In the Quarter

It seemed as if Gethryn would never get on with his correspondence. He sat and held this letter as he had done the other. A deep melancholy possessed him. He did not care to move. At last, impatiently, he tore the third envelope. It contained a long letter from Clifford.

``My blessed boy,'' it said.

We learn from Papa Braith that you will be here before long, but the old chump won't tell when. He intends to meet you all alone at the station, and wishes to dispense with a gang and a brass band. We think that's deuced selfish. You are our prodigal as well as his, and we are considering several plans for getting even with Pa.

One is to tell you all the news before he has a chance. And I will begin at once.

Thaxton has gone home, and opened a studio in New York. The Colossus has grown two more inches and hates to hear me mention the freak museums in the Bowery. Carleton is a hubby, and wifey is English and captivating. Rowden told me one day he was going to get married too. When I asked her name he said he didn't know. Someone with red hair.

When I remarked that he was a little in that way himself, he said yes, he knew it, and he intended to found a race of that kind, to be known as the Red Rowdens. Elliott's brindle died, and we sold ours. We now keep two Russian bloodhounds. When you come to my room, knock first, for ``Baby'' doesn't like to be startled.

Braith has kept your family together, in your old studio. The parrot and the raven are two old fiends and will live forever. Mrs Gummidge periodically sheds litters of kittens, to Braith's indignation. He gives them to the concierge who sells them at a high price, I don't know for what purpose; I have two of the Gummidge children. The bull pups are pups no longer, but they are beauties and no mistake. All the same, wait until you see ``Baby.''

I met Yvonne in the Louvre last week. I'm glad you are all over that affair, for she's going to be married, she told me. She looked prettier than ever, and as happy as she was pretty. She was with old Bordier of the Fauvette, and his wife, and – think of this! she's coming out in Belle Hélène! Well! I'm glad she's all right, for she was too nice to go the usual way.

Poor little Bulfinch shot himself in the Bois last June. He had delirium tremens. Poor little chap!

There's a Miss Dene here, who knows you. Braith has met her. She's a beauty, he says, and she's also a stunning girl, possessing manners, and morals, and dignity, and character, and religion and all that you and I have not, my son. Braith says she isn't too good for you when you are at your best; but we know better, Reggy; any good girl is too good for the likes of us.

Hasten to my arms, Reginald! You will find them at No. 640 Rue Notre Dame des Champs, chez,

    Foxhall Clifford, Esq.

Leaving Clifford's letter and the newspapers on the table, Rex took his hat, put out the light, and went down to the street. As he stood in the door, looking off at the dark lake, he folded Yvonne's letter and placed it in his breast. He held Braith's a moment more and then laid it beside hers.

The air was brisk; he buttoned his coat about him. Here and there a moonbeam touched the lapping edge of the water, or flashed out in the open stretch beyond the point of pines. High over the pines hung a cliff, blackening the water all around with fathomless shadow.

A waiter came lounging by, his hands tucked beneath his coattails. ``What point is that? The one which overhangs the pines there?'' asked Rex.

``Gracious sir!'' said the waiter, ``that is the Schicksalfels.''

``Why `Schicksal-fels'?''

``Has the gracious gentleman never heard the legend of the `Rock of Fate'?''

``No, and on second thoughts, I don't care to hear it now. Another time. Good night!''

``Ah! the gentleman is too good! Thousand thanks! Gute Nacht, gnädiger Herr!''

Gethryn remained looking at the crags.

``They cannot be half a mile from here,'' he thought. ``I suppose the path is good enough; if not, I can turn back. The lake will look well from there by moonlight.'' And he found himself moving up a little footpath which branched below the hotel.

It was pleasant, brisk walking. The air had a touch of early frost in it. Gethryn swung along at a good pace, pulling his cap down and fastening the last button of his coat. The trees threw long shadows across the path, hiding it from view, except where the moonlight fell white on the moist gravel. The moon herself was past the full and not very bright; a film of mist was drawing over the sky. Gethryn, looking up, thought of that gentle moon which once sailed ghostlike at high noon through the blue zenith among silver clouds while a boy lay beside the stream with rod and creel; and then he remembered the dear old yellow moon that used to flood the nursery with pools of light and pile strange moving shades about his bed. And then he saw, still looking up, the great white globe that hung above the frozen river, striking blue sparks from the ringing skates.

