion that he desired me to leave.

I left the den. I did not even linger to walk with Marion, in the moment of chagrin and disappointment I even forgot to grasp her hand.

Alone, I walked to the door, opened it, and went out. I paused before closing the door and looked back. Marion stood a few paces behind, gazing sadly after me. I walked down the gravelly way to the distant iron gate to pass through it to the outer world where my future was no more to me than if I did not exist—I was dumb, stupefied.