Chapter II: At Destiny’s Crossroads

“And what is the Barge of Haunted Lives?” asked the duckhunter, sharply.

Westfall, looking thoughtfully at the floor, replied:

“Well, Canbeck, it’s the product of a hobby--the hobby of one who, for many years, has found diversion in the study of the strange fates that befall mankind. It is a vessel as clumsy, ugly and as helpless on the waves as are the barks which bear most men on the stormy sea of Destiny. It is moved from place to place by a tugboat--one of those inconsequential craft, which, while unable to make long, stormy and romantic voyages themselves, often are in a position to lend helping hands to great vessels which can do these things if they only get into proper channels. The tug gets them there, and, in this respect, I am a great deal like the tug. When I find a brother craft, enveloped in a fog and drifting toward the reef of error, I throw him a line and tow him out. But I am no hypocrite, so I will confess that only a certain class of sufferers finds it possible to excite my interest--the class which consists of men and women of haunted lives.”

“Ah, I see,” exclaimed the duckhunter, moodily. “You find diversion in the unravelling of other men’s mysteries.”

“No. I simply afford them certain facilities for unravelling such mysteries themselves.”

“It’s a queer sort of place you give to them in which to do it,” growled the duckhunter, looking around dubiously.

Westfall laughed quietly.

“It suffices,” he said, resignedly. “And, after all, it is doubtful whether a more appropriate scene for such endeavors may be found. Everything you see around you came here as a result of tales that have been told beneath this roof.”

“Those statues without faces?” queried the duckhunter.

“Everything. I first saw this barge when I was summoned to it one night to bid a last farewell to a man who, years before, had been one of my most intimate friends. In consequence of an unfortunate act, he became a fugitive--a pariah. When I reached his side he was dying--the worst example of a haunted life I have ever known. In respect to his memory I bought the barge and fitted it up as a place of refuge for persons who might be fleeing from ghosts of their misdeeds or misfortunes. It has had many interesting visitors, I assure you.”

His eyes had wandered to the aeronaut again, and, pausing in his speech, he continued to gaze at her thoughtfully. Then, rousing himself suddenly, he laid a hand on one of the shoulders of the duckhunter.

“And so, my dear Canbeck, you don’t like my statues,” he said.

The duckhunter shook his head.

“I’m no judge of art, I’m afraid,” he answered surlily.

“Well, some excellent judges have expressed rather favorable opinions on these same marbles,” Westfall replied. “I had them from the sculptor himself--a queer fellow, who was the victim of one of the strangest misfortunes I ever have known. During the last five years of his life, this man, who had attained many artistic triumphs before, dared not carve a human face. In every block of marble there was a face that haunted him, and, strive as he would, he could carve no other. It mattered not whether his model was man or woman, maiden or boy, the face that always haunted him invariably took form under his chisel. And so, at last, it came to pass that he carved only such statues as you see about you now.”

“What became of him?” the matter-of-fact duckhunter asked.

Westfall shrugged his shoulders slightly, and an enigmatical smile played for a moment on his lips.

“It was from another guest of the Barge of Haunted Lives that I obtained the two skulls which you see in these suits of armor,” he went on. “The man was a Frenchman, and among his ancestors was one of those vandals who, during the French Revolution, entered the church of St. Denis and, opening the tombs of the old French kings, used royal bones as playthings for a while, and then threw them into a ditch. This ancestor preserved these skulls which, years before, had worn the crown of France. One is said to be that of Henry of Navarre, and the other that of Louis the XI. It was a strange fate that had awaited them all those years, was it not? Above one of these skulls fluttered the famous white plume that led the embattled Huguenots to victory at Ivry. In the other were evolved designs almost Napoleonic in their magnitude--designs that made France the greatest world power of that period, and also caused the French capital to become the centre of the intellectual life of Europe. The brain is gone, but the case belongs to me. The memories of those days at St. Denis so haunted the descendant of the vandal that, at last, in return for a small service, the last of the unhappy race gave the two deathheads to me.”

The young woman was staring, with wide, horror-stricken eyes, at the deathheads.

“But the armor--surely those suits did not belong--” Canbeck began.

“No,” said Westfall, “they were not worn by kings. There was a skeleton in each when both were found walled up in a niche in an old English castle that was said to have been haunted. The suits belonged to the period of the fifth Henry.”

The single, searching eye of the duckhunter was gazing now at the sarcophagus.

“That,” said Westfall, “contains the body of the Princess Tushepu, of the Twentieth Dynasty, who died more than twelve hundred years before Christ. It and the rug--but, enough of this. You will be here for two or three days, and I will relate their stories when you have more leisure to listen to them.”

“Two or three days!” exclaimed the duckhunter, scowling. “I’m afraid, sir----”

“Possibly four,” added Westfall, thoughtfully.

And now the fair aeronaut spoke.

“You have said that it was your wish that I should meet at this table certain persons in whose history I am especially interested,” she said. “Might I ask you to tell me who these persons are?”

“They are those with whom some of the most important events of your life are identified, your highness,” Westfall replied, respectfully. “Singularly enough, however, you have met only three of them before.”

“But I must know the names of those three,” the young woman persisted, as the millionaire paused.

“I beg of you to excuse me from revealing their names until you have seen them.”

The young woman turned to the duckhunter.

“Am I right in assuming that I am under your protection, Colonel Canbeck?” she asked.

“Perfectly,” replied the duckhunter, composedly.

“Then,” said the young woman, “I will ask you to take me from this boat.”

The duckhunter turned to Westfall.

“You have my reason, sir, for now wishing you good-night,” he said gravely.

Westfall, taking out his watch, glanced at it and laughed quietly.

“Not so fast--not so fast, Colonel,” he replied, easily. “If this lady suspected how intimately you are related to her history, and the part that you have played therein, you would be one of the last persons in the world to whom she would go for protection.”

The face of the duckhunter grew pale with anger.

“Do you mean, sir, that I am not to be trusted--that I----”

“Oh, no, I do not mean that, but there is an episode in your life, which, being of the greatest importance to her, it is best for her to hear explained before she accepts any favor at your hands.”

“You are talking like a madman,” exclaimed the duckhunter, angrily. “This lady and I never have met before, and there is nothing in my life that possibly could have any effect on hers, or in her life that could have affected mine. And, if there was, it would constitute no mystery that would be an appropriate subject for one of your busybody councils on this fool craft that you call the Barge of Haunted Lives.”

“You are sure, then, that you are not in that category--in short, that the memory of no deed of yours has haunted you--that, when you sit out yonder watching for wildfowl, it never enters your thoughts?” asked Westfall.

An ashen pallor overspread the face of the duckhunter, and there was an expression of apprehension in the eye that was turned to his questioner.

“No--unless----” he faltered.

Westfall nodded carelessly.

“Yes--that’s it,” he said.

With a low, half-smothered groan, Canbeck, still grasping his fowling-piece, turned toward the door.

“Stop,” said the young woman, quietly.

The duckhunter halted, and, as he hesitated, the fair aeronaut saw that his head was bowed and that there was a strange, dull glare in the eye which gazed at the floor.

“You are fortunate, Colonel Canbeck, for it would seem that from your past there comes only one spectre to haunt you,” the young woman went on. “I am less favored, for I am the victim of many. For months I have been trying to evade them, but they follow me everywhere. Thus far, however, I have been able to identify all, but now Mr. Westfall, apparently interesting himself in my unfortunate history, seems to have found another one. Pray let him explain to us why it is that you and I, who have never met before, must regard each other as enemies.”

“Come, come, let us all understand one another better,” said Westfall, with some impatience. “As you see, the table has been laid for ten. An hour hence eight men--including you, Canbeck--will sit down together. The ninth place, which, from the first, was intended for you, Madame, will remain vacant until the meal is finished. Then, you, madame, having been served elsewhere, and veiled in such a manner that you will not be recognized, will enter this room and take the seat reserved for you.

“Of the men present I will be the only one who is not personally identified with your strange history, and among the others there are only two who have met before to-day. Your extraordinary misfortunes are known to me, and during the nights which these men will spend on this barge, each of them will tell a story. Some of these stories will be scarcely less wonderful than those said to have been related by Scheherezade to the Sultan of the Indies, but you will find that all their adventures have direct connection with your own.”

“In this room I have heard many remarkable narratives and the analogy of some of them to the stories told by Scheherezade has led me to call them my American Nights Entertainments, but I may safely say that the series which will begin to-night promises to be by far the most wonderful of all, for a remarkable fatality seems to have invested with an almost independent interest all the persons who, either directly or indirectly, have had to do with those concerned with the mystery of the Rajiid Buddha.”

The young woman gave utterance to a little cry, and exclaimed:

“The Rajiid Buddha! In Heaven’s name is that the man--the man who----”

She paused suddenly and darted a quick, searching glance toward Canbeck.

“I know nothing of a Rajiid Buddha,” the duckhunter explained.

“But you have been in India?” the young woman asked, with feverish haste.

“Never, madame--never in my life,” the duckhunter answered gravely.

“Colonel Canbeck knows even less of the Rajiid adventure than you do, madame,” Westfall explained.

“But you--you do know something of it, then?” the fair aeronaut asked, and, as she spoke, her color came and went.

“The narrative of that adventure is one of those which will be recounted to you, if you will consent to occupy the place which has been provided for you at the table to-night,” Westfall answered. “I can promise you that you will find the other narratives quite as interesting.”

“I will stay,” the fair aeronaut murmured faintly.

“And you, Colonel?” queried Westfall, addressing the duckhunter.

“It is quite unnecessary,” said Canbeck in a low, uncertain voice.

“On the contrary, the story that you have to tell is one of the most important of all, for, loth as you may be to tell it, its narration has much to do toward defining this lady’s future position in the world. You will, of course, exercise your own judgment in the matter. When, however, you have heard something of the history of the principals in this extraordinary affair, you will appreciate how much depends on a revelation of the facts which are in your possession. You will require no one then to urge you to speak. Until you make yourself known voluntarily, no one will suspect your secret, and I think I may assure you that, when you have told your story, the face that has haunted you will trouble you no more.”

Canbeck shrugged his shoulders resignedly.

“Well, have it so then,” he muttered. Then, after a pause, he added: “But, since you find it so easy to invite the confidence of others, perhaps you will not mind telling us how you found me out--how it comes to pass that this theatrical-looking barge of yours attracts to it so many men and women of haunted lives who are willing to tell you their troubles for your diversion.”

“They do not come here until I send for them, my dear Colonel,” Westfall answered, calmly. “As I have told you, persons of this sort always have interested me, but of this interest they are not aware until I tell them of it. My hobby is known, however, to several noted alienists, wardens of penitentiaries, and to city and private detectives in this country and abroad. From these, from time to time, I receive reports of strange cases to which their attention has been directed. When one of these cases excites my interest, I get the principals down to the Barge of Haunted Lives and, after listening to their stories, I do all that lies within my power to aid the unfortunate narrators. In this manner the expenses incident to the clearing up of mysteries have constituted the price I pay for a form of diversion which harms no man who yields it to me. In these matters my curiosity is never idle, but I never betray confidence, even though the man from whom I win it is a hardened, death-deserving criminal.”

“Humph!” Canbeck muttered. “Well, you’ve run me down, and that proves your ability so far as others are concerned, I suppose. But why have you had your barge towed away out here to this forsaken place?”

“Owing to the number of my guests, and certain perils which threaten some of them, I thought it best to keep as well away from the city as possible while they should be aboard,” Westfall explained. “While I was still undecided as to where I should send the barge, I learned that you, one of the men I sought, had arranged to come down here on your annual visit to the shooting grounds. Accordingly, I had the barge towed in here last night. The tug that brought it was out of Great South Bay by dawn, so you did not see it when you came out from Sellersville this morning.”

“Well, these shooting things are all I have to wear out here,” said Canbeck, apologetically.

“More conventional garments await you in the room which has been appropriated to your use,” replied Westfall, laughingly.

As he spoke, the millionaire crossed to one of the walls and pressed an electric button. In response to the summons a young man in brown livery appeared between the curtain under which Westfall had entered the room.

“Driggs, take the Duckhunter to his quarters, and bid Harvette report to this lady,” said Westfall. Then turning to Canbeck, he added smilingly: “It is a custom on this barge to give no guest a name in the presence of others until such a time as it may please him to reveal it himself. For this reason, each bears a title that is suggested either by his story or some personal characteristic. Accordingly, while you are known as the Duckhunter, the identity of this lady will be protected by the sobriquet of the Veiled Aeronaut. Among the guests whom you will meet will be the Whispering Gentleman, the Nervous Physician, the Homicidal Professor and the Hypochondriacal Painter. Each you see is----”

“And you tell me that the persons who have suggested these horrible designations have, unknown to me, played important parts in the miserable drama of my life?” demanded the aeronaut, breathlessly.

“Yes,” Westfall replied, “and, since these appellations have alarmed you, perhaps it is better that I should not name the others, but I assure you that there is not one among them who bears you any ill will.”

“Who is this Harvette you are sending to me?” asked the young woman, suspiciously.

“A middle-aged Frenchwoman, who, being on the barge for such emergencies as this, will be wholly at your service, madame, while you are aboard.”

Canbeck, following Driggs, the liveried servant, bowed gravely to the aeronaut and then disappeared behind the curtains. A few moments later a pleasant-faced, matronly woman, clad in black, appeared and led the young woman to a dainty little stateroom which was so well appointed that, despite her forebodings of evil, the visitor was conscious of a thrill of satisfaction. This, at least, was a happier fate than had been indicated while she was confronted by the prospect of a bunk in the Duckhunter’s disreputable-looking sloop.

When Canbeck returned to the saloon in which he first had encountered Westfall, a marvellous change in his appearance had been effected. Shaved, attired in evening dress and with carefully brushed hair, he bore himself as easily as Westfall, and had the aspect of a well-groomed man of the world. But the gloom that had settled on his face nearly an hour before was not to be dissipated by the cheerful greeting of his host.

“Well, Colonel, my yacht is in the bay, and one of her boats has just brought the other members of our company aboard the barge,” Westfall said. “They will be in presently, and dinner soon will be served.”

Passing a hand nervously over his face, the Duckhunter nodded, but made no verbal reply.

They had not long to wait, for soon the sounds of subdued voices were heard outside the curtains, and Canbeck’s single, greenish-yellow eye, became suggestive of a searchlight.

“There will be no introductions,” said Westfall, speaking quietly. “I will indicate our friends as they come in, however.”

Between the curtains there now appeared a figure that caused the Duckhunter, strong-nerved as he was, to stiffen suddenly and contract his brows. It was the figure of an admirably proportioned man, a little under six feet in height. He carried himself gracefully, but his face seemed to constitute a veritable caricature of human physiognomy.

Though his head was well-shaped, his features were so strikingly demoniacal that it was impossible to look upon them without sensations of horror and fear. The lean, triangular face was partly covered by a close-cropped, double-pointed beard which, with a small moustache, failed to disguise the effects produced on the visage by a wide, high-cornered, pointed-lipped mouth, which, even in repose, constantly was expressive of sardonic humor. In singular contrast with this expression was one of suppressed pain which, burning in his large, dark eyes, seemed ever to belie the sinister and unearthly smile that was always present on his lips. Though this singular guest appeared to be no more than thirty or thirty-two years of age, his thick, rebellious black hair was well sprinkled with gray.

“The Sentimental Gargoyle--with the Fugitive Bridegroom just behind him,” said Westfall, explanatorily.

As the Gargoyle descended the steps and the guest behind him stood revealed, the Duckhunter saw a man, apparently about thirty-five years old, whose appearance offered a striking contrast with that of the guest who preceded him. Tall, and distinctly handsome, his thoughtful features bespoke a mind ill at ease. His brow was contracted, and he flashed toward the Duckhunter a stern, challenging glance which caused Canbeck to believe that the newcomer suspected him of being an enemy.

“The Nervous Physician,” said Westfall, as a short, thick-set, gray-bearded man, with a quick, fidgety manner, came down the steps.

“The Hypochondriacal Painter and the Whispering Gentleman,” Westfall went on.

The first mentioned of these was a tall, emaciated man, past the prime of life, with long, patriarchal white hair and beard. His brow was high and unwrinkled, but on it, and in the large dark eyes below, was an expression of the most profound melancholy that the Duckhunter ever had seen on a human face. Beside the Hypochondriacal Painter walked a man of medium height, with white hair and furtive gray eyes. The skin of his hands and clean-shaven face had a peculiar copper-colored hue. He glanced sharply at the Duckhunter to whom he nodded curtly, then, having traversed the full length of the apartment with quick, nervous steps, he drew out a pair of eyeglasses and, holding these to his nose, he calmly proceeded to study the hieroglyphics which were inscribed on the cartonnage covering the body of the Egyptian princess.

“The Homicidal Professor,” Westfall whispered.

The Duckhunter, whose eye had been following the movements of the Whispering Gentleman, again turned toward the curtained doorway through which a stalwart-looking man, about thirty years of age, was passing. In the dark, brooding face and small, curled moustache of the newcomer there was something which caused the Duckhunter to suspect that he was either a Greek or an Italian. The low, deferential bow with which he saluted the host seemed to confirm this suspicion.

All the guests were attired in full evening dress, and, with the single exception of the Whispering Gentleman, all appeared to be too much engrossed in serious reflections to manifest any interest in their extraordinary environment.

“Well, gentlemen, shall we be seated?” asked Westfall, cheerfully.

“Are we all here?” asked the Whispering Gentleman, in a loud, hoarse whisper.

“There are two absentees, but these will not join us until the meal is finished,” Westfall explained, as he moved toward the head of the table. “Of these, one will occupy the seat at the foot of the table and the other will be on my right. A card at each plate will enable each of you to find the place to which I have taken the liberty of assigning you.”

All then seated themselves and, while they were being served by Driggs, their host made several attempts to interest his guests in topics suggested by the news of the day. These efforts met with scant encouragement, however. The Nervous Physician and the Whispering Gentleman were the only persons to respond, the others being so occupied with their thoughts and the dishes set before them as to be oblivious to all else.

At length the cigars were reached, and Driggs proceeded to remove the last of the dishes. Then Westfall said:

“Gentlemen, though the eighth member of our company, who is about to join us, is a member of the other sex, she has assured me that our cigars will not be offensive to her, so you are at perfect liberty to retain them. Driggs, ask the Veiled Aeronaut if she is prepared to join us now.”

“The Veiled Aeronaut!” exclaimed the Gargoyle, starting.

Westfall frowned, as he went on:

“That is the name by which the eighth guest will be known to you, and our friend’s exclamation seems to make it necessary for me to repeat what I said when you arrived at the Barge. Neither by word nor by sign must any of us interrupt a speaker in the course of his narrative, nor, during the hours that intervene between our sessions, are we to discuss with one another the subjects which have to do with the histories that you have come here to relate. This is now thoroughly understood, I believe.”

The silence that followed remained unbroken for several moments, then Westfall, who had turned towards the doorway, rose gravely.

“My friends,” he said, “the Veiled Aeronaut is now a member of our company.”

Following the example of their host, the seven guests rose, and it would have been difficult to tell whether their action had been inspired by amazement or a sense of chivalry. In the doorway stood one of the most extraordinary figures they ever had seen. Apparently it was the figure of a woman, for the garments were feminine. Through the open front of a long, hanging-sleeved robe of gold and black brocade were visible a red silk waist and skirt. The head was enveloped in a heavy white veil which, falling to the shoulders of the wearer, completely concealed not only her features but the outlines of her head.

For several moments the strange figure paused between the curtains. Then those who watched it curiously saw it sway and move as if it were about to retreat. Westfall, stepping quickly toward the veiled woman, offered her his arm. After a little further hesitation she accepted it, and permitted her host to lead her to the further end of the table where she sank listlessly into the chair that Driggs drew back for her.

Exchanging covert, wondering glances, the other guests reseated themselves. Westfall, standing at the head of the table, addressed them.

“My friends,” he said, “my purpose in causing you to assemble here has been to solve the mystery of a single life, but, in attempting to effect this solution, I have discovered that, supplementary to that mystery there are others in which each of you is individually interested. Into the greater mystery these individual adventures merge like streams in confluence with a mighty river. All become one at last.

“In the course of my inquiries into the subject of haunted lives, I learned, a few months ago, of the case of a bridegroom who, on the very day of his wedding, became a fugitive under most extraordinary circumstances. A secret investigation of this case led me through many strange fields to some of the most remarkable men I have ever known. With one exception, all these men are here, and though, looking around you, my friends, most of you see no face, except my own, that you can recollect having seen before you met to-day, all of you have been working out a common destiny. Even now, as I say this, you look at me incredulously.

“The impression that I am exaggerating may be strengthened at first, perhaps, by the fact that the scenes of the first two tales are so far apart, and the characters so vastly different. However, it soon will be demonstrated that they bear the most intimate relationship. As we proceed, you will observe that the interest of all the adventures which will be described to you will focus on a single object. In the mysterious chain that has excited my wonder every link is a haunted life, and, as the adventure of the Fugitive Bridegroom constitutes the first link I found, it properly will be the first to be submitted to your attention. With your permission, therefore, he will relate it to you now.”

As he finished speaking, Westfall bowed gravely toward the Fugitive Bridegroom, who, leaning with crossed arms on the table, forthwith began his narrative.