He felt lonely and a trifle homesick. For the first time in his life – he was still so young – he thought of his childhood and his boyhood as something gone beyond recall.

He had nearly reached his destination; just before him the path entered a patch of pine woods and emerged from it, shortly, upon the flat-topped rock which he was seeking. Under the first arching branches he stopped and looked back at the marred moon in the mist-covered sky.

``I am sick of this wandering,'' he thought. ``Wane quickly! Your successor shall shine on my home: Yvonne's and mine.''

And, thinking of Yvonne, he passed into the shadows which the pines cast upon the Schicksalfels.

Seventeen

Paris lay sparkling under a cold, clear sky. The brilliant streets lay coiled along the Seine and stretched glittering from bank to bank, from boulevard to boulevard; cafés, brasseries, concert halls and theaters in the yellow blaze of gas and the white and violet of electricity.

It was not late, but people who entered the lobby of the Theater Fauvette turned away before the placard ``Standing room only.''

Somewhere in the city a bell sounded the hour, and with the last stroke the drop curtain fell on the first act of ``La Belle Hélène.''

It fell amidst a whirlwind of applause, in which the orchestra led.

The old leader of the violins shook his head, however. He had been there twenty years, and he had never before heard of such singing in comic opera.

``No, no,'' he said, ``she can't stay here. Dame! she sings!''

Madame Bordier was pale and happy; her good husband was weak with joy. The members of the troupe had not yet had time to be jealous and they, too, applauded.

As for the house, it was not only conquered, it was wild with enthusiasm. The lobbies were thronged.

Braith ran up against Rowden and Elliott.

``By Jove!'' they cried, with one voice, ``who'd have thought the little girl had all that in her? I say, Braith, does Rex know about her? When is he coming?''

``Rex doesn't know and doesn't care. Rex is cured,'' said Braith. ``And he's coming next week. Where's Clifford?'' he added, to make a diversion.

``Clifford promised to meet us here. He'll be along soon.''

The pair went out for refreshments and Braith returned to his seat.

The wait between the acts proved longer than was agreeable, and people grumbled. The machinery would not work, and two heavy scenes had to be shifted by hand. Good Monsieur Bordier flew about the stage in a delirium of excitement. No one would have recognized him for the eminently reasonable being he appeared in private life. He called the stage hands ``Prussian pigs!'' and ``Spanish cattle!'' and expressed his intention to dismiss the whole force tomorrow.

Yvonne, already dressed, stood at the door of her room, looking along the alley of dusty scenery to where a warm glow revealed the close proximity of the footlights. There was considerable unprofessional confusion, and not a little skylarking going on among the company, who took advantage of the temporary interruption.

Yvonne stood in the door of her dressing room and dreamed, seeing nothing.

Her pretty figure was draped in a Grecian tunic of creamy white, bordered with gold; her soft, dark hair was gathered in a simple knot.

Presently she turned and entered her dressing room, closing the door. Then she sat down before the mirror, her chin resting on her hands, her eyes fixed on her reflected eyes, a faint smile curving her lips.

``Oh! you happy girl!'' she thought. ``You happy, happy girl! And just a little frightened, for tomorrow he will come. And when he says – for he will say it – `Yvonne must we wait?' I shall tell him, No! take me now if you will!''

Without a knock the door burst open. A rush of music from the orchestra came in. Yvonne thought ``So they have begun at last!'' The same moment she rose with a faint, heartsick cry. Her sister closed the door and fastened it, shutting out all sound but that of her terrible voice. Yvonne blanched as she looked on that malignant face. With a sudden faintness she leaned back, pressing one hand to her heart.

``You received my letter?'' said the woman.

Yvonne did not answer. Her sister stamped and came nearer. ``Speak!'' she cried.