Chapter VI: A Wanderer From Araby (1)

Incredible as my assertion may appear to you who have just heard Lord Galonfield relate his remarkable adventures, I may truly say that not at any time since the night on which his lordship told me that he loved me have I believed that his conduct on that occasion was inspired by any motive other than a desire to obtain a fortune which, I was assured, he believed would go with my hand.

Despite the fact that Meschid Pasha introduced me as his daughter, there is not a drop of Moslem blood in my veins. My mother was the daughter of Sir George Bridwell, a member of the British House of Commons. When she was only twenty years of age, she became the second wife of Prince Maranotti, the head of one of the noble families of Italy. By his first wife Prince Maranotti had a son--Victor--who was seven years old at the time of my mother’s marriage.

I was born a year after my mother became the Princess Maranotti. For several months prior to my birth, the Prince’s unreasonable jealousy had caused him to treat my mother with a degree of cruelty that was almost inhuman. After I was born the Prince’s conduct became so unbearable that, when I was only five months old, my mother, with me in her arms, and accompanied only by a maid, fled from Italy. Her brother had been serving as an attaché to the British embassy in Constantinople, and it was to him she fled now for protection.

Upon our arrival in the Turkish capital, my mother learned that her brother, having obtained leave of absence, had set out for England only a few days before. The funds then in her possession were little more than sufficient to take her and her infant and maid to England. This course, however, she hesitated to follow. Her father was a man dominated by a strong sense of duty, and she feared that he would compel her to return to Prince Maranotti, whose vengeful disposition was likely to cause him to inflict some terrible punishment upon her. Despite her fears, she finally decided to go to London, but she resolved that if Sir George reproached her with her conduct she would seek refuge with relatives of her mother.

We were stopping then at a hotel in Pera, and, in order to elude Prince Maranotti, or such agents as he might have employed to seek her, my mother assumed the name of Mrs. Andrew Fenchurch. When her preparations for her journey were completed, she sent for a couple of carriages to take us and our luggage to the vessel on which we were to embark. Entering the first carriage, with me in her arms, my mother directed the maid to seat herself in the second, which contained articles of value, and to meet us at the quay.

As the two carriages drew away from the hotel, my mother, though wearing a thick veil, still feared discovery, and so drew down the curtains of the vehicle in which she was seated.

At length the carriage stopped, and my mother, raising one of the curtains, looked out. Instead of the entrance to the quay, she beheld the richly carved walls of a splendid courtyard. Throwing open the door, my mother called to the driver. The man made no reply, but a few moments later four negroes, seizing her by the arms, forced her to alight and enter a door which was opened at her approach. A fifth negro, closely following the others, carried me in his arms. When the negroes released my mother, she found herself in a sumptuous apartment which, she was informed, was one of a suite in the harem of Meschid Pasha.

Too terrified to question further the black-skinned men who were stationed outside the door, my mother spent nearly twenty minutes of nerve-racking suspense. Then there entered the apartment a man about thirty-five years of age, with pleasing features and a sturdy figure. He was clad in Turkish dress, and in him my mother recognized one of the passengers who had been aboard the vessel that had brought her from Naples.

To my mother this man then made the most ardent protestations of affection. Because of the black garments she had worn since her departure from Italy, he had thought her to be a widow, and had hoped to win her consent to become his wife. My mother indignantly spurned the affection that he offered her, and demanded her liberty.

Apparently thoroughly crestfallen, Meschid retired. On the following day he told my mother he suddenly had been ordered to join the army in one of the Arabian provinces. This assignment, he said, would necessitate his absence from Constantinople for several months. He informed her, however, that during this period she would be treated with the utmost respect by the members of his household, but that she was not to make any attempt to regain her freedom. My mother, who was now a prisoner, resolved to submit to the conditions which the Pasha had imposed upon her until such a time as her brother might return to his post.

Each week English and French newspapers were brought to my mother’s room by respectful attendants, and by means of these she learned that, shortly after his return to London, her brother had married and retired from the diplomatic service. More important than this, however, were reports that Prince Maranotti, believing that there had been ample grounds for his jealousy, was convinced that his wife had eloped with one of her admirers. Accordingly he had divorced her.

When Meschid returned to Constantinople, his wooing of my mother was resumed. This time he did not sue in vain. The light came back to her eyes, and among the first of my memories were the songs she used to sing while the infatuated Pasha, standing beside the piano he had brought to her from Paris, turned the sheets of music that lay before her. In the years that followed she bore to Meschid three sons and two daughters.

Perhaps it was my mother’s many evidences of affection for me, the child of her first marriage, that caused my stepfather to dislike me. But, though I knew I would never share the love that he bestowed upon my brothers and sisters, I never feared him. In his way he was kind to me. When my mother expressed a wish that I might have an English governess who should prepare me for that world that lay beyond the walls of the harem, her fond husband readily consented.

My education was as strange as were my early associations. I was taught English, French and Turkish, and soon became proficient in music and drawing. In my early youth I was inordinately fond of fairy tales. I was taught to read the Bible and the Koran, and of these the Koran was my favorite. But of all the books that were placed in my youthful hands, those which pleased me most were the works of the old Persian poets, whose lutes were attuned to the praise of Oriental loves, the songs of birds, the splashing of fountains and the voices of angels, peris and genii who lurked amid whispering trees and fragrant, nodding flowers.

After her marriage to the Pasha, my mother was free to leave the house whenever she listed. But, whether she walked or rode through the crowded streets, there was none among those she passed who would be bold enough to imagine that the bright eyes that looked through her _yashmak_, or the graceful form that was enclosed by her _farendje_ were those of a daughter of Old England, who, having been an unhappy Italian Princess, was now the contented wife of a distinguished Mussulman.

Despite the indifference of my stepfather, I think I should have been content to remain in that luxurious, song-haunted harem forever, had not, when I was eighteen years of age, a terrible misfortune befallen me. This was the death of my mother.

Then all light suddenly went out of my life. The songs which had made the harem seem to us like a corner of the Prophet’s paradise were heard no more, except when, like spirit voices, we heard them echoing faintly in the dim-lighted, rose-scented chambers of our memories. No more did Meschid enter the harem with smiling lips and expectant eyes. His face had become more stolid--his gaze more abstracted and severe.

Two of my half-brothers--Abdul and Ildebrin--no longer made their quarters in the harem, and, after the departure of Ildebrin, then fourteen years of age, the place became more cheerless than before. When I was nineteen, my English governess died. I felt that I was quite friendless now.

Fond as I was of dress and jewels, with which I was well supplied, vanity never had been numbered among my faults, but there came a time when the praise of plain-spoken women visitors brought to me the knowledge that my physical attractions were far greater than those of my dark-skinned half-sisters, who resembled their father, rather than their mother. These comparisons were always displeasing to me, for I saw that my sisters were becoming less and less disposed to mask the aversion with which I inspired them. For the first time I realized that I was living on the bounty of a man to whom I was bound by no ties of blood. Meschid was a devout Mussulman while I--half English, half Italian--had not a drop of Moslem blood in my veins.

At length there reached the harem a rumor that Meschid Pasha, who during the lifetime of my mother had no other wife, was about to wed again. I knew that he or his daughters had no love for me, and I wondered what would be my position in the harem when the new wife was placed at its head.

The star of my destiny had risen, however. Meschid had seen it, but not I.

And so it came to pass, while I was preparing to go out among the shops one morning, that Meschid entered the harem, and, by a gesture, bade me accompany him to one of the rooms where we might be alone.

After we seated ourselves, Meschid looked at me long and thoughtfully, without speaking.

“Pauline,” he said, at length, “what is your faith?”

It was the first time he ever had spoken to me on the subject of religion, and I colored with embarrassment.

“My mother died a Christian, did she not?” I murmured.

Meschid nodded.

“Yes--she died a Christian,” he answered, with a sigh. “She made me promise I would not make you change your faith. That promise shall be kept.”

Then, after a little pause, he added, gloomily:

“Your father is a Christian, too.”

I did not reply to this, and for several minutes Meschid sat looking abstractedly at the floor.

What had my stepfather come to say to me? With a fluttering heart I looked around at the walls that once had constituted a part of my mother’s home. I knew that the time was at hand when I should say farewell to them forever.

“Most Moslem girls marry before they are sixteen,” Meschid said, musingly. “You are nineteen, I believe.”

The gates of Dreamland seemed to be opening their portals to me now, and I felt as if peris, standing at my side, were pointing to where the heroes who so often had visited my girlish fancies were gazing on me from the mystic city’s walls.

“Yes--yes, I know,” I faltered.

“If you are to remain a Christian, you must have a Christian husband,” Meschid said.

A great fear smote me. Would there come a time when, like Giaour women, I would have to appear with my face unveiled in city streets?

“And I have one in view,” Meschid added.

I was trembling violently. For better or for worse, my fate was sealed. There was nothing I might do of my own volition--nothing I could say.

Meschid rose.

“We will start for England to-morrow,” he said.

Involuntarily I clapped my hands.

“For my mother’s country!” I exclaimed, half-joyfully. “Ah, it must be very beautiful in England, for my mother loved it so.”

A frown settled on the Pasha’s face, and he looked at me darkly.

“Yes,” he said, sighing as he turned away. “Yes, your mother loved it--once. But, sometimes, I fancied she was happy here.”

He left me then, and, with feverish haste, I began my preparations for the long journey on which I was to set out on the morrow.

When we had embarked on the steamer that was to take us from the Bosphorus to Naples, I laid aside my _yashmak_, but, in obedience to the command of Meschid, I had all meals served in my stateroom, which I never left without a heavy green or gray veil over my face. At Naples we boarded a train for the north, and, in due time, we arrived in England.

In London a house was in readiness for our occupancy, and I marveled much when I saw how greatly its appointments resembled those of Turkish homes. It had its harem and its selamlik, but here I had less liberty than in Constantinople, for, under no circumstances, was I permitted to leave the harem unless I was accompanied by my stepfather. We took several drives together, and on these occasions I wore one of the French gowns that constituted part of my traveling wardrobe, but I was not permitted to raise my veil, which, unlike a _yashmak_, had no opening for the eyes.

While I was in this London house I suddenly was summoned to the selamlik and there found myself in the presence of Lord Galonfield. My stepfather bade me remove my veil, and, for the first time since I was ten years old, my face was revealed to a man who was not a member of my stepfather’s household.

Scarcely had I acknowledged my introduction to Lord Galonfield when I became conscious of the fact that a strange person had followed me into the room. This person was clad in a black gown and _yashmak_, but whose face it was that was concealed by the _yashmak_ I did not attempt to guess.

Believing that in Lord Galonfield I beheld the man who was to become my husband, I studied him critically. His marked admiration for me, his gentle manner and apparent manliness were not without effect. He pleased me, and I told myself that I would be content to be his wife.

When Lord Galonfield left the house, I asked my stepfather whether or not my surmise was correct. He answered, coldly, that nothing had been decided, but that it was more than probable that Lord Galonfield would ask for my hand.

I then sought information concerning the black-garmented woman I had seen.

“It is a lady in whom I have the most implicit confidence,” Meschid replied. “In no circumstances are you to see Lord Galonfield except in her presence. If he asks you who she is, you may tell him that she is Ayesha, a Moslem woman to whose charge you have been confided during your residence in England. Discourage all further questioning on the subject, and abstain from it yourself.”

Lord Galonfield’s visits now became frequent, and, when he called, my stepfather arranged matters so that his lordship, the mysterious Ayesha and I were left together for an hour. It was only at these times that I saw Ayesha at all.

Each visit found Lord Galonfield’s regard for me increasing, and at length he threw aside all restraint and, telling me that he loved me, he asked me to be his wife. I inquired whether he had obtained the consent of my stepfather. He replied that he had not, but would try to do so. Again he asked me if I loved him, but, just as I was in the act of confessing that I did, my stepfather entered the room. Meschid, to my great surprise, bitterly rebuked his lordship for thus declaring his sentiments to me, then he ordered me to return to the harem. I was on my way thither when the idea occurred to me to address the strange woman who had attended me. Turning suddenly to do this, I saw that my companion, believing that I was on the point of entering the apartments of the harem, had removed the _yashmak_. The face that was revealed by this action was one of the most extraordinary I had ever seen--a face with long, masculine features--the face of a man about fifty years of age, and who, wearing a dark, trailing gown, at once reminded me of descriptions I had read of old astrologers.

This singular person did not perceive that I had seen him, and, almost terrified by my discovery, and fearful of the consequences of the act, I hurried into the harem and closed the door.

Having a premonition that, late as it was, my stepfather might desire to see me after Lord Galonfield left, I made no preparations to retire for the night. I was not mistaken. Twenty minutes later Meschid entered the harem.

My stepfather appeared to be greatly agitated. After severely reproaching me because I had permitted Lord Galonfield to place an arm around me while he was declaring his love, he told me that if I had been so unfortunate as to let the young Englishman find a place in my heart I must banish all thoughts of him from my mind at once.

“I had thought that he would have found your charms sufficient dowry,” he added, bitterly. “But the heathen dog would have me rob my own children by yielding to him with you one-half of my estate.”

My heart grew cold, and a sense of desolation entered it. Then, suddenly, a wild rush of anger and indignation choked me. It was not I, but the dowry he sought, that had appeared so beautiful to his eyes.

“Are all men so base as that?” I gasped, as my wounded pride fluttered in my bosom like a frightened, half-stifled dove in a smoke-filled cage.

“No,” said Meschid, thoughtfully, “but young men are much the same. An older man makes a more affectionate and indulgent husband. But let us have no more of England. You have seen how gray and fog-bound it is, and what we have to expect of its people. Shall we return to Constantinople to-morrow, and forget that we ever have known this grasping man they call a lord?”

“Yes--yes,” I murmured, eagerly.

And the next morning we set forth for the distant Orient.

Tortured as I was by outraged love and the bitter pangs of a proud woman’s humiliation, the journey homeward seemed like one long nightmare. Arriving in Constantinople, I found no one in the house of Meschid Pasha to bid me welcome. My sisters regarded me coldly or with sneers. The man to whom I had been offered as a wife had seen and rejected me.

During the month that followed my return, I saw little of my stepfather. Most of this time, a prey to bitter reflections, I remained in my room, reading or engaged in needlework.

One day there came a knock on my door, and Meschid entered.

“Here is something that may interest you,” he said, carelessly, and, as he spoke, he handed me a French newspaper. Around a paragraph which consisted of five or six lines a pencilled circle had been drawn.

I saw that the article was an announcement of the death of Prince Giuseppe Maranotti--my father.

If Meschid had expected to read in my face any sign of sorrow or satisfaction, he was disappointed. I thanked him coldly, and laid the paper aside. The announcement scarcely had interested me.

On the following day Meschid visited me again. This time, to my utter amazement, he bade me put on my veil and accompany him to his selamlik--an apartment in which Turkish men receive their male friends, and which no female member of the family is supposed to enter.

Upon entering the selamlik, I perceived the figure of a man standing beside one of the windows. As the visitor turned toward me and I saw his face, I started and an exclamation of alarm escaped me.

The man before me was the one who, in the guise of a Turkish woman, had been present at my interviews with Lord Galonfield!

In a low, brusque voice, my stepfather bade me remove my veil. With trembling fingers I did so.

“Pauline,” said Meschid, “this is Mr. Glyncamp, an American, who has honored us by asking for your hand.”

With a little cry of pain, I shrank from the burning eyes and outstretched hand of the long, grim-featured man who now approached me.

“No--no--oh, God, no!” I exclaimed. “Do not tell me that! I cannot--I----”

My stepfather laughed mirthlessly, and then said:

“It is a little sudden, you must admit, Mr. Glyncamp. Even Galonfield disappointed her, for all her dreams of a husband have had a fairy prince for their subject. But, Pauline, my dear, you dreamt better than you knew. Your future husband has powers which are commonly attributed only to fairies. He will make you happy and, taking you without a dowry, he will give to you a home to which you will have a better claim than that which you now have on mine.”

I was now trembling so violently that, I think, I should have fallen, had not my stepfather’s next words assured me that I should have a respite, at least, from the terrible fate that thus confronted me.

“Mr. Glyncamp is going on a long journey to the East, and he will not wed you until his return,” Meschid went on. “It was such a journey that I made when your mother rejected my suit. When I returned, your mother was more favorably disposed. May it be so with you.”

I bowed to Glyncamp, and, summoning all my fortitude, I weakly thanked him for the honor he had done me. He smiled as he told me that, having seen me, the memory of my face would be ever with him on his travels and that, therefore, I would find him looking younger on his return.

Hurrying back to the harem, I entered my room, locked the door and flung myself down on an ottoman. Convinced that life held nothing more for me now that was worth the having, I abandoned myself to despair, and thought of suicide. Then, suddenly, a new idea entered my mind.

I would flee from Meschid as my mother had fled from my father.

But to whom should I turn for aid? My mother’s father and brother were dead, and I knew nothing of her other relatives. Then my thoughts turned to the Maranottis--to Victor, now the head of the house. Was he like his father? Did he, too, share the belief that my mother’s flight had been due to another cause than the cruelty of her husband? Perhaps family pride would impel him to come to my relief. I would send for him.

With the marks of my tears still upon my face, I seated myself at my writing desk and wrote to the young Prince a long letter in which I told him all that I had suffered since the death of my mother. When I finished writing, I read the letter over carefully, then thrust it into an envelope and addressed it to him at his country seat at Basselanto.

Four miserable, heart-breaking, nerve-racking weeks passed, and, as I failed to get a reply to my pitiful appeal, I again resigned myself to despair. But, shortly after leaving the house one day to visit the cemetery in which my poor mother now slept amid the cypresses and flowers, I felt a hand fall on my shoulder. Turning quickly, I beheld a woman who wore a _yashmak_.

“You are Pauline?” the stranger asked, in English.

The accents were soft and gentle, but I hesitated.

“You are Pauline Maranotti?” the woman asked again.

“Yes, madame,” I answered, faintly.

“Let us walk on,” the other said in a low, confidential voice. “I am from the Prince--your half-brother.”

With a little cry that was almost a sob, I grasped her arm.

“He is here--in Constantinople?” I asked eagerly.

“No, he is not here,” the woman answered. “He was unable to come himself, so he sent me to take you to him. There is a carriage awaiting us in yonder street. Let us hasten to it. We can talk better there.”

Once more fear gripped my heart.

“How am I to know that you----” I began, but the veiled stranger interrupted me.

“Come with me to the carriage,” she said quietly. “You shall be convinced before you confide yourself to my care.”

When we were out of view of Meschid’s house I saw a closed carriage with two horses standing in the street that my guide had mentioned. At the step of the carriage my companion paused and took from her pocket a little leather case. She pressed a spring, and a cover, flying open, disclosed within a beautiful miniature surrounded by a lock of dark brown hair. It was an exquisite portrait of my mother, painted before my birth. I had heard her speak of this gift that she had given to the Prince on her wedding day, and I knew that the lock of hair was her own.

With a little sob, I turned to my guide.

“You may take me where you will,” I said.

The woman who had come to my rescue was Mrs. Woodson, an American, who, with her artist husband, long had lived in Rome. She was a few years older than my mother, whom she had known prior to her marriage to Prince Maranotti.

A few days after my flight from Constantinople, Prince Victor Maranotti welcomed me in Rome. I found my brother to be a singularly kindly and handsome young man, and the moment I looked upon his face, I knew that a merciful fate had led me at last to a natural protector.

After listening to my story, the Prince informed me that, in the circumstances, it would be better for me to remain incognito in Rome until the following week, when it would be necessary for him to start for the United States where he had extensive business interests.

“In America, for a time, at least, you will be safe from the persecutions of Meschid and his friend, Glyncamp, of whose strange performances I often have heard,” he said. “There are several reasons why it is better that you should not assume the title of Princess Pauline Maranotti now.”

What the reasons were, he did not tell me, but I suspected that, despite his friendliness, his family pride prevented him from publicly acknowledging as his sister the daughter of a woman who, having deserted his father, became the inmate of a Turkish harem.

Little did I think when I saw the shores of America rise from the western horizon that here awaited me a new and no less alarming series of misfortunes. I had been fleeing from persons and circumstances which threatened my undoing, but the objects of these fears were known to me. Now, however, I was about to be confronted by conditions which, though constantly threatening me, were involved in mysteries which no art of mine would enable me to fathom.

A few hours before we sighted land, the Prince, seated beside me in a corner of the deck that we had to ourselves, gave to me a clearer idea concerning his plans for me than he had vouchsafed before.

For many years my father had been heavily interested in the development of American mining properties, some of which had yielded him large profits. He had not made these investments in his own name, however, and his principal representative in these transactions was a man named Trevison, who now was well advanced in years, and childless.

Assuring me that it was in my interest that I should not assume the name of Maranotti, the Prince suggested that, as Paula Trevison, I should be known as Mr. Trevison’s daughter. Then he added:

“If you are believed to be the daughter of this old man, who is now pretty close to the grave, you will find yourself in a well-defined position, from which, by reason of your natural charms and your various accomplishments, you may steadily advance. Nearly all the large fortune which Trevison is handling over here, and which really is mine, is believed to belong to him. I will so arrange matters that, after his death, it will appear that you have inherited from him a sum sufficient to give you a comfortable income. Meantime, whenever I visit the United States, I, assuming the name of Trevison, as I am doing now, may be recognized as your brother.”

“You will be known by a false name over here, only in order that you may aid me?” I asked, suspiciously.

The Prince laughed gaily.

“Oh, no,” he said. “Even if I had not brought you with me I would have to be known as Trevison.”

“I am afraid I do not understand,” I murmured, wonderingly.

“Well, then, I will explain,” the Prince went on more gravely. “I am only doing what was done by my father, but in a slightly different way. On his visit to this country he always represented himself as old Trevison’s brother. The reason for it was this: Poor as it is, Italy still retains much of its ancestral pride, and it has not been confronted with the spectacle of the head of a noble family engaging in commercial pursuits. Yet, for more than a quarter of a century, such pursuits have made the house of Maranotti one of the most influential in the kingdom. But the Maranotti who followed these pursuits has been known in America as a Trevison. In the United States his identity was unknown. In Italy, none of the nobles know the name of Trevison.”

On the day of our arrival in New York, my brother and I, who were registered at our hotel as ‘Thomas Trevison and Paula Trevison,’ met the man who had a rightful claim to the surname. He was very old--almost eighty I should say--and his face had an almost unearthly pallor. In a shaking voice, he greeted my princely brother with a familiarity that startled me.

“Well, Tom, the old man beat me out in our race for the grave,” he said. “But I reckon I’ll be spry enough to let out a few links that will make him think he’s standing still, after I catch up with him on the other side. Are you going West this trip?”

Shocked by this old man’s gruesome jocularity, I was glad to escape from his presence. That evening, however, we dined together in a fashionable restaurant where the irreverent patriarch seemed to be perfectly at ease. He was frequently addressed respectfully by men who passed our table, and to several of these he explained that I was his daughter.

“She’s just back from Europe where she’s had a few foreigners completing her training,” he said. “Most people think Europe’s the best place to get female metal out of our Western ore, so Paula’s been passing through the mill over there. Doesn’t look as if it did her much harm, does it now?”

My brother smiled as if he saw some humor in this sort of thing, but I, shocked almost beyond the power of expression by the roughness of it all, felt my face flush hotly as I heard the person addressed chuckle good-naturedly and mutter compliments which, while frank enough, perhaps, were devoid of delicacy.

The following day my brother told me that, as he found it desirable to visit the West, where some of his mining properties were situated, he had arranged that I should spend a few weeks in the Adirondack Mountains, with a widowed niece of Trevison’s. He had been assured that it was a delightful retreat, and that its isolation was of a nature to commend it to us.

Having determined on this course, our preparations soon were made for the journey. As we were passing along the station platform, between two waiting trains, a strange thing happened. The click of a car window, suddenly raised, attracted my attention and a man’s head and shoulders were thrust out.

With a little exclamation of alarm, I drew back. The man’s face was the most grotesque I had ever seen. His eyes, turned suddenly to mine, held my gaze. In the very ugliness of this stranger there was something that fascinated me.

“What is the matter?” asked my brother, who observed that I had stopped.

Quickly recovering my presence of mind, I laughed nervously, and said:

“It is nothing, but I never expected that I would see a live gargoyle. In those wonderful mountains to which you are taking me, I shall not be surprised to encounter peris and genii.”

My brother, whose quick eyes had by this time discovered the face that had caused me such consternation, laughed lightly as he replied:

“By Heaven, you are right! The man is a veritable gargoyle.”

I heard the window close with a slam, but I did not look over my shoulder to assure myself that the strange creature was no longer there. All during that long journey to the mountains, that weird, unearthly face haunted me. I saw it staring at me from the shimmering waters of the Hudson. It took form among the giant boulders and wooden summits of the Catskills, and, at eve, I saw it lurking among the great cloud-curtains that folded in the sunset.

Not until near the close of the second day of our journey did we arrive at our destination, and, ah, how may I describe the splendid spectacle that then revealed itself to my eyes?

Alighting from a “buckboard,” one of the most torture-inflicting vehicles in which man ever traversed rough mountain roads, I found myself on the pebbled margin of a turquoise lake that was dotted everywhere with lily-pads, whose white and yellow flowers sifted into the virile, pine-odored air a perfume that was as fragrant and langorous as the breath of love.

Walled in by great mountain slopes, from the sides of which rose larches as lofty and majestic as cathedral spires, I felt as if I were standing in an enchanted valley. The mountainsides were thickly wooded, and here and there great seams of granite were visible through rifts in the deep, green foliage, so that the valley had the aspect of a crystal-bottomed basin wrought out of a single emerald that had been inlaid with silver tracery. Among the trees fluttered birds unlike any I had ever seen before, but their sweet, full-throated songs seemed to be no more than the pattering of raindrops on the surface of a sea of silence--a silence so weird and illimitable that, appalled, I felt as if I were standing in the vestibule of infinity.

Dazed by the wild splendor of my environment, I felt as the Emperor of China might have done when from his window he for the first time beheld the splendid palace which genii hands had wrought for Aladdin in a single night.

I was roused from my trance by the sounds of strange voices. Then I saw two strangers, clad in rough garments of countrymen, approaching to take charge of the horses that had drawn our two buckboards through the mountains.

As I looked around for the house which was to be my home for the next two weeks, I saw a large, squat structure built of logs. In the door of this stood a portly woman, with gray hair. Despite the charms and reassuring isolation of this mountain retreat, a suspicion that this log-house was the dwelling to which I had been consigned filled me with alarm. I had been told that among these mountains deer, bears and other wild animals were numerous, and the general aspect of the building recalled pictures I had seen of assaults made by Indians on the houses of white settlers. Were there Indians here?

The motherly face of the elderly woman, who was now approaching, partly reassured me, and I saw that the men who were busying themselves with the horses were honest-featured, sturdy and marvelously self-possessed.

The woman--whose name I was informed was Mrs. Seaver--welcomed me with the dignity of a princess in the doorway of her castle. As she led me into the log-house, I gazed about me with the most lively sensation of pleased surprise. The place was as carefully kept as a palace hall, and in the charming rooms through which she led me I beheld all the luxuries of Western civilization--a piano, pictures, shelves of books, the heads of animals which I had seen only in picture form, comfortable chairs, soft rugs, cosy ‘dens’, and beds which I thought were the whitest and neatest in all the world.

Clapping my hands with delight, I laughed as I had not done for many months.

Fanned by balsam-breathing breezes, I slept that night as, I think, I never slept before. I had never thought that in all the world was to be found a place that was capable of inspiring such a sense of ineffable peace as this.

The next day my brother left. But, however kindly I had come to regard him, I was not now conscious of a feeling of loss. The wilderness had taken me into its heart, and, thoroughly enamoured, I was happy there.

Little by little I conquered the pleasurable fear with which the dark recesses of the wood-clad slopes had inspired me. In the course of the first three days an uncontrollable desire to see wild animals in their native haunts took possession of me. I learned to use the paddle of a canoe, and I acted like an overjoyed child when, by my efforts, I succeeded in sending the frail craft out over the shimmering surface of the lily-dotted lake. Turtles, chipmunks, sportive minnows and long-leaping water spiders filled me with delight, and how shall I describe the sensations that overwhelmed me when, as I looked out of my open window late one moonlight night, I saw three deer steal from out a leafy covert and move down to the waterside to drink?

I had been in the Adirondacks a little more than a week, when a new and greater wonder presented itself to my view. Upon awakening, early one morning, I rose and stepped to my window, as was my custom, to steal a glimpse at the great tree-crowded amphitheatre and to inhale the fresh, balsam-laden air before dressing for breakfast. My lips were framing a prayer of heartfelt thankfulness that, here in the heart of this vast wilderness, I was so far from all I feared, when something that was pinned to one of the swaying white curtains of the window attracted and held my attention. As, with wondering eyes, I leaned toward it, I saw that it was a delicately tinted, square envelope on which were inscribed the words: “For Paula.”

The only person who had thus addressed me since my arrival in America was the Prince, and though the handwriting before me now was apparently that of a man, I was certain that my brother was not the writer.

The envelope was unsealed, and, thrusting in my fingers I drew out a sheet of notepaper on which were written the following verses:

TO PAULA

Sleep,
And the starlight shines,
Like Faith, among the pines,
To all revealing
Thy trust in man and maid.
And while from out the shade
Of Earth are stealing
Thy thoughts that dreamward go,
I, keeping vigil, know
Love’s bells are pealing.

Wake,
And the starlight dies,
For then, athwart the skies,
Thy glances, streaming,
Do prove thou art the sun.
Now that his vigil’s done
And thou art beaming,
Fond Hope doth close his eyes
But, as in sleep he lies,
Of thee he’s dreaming.

Tingling with pleasure, I re-read the lines. These were the first verses I had ever read in the handwriting of their author, and a great wonder filled me as I asked myself whether, indeed, it was I who had inspired them. But this question quickly gave place to one of still greater import.

Who had written them?

I now found myself thoroughly bewildered. Except the Prince and Mr. Trevison, there was no person in the United States with whom I had exchanged more than a few, perfunctory words prior to coming to the mountains, and in my new home Mrs. Seