I climbed the three dilapidated flights of stairs, which I had
so often climbed before, and knocked at a small door at the end of
the corridor. Mr. Wilde opened the door and I walked in.
When he had double-locked the door and pushed a heavy chest
against it, he came and sat down beside me, peering up into my face
with his little light-coloured eyes. Half a dozen new scratches
covered his nose and cheeks, and the silver wires which supported
his artificial ears had become displaced. I thought I had never
seen him so hideously fascinating. He had no ears. The artificial
ones, which now stood out at an angle from the fine wire, were his
one weakness. They were made of wax and painted a shell pink, but
the rest of his face was yellow. He might better have revelled in
the luxury of some artificial fingers for his left hand, which was
absolutely fingerless, but it seemed to cause him no inconvenience,
and he was satisfied with his wax ears. He was very small, scarcely
higher than a child of ten, but his arms were magnificently
developed, and his thighs as thick as any athlete's. Still, the
most remarkable thing about Mr. Wilde was that a man of his
marvellous intelligence and knowledge should have such a head. It
was flat and pointed, like the heads of many of those unfortunates
whom people imprison in asylums for the weak-minded. Many called
him insane, but I knew him to be as sane as I was.
I do not deny that he was eccentric; the mania he had for
keeping that cat and teasing her until she flew at his face like a
demon, was certainly eccentric. I never could understand why he
kept the creature, nor what pleasure he found in shutting himself
up in his room with this surly, vicious beast. I remember once,
glancing up from the manuscript I was studying by the light of some
tallow dips, and seeing Mr. Wilde squatting motionless on his high
chair, his eyes fairly blazing with excitement, while the cat,
which had risen from her place before the stove, came creeping
across the floor right at him. Before I could move she flattened
her belly to the ground, crouched, trembled, and sprang into his
face. Howling and foaming they rolled over and over on the floor,
scratching and clawing, until the cat screamed and fled under the
cabinet, and Mr. Wilde turned over on his back, his limbs
contracting and curling up like the legs of a dying spider. He
was eccentric.
Mr. Wilde had climbed into his high chair, and, after studying
my face, picked up a dog's-eared ledger and opened it.
"Henry B. Matthews," he read, "book-keeper with Whysot Whysot
and Company, dealers in church ornaments. Called April 3rd.
Reputation damaged on the race-track. Known as a welcher.
Reputation to be repaired by August 1st. Retainer Five Dollars." He
turned the page and ran his fingerless knuckles down the
closely-written columns.
"P. Greene Dusenberry, Minister of the Gospel, Fairbeach, New
Jersey. Reputation damaged in the Bowery. To be repaired as soon as
possible. Retainer $100."
He coughed and added, "Called, April 6th."
"Then you are not in need of money, Mr. Wilde," I inquired.
"Listen," he coughed again.
"Mrs. C. Hamilton Chester, of Chester Park, New York City.
Called April 7th. Reputation damaged at Dieppe, France. To be
repaired by October 1st Retainer $500.
"Note.—C. Hamilton Chester, Captain U.S.S. 'Avalanche', ordered
home from South Sea Squadron October 1st."
"Well," I said, "the profession of a Repairer of Reputations is
lucrative."
His colourless eyes sought mine, "I only wanted to demonstrate
that I was correct. You said it was impossible to succeed as a
Repairer of Reputations; that even if I did succeed in certain
cases it would cost me more than I would gain by it. To-day I have
five hundred men in my employ, who are poorly paid, but who pursue
the work with an enthusiasm which possibly may be born of fear.
These men enter every shade and grade of society; some even are
pillars of the most exclusive social temples; others are the prop
and pride of the financial world; still others, hold undisputed
sway among the 'Fancy and the Talent.' I choose them at my leisure
from those who reply to my advertisements. It is easy enough, they
are all cowards. I could treble the number in twenty days if I
wished. So you see, those who have in their keeping the reputations
of their fellow-citizens, I have in my pay."
"They may turn on you," I suggested.
He rubbed his thumb over his cropped ears, and adjusted the wax
substitutes. "I think not," he murmured thoughtfully, "I seldom
have to apply the whip, and then only once. Besides they like their
wages."
"How do you apply the whip?" I demanded.
His face for a moment was awful to look upon. His eyes dwindled
to a pair of green sparks.
"I invite them to come and have a little chat with me," he said
in a soft voice.
A knock at the door interrupted him, and his face resumed its
amiable expression.
"Who is it?" he inquired.
"Mr. Steylette," was the answer.
"Come to-morrow," replied Mr. Wilde.
"Impossible," began the other, but was silenced by a sort of
bark from Mr. Wilde.
"Come to-morrow," he repeated.
We heard somebody move away from the door and turn the corner by
the stairway.
"Who is that?" I asked.
"Arnold Steylette, Owner and Editor in Chief of the great New
York daily."
He drummed on the ledger with his fingerless hand adding: "I pay
him very badly, but he thinks it a good bargain."
"Arnold Steylette!" I repeated amazed.
"Yes," said Mr. Wilde, with a self-satisfied cough.
The cat, which had entered the room as he spoke, hesitated,
looked up at him and snarled. He climbed down from the chair and
squatting on the floor, took the creature into his arms and
caressed her. The cat ceased snarling and presently began a loud
purring which seemed to increase in timbre as he stroked her.
"Where are the notes?" I asked. He pointed to the table, and for
the hundredth time I picked up the bundle of manuscript
entitled—
"THE IMPERIAL DYNASTY OF AMERICA."
One by one I studied the well-worn pages, worn only by my own
handling, and although I knew all by heart, from the beginning,
"When from Carcosa, the Hyades, Hastur, and Aldebaran," to
"Castaigne, Louis de Calvados, born December 19th, 1877," I read it
with an eager, rapt attention, pausing to repeat parts of it aloud,
and dwelling especially on "Hildred de Calvados, only son of
Hildred Castaigne and Edythe Landes Castaigne, first in
succession," etc., etc.
When I finished, Mr. Wilde nodded and coughed.
"Speaking of your legitimate ambition," he said, "how do
Constance and Louis get along?"
"She loves him," I replied simply.
The cat on his knee suddenly turned and struck at his eyes, and
he flung her off and climbed on to the chair opposite me.
"And Dr. Archer! But that's a matter you can settle any time you
wish," he added.
"Yes," I replied, "Dr. Archer can wait, but it is time I saw my
cousin Louis."
"It is time," he repeated. Then he took another ledger from the
table and ran over the leaves rapidly. "We are now in communication
with ten thousand men," he muttered. "We can count on one hundred
thousand within the first twenty-eight hours, and in forty-eight
hours the state will rise en masse. The country follows
the state, and the portion that will not, I mean California and the
Northwest, might better never have been inhabited. I shall not send
them the Yellow Sign."
The blood rushed to my head, but I only answered, "A new broom
sweeps clean."
"The ambition of Caesar and of Napoleon pales before that which
could not rest until it had seized the minds of men and controlled
even their unborn thoughts," said Mr. Wilde.
"You are speaking of the King in Yellow," I groaned, with a
shudder.
"He is a king whom emperors have served."
"I am content to serve him," I replied.
Mr. Wilde sat rubbing his ears with his crippled hand. "Perhaps
Constance does not love him," he suggested.
I started to reply, but a sudden burst of military music from
the street below drowned my voice. The twentieth dragoon regiment,
formerly in garrison at Mount St. Vincent, was returning from the
manoeuvres in Westchester County, to its new barracks on East
Washington Square. It was my cousin's regiment. They were a fine
lot of fellows, in their pale blue, tight-fitting jackets, jaunty
busbys and white riding breeches with the double yellow stripe,
into which their limbs seemed moulded. Every other squadron was
armed with lances, from the metal points of which fluttered yellow
and white pennons. The band passed, playing the regimental march,
then came the colonel and staff, the horses crowding and trampling,
while their heads bobbed in unison, and the pennons fluttered from
their lance points. The troopers, who rode with the beautiful
English seat, looked brown as berries from their bloodless campaign
among the farms of Westchester, and the music of their sabres
against the stirrups, and the jingle of spurs and carbines was
delightful to me. I saw Louis riding with his squadron. He was as
handsome an officer as I have ever seen. Mr. Wilde, who had mounted
a chair by the window, saw him too, but said nothing. Louis turned
and looked straight at Hawberk's shop as he passed, and I could see
the flush on his brown cheeks. I think Constance must have been at
the window. When the last troopers had clattered by, and the last
pennons vanished into South Fifth Avenue, Mr. Wilde clambered out
of his chair and dragged the chest away from the door.
"Yes," he said, "it is time that you saw your cousin Louis."
He unlocked the door and I picked up my hat and stick and
stepped into the corridor. The stairs were dark. Groping about, I
set my foot on something soft, which snarled and spit, and I aimed
a murderous blow at the cat, but my cane shivered to splinters
against the balustrade, and the beast scurried back into Mr.
Wilde's room.
Passing Hawberk's door again I saw him still at work on the
armour, but I did not stop, and stepping out into Bleecker Street,
I followed it to Wooster, skirted the grounds of the Lethal
Chamber, and crossing Washington Park went straight to my rooms in
the Benedick. Here I lunched comfortably, read the Herald
and the Meteor, and finally went to the steel safe in my
bedroom and set the time combination. The three and three-quarter
minutes which it is necessary to wait, while the time lock is
opening, are to me golden moments. From the instant I set the
combination to the moment when I grasp the knobs and swing back the
solid steel doors, I live in an ecstasy of expectation. Those
moments must be like moments passed in Paradise. I know what I am
to find at the end of the time limit. I know what the massive safe
holds secure for me, for me alone, and the exquisite pleasure of
waiting is hardly enhanced when the safe opens and I lift, from its
velvet crown, a diadem of purest gold, blazing with diamonds. I do
this every day, and yet the joy of waiting and at last touching
again the diadem, only seems to increase as the days pass. It is a
diadem fit for a King among kings, an Emperor among emperors. The
King in Yellow might scorn it, but it shall be worn by his royal
servant.
I held it in my arms until the alarm in the safe rang harshly,
and then tenderly, proudly, I replaced it and shut the steel doors.
I walked slowly back into my study, which faces Washington Square,
and leaned on the window sill. The afternoon sun poured into my
windows, and a gentle breeze stirred the branches of the elms and
maples in the park, now covered with buds and tender foliage. A
flock of pigeons circled about the tower of the Memorial Church;
sometimes alighting on the purple tiled roof, sometimes wheeling
downward to the lotos fountain in front of the marble arch. The
gardeners were busy with the flower beds around the fountain, and
the freshly turned earth smelled sweet and spicy. A lawn mower,
drawn by a fat white horse, clinked across the green sward, and
watering-carts poured showers of spray over the asphalt drives.
Around the statue of Peter Stuyvesant, which in 1897 had replaced
the monstrosity supposed to represent Garibaldi, children played in
the spring sunshine, and nurse girls wheeled elaborate baby
carriages with a reckless disregard for the pasty-faced occupants,
which could probably be explained by the presence of half a dozen
trim dragoon troopers languidly lolling on the benches. Through the
trees, the Washington Memorial Arch glistened like silver in the
sunshine, and beyond, on the eastern extremity of the square the
grey stone barracks of the dragoons, and the white granite
artillery stables were alive with colour and motion.
I looked at the Lethal Chamber on the corner of the square
opposite. A few curious people still lingered about the gilded iron
railing, but inside the grounds the paths were deserted. I watched
the fountains ripple and sparkle; the sparrows had already found
this new bathing nook, and the basins were covered with the
dusty-feathered little things. Two or three white peacocks picked
their way across the lawns, and a drab coloured pigeon sat so
motionless on the arm of one of the "Fates," that it seemed to be a
part of the sculptured stone.
As I was turning carelessly away, a slight commotion in the
group of curious loiterers around the gates attracted my attention.
A young man had entered, and was advancing with nervous strides
along the gravel path which leads to the bronze doors of the Lethal
Chamber. He paused a moment before the "Fates," and as he raised
his head to those three mysterious faces, the pigeon rose from its
sculptured perch, circled about for a moment and wheeled to the
east. The young man pressed his hand to his face, and then with an
undefinable gesture sprang up the marble steps, the bronze doors
closed behind him, and half an hour later the loiterers slouched
away, and the frightened pigeon returned to its perch in the arms
of Fate.
I put on my hat and went out into the park for a little walk
before dinner. As I crossed the central driveway a group of
officers passed, and one of them called out, "Hello, Hildred," and
came back to shake hands with me. It was my cousin Louis, who stood
smiling and tapping his spurred heels with his riding-whip.
"Just back from Westchester," he said; "been doing the bucolic;
milk and curds, you know, dairy-maids in sunbonnets, who say
'haeow' and 'I don't think' when you tell them they are pretty. I'm
nearly dead for a square meal at Delmonico's. What's the news?"
"There is none," I replied pleasantly. "I saw your regiment
coming in this morning."
"Did you? I didn't see you. Where were you?"
"In Mr. Wilde's window."
"Oh, hell!" he began impatiently, "that man is stark mad! I
don't understand why you—"
He saw how annoyed I felt by this outburst, and begged my
pardon.
"Really, old chap," he said, "I don't mean to run down a man you
like, but for the life of me I can't see what the deuce you find in
common with Mr. Wilde. He's not well bred, to put it generously; he
is hideously deformed; his head is the head of a criminally insane
person. You know yourself he's been in an asylum—"
"So have I," I interrupted calmly.
Louis looked startled and confused for a moment, but recovered
and slapped me heartily on the shoulder. "You were completely
cured," he began; but I stopped him again.
"I suppose you mean that I was simply acknowledged never to have
been insane."
"Of course that—that's what I meant," he laughed.
I disliked his laugh because I knew it was forced, but I nodded
gaily and asked him where he was going. Louis looked after his
brother officers who had now almost reached Broadway.
"We had intended to sample a Brunswick cocktail, but to tell you
the truth I was anxious for an excuse to go and see Hawberk
instead. Come along, I'll make you my excuse."
We found old Hawberk, neatly attired in a fresh spring suit,
standing at the door of his shop and sniffing the air.
"I had just decided to take Constance for a little stroll before
dinner," he replied to the impetuous volley of questions from
Louis. "We thought of walking on the park terrace along the North
River."
At that moment Constance appeared and grew pale and rosy by
turns as Louis bent over her small gloved fingers. I tried to
excuse myself, alleging an engagement uptown, but Louis and
Constance would not listen, and I saw I was expected to remain and
engage old Hawberk's attention. After all it would be just as well
if I kept my eye on Louis, I thought, and when they hailed a Spring
Street horse-car, I got in after them and took my seat beside the
armourer.
The beautiful line of parks and granite terraces overlooking the
wharves along the North River, which were built in 1910 and
finished in the autumn of 1917, had become one of the most popular
promenades in the metropolis. They extended from the battery to
190th Street, overlooking the noble river and affording a fine view
of the Jersey shore and the Highlands opposite. Cafés and
restaurants were scattered here and there among the trees, and
twice a week military bands from the garrison played in the
kiosques on the parapets.
We sat down in the sunshine on the bench at the foot of the
equestrian statue of General Sheridan. Constance tipped her
sunshade to shield her eyes, and she and Louis began a murmuring
conversation which was impossible to catch. Old Hawberk, leaning on
his ivory headed cane, lighted an excellent cigar, the mate to
which I politely refused, and smiled at vacancy. The sun hung low
above the Staten Island woods, and the bay was dyed with golden
hues reflected from the sun-warmed sails of the shipping in the
harbour.
Brigs, schooners, yachts, clumsy ferry-boats, their decks
swarming with people, railroad transports carrying lines of brown,
blue and white freight cars, stately sound steamers, déclassé tramp
steamers, coasters, dredgers, scows, and everywhere pervading the
entire bay impudent little tugs puffing and whistling
officiously;—these were the craft which churned the sunlight waters
as far as the eye could reach. In calm contrast to the hurry of
sailing vessel and steamer a silent fleet of white warships lay
motionless in midstream.
Constance's merry laugh aroused me from my reverie.
"What are you staring at?" she inquired.
"Nothing—the fleet," I smiled.
Then Louis told us what the vessels were, pointing out each by
its relative position to the old Red Fort on Governor's Island.
"That little cigar shaped thing is a torpedo boat," he
explained; "there are four more lying close together. They are the
Tarpon, the Falcon, the Sea Fox, and the
Octopus. The gun-boats just above are the
Princeton, the Champlain, the Still
Water and the Erie. Next to them lie the cruisers
Faragut and Los Angeles, and above them the
battle ships California, and Dakota, and the
Washington which is the flag ship. Those two squatty
looking chunks of metal which are anchored there off Castle William
are the double turreted monitors Terrible and
Magnificent; behind them lies the ram,
Osceola."
Constance looked at him with deep approval in her beautiful
eyes. "What loads of things you know for a soldier," she said, and
we all joined in the laugh which followed.
Presently Louis rose with a nod to us and offered his arm to
Constance, and they strolled away along the river wall. Hawberk
watched them for a moment and then turned to me.
"Mr. Wilde was right," he said. "I have found the missing
tassets and left cuissard of the 'Prince's Emblazoned,' in a vile
old junk garret in Pell Street."
"998?" I inquired, with a smile.
"Yes."
"Mr. Wilde is a very intelligent man," I observed.
"I want to give him the credit of this most important
discovery," continued Hawberk. "And I intend it shall be known that
he is entitled to the fame of it."
"He won't thank you for that," I answered sharply; "please say
nothing about it."
"Do you know what it is worth?" said Hawberk.
"No, fifty dollars, perhaps."
"It is valued at five hundred, but the owner of the 'Prince's
Emblazoned' will give two thousand dollars to the person who
completes his suit; that reward also belongs to Mr. Wilde."
"He doesn't want it! He refuses it!" I answered angrily. "What
do you know about Mr. Wilde? He doesn't need the money. He is
rich—or will be—richer than any living man except myself. What will
we care for money then—what will we care, he and I, when—when—"
"When what?" demanded Hawberk, astonished.
"You will see," I replied, on my guard again.
He looked at me narrowly, much as Doctor Archer used to, and I
knew he thought I was mentally unsound. Perhaps it was fortunate
for him that he did not use the word lunatic just then.
"No," I replied to his unspoken thought, "I am not mentally
weak; my mind is as healthy as Mr. Wilde's. I do not care to
explain just yet what I have on hand, but it is an investment which
will pay more than mere gold, silver and precious stones. It will
secure the happiness and prosperity of a continent—yes, a
hemisphere!"
"Oh," said Hawberk.
"And eventually," I continued more quietly, "it will secure the
happiness of the whole world."
"And incidentally your own happiness and prosperity as well as
Mr. Wilde's?"
"Exactly," I smiled. But I could have throttled him for taking
that tone.
He looked at me in silence for a while and then said very
gently, "Why don't you give up your books and studies, Mr.
Castaigne, and take a tramp among the mountains somewhere or other?
You used to be fond of fishing. Take a cast or two at the trout in
the Rangelys."
"I don't care for fishing any more," I answered, without a shade
of annoyance in my voice.
"You used to be fond of everything," he continued; "athletics,
yachting, shooting, riding—"
"I have never cared to ride since my fall," I said quietly.
"Ah, yes, your fall," he repeated, looking away from me.
I thought this nonsense had gone far enough, so I brought the
conversation back to Mr. Wilde; but he was scanning my face again
in a manner highly offensive to me.
"Mr. Wilde," he repeated, "do you know what he did this
afternoon? He came downstairs and nailed a sign over the hall door
next to mine; it read:
"MR. WILDE, REPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS. Third Bell.
"Do you know what a Repairer of Reputations can be?"
"I do," I replied, suppressing the rage within.
"Oh," he said again.
Louis and Constance came strolling by and stopped to ask if we
would join them. Hawberk looked at his watch. At the same moment a
puff of smoke shot from the casemates of Castle William, and the
boom of the sunset gun rolled across the water and was re-echoed
from the Highlands opposite. The flag came running down from the
flag-pole, the bugles sounded on the white decks of the warships,
and the first electric light sparkled out from the Jersey
shore.
As I turned into the city with Hawberk I heard Constance murmur
something to Louis which I did not understand; but Louis whispered
"My darling," in reply; and again, walking ahead with Hawberk
through the square I heard a murmur of "sweetheart," and "my own
Constance," and I knew the time had nearly arrived when I should
speak of important matters with my cousin Louis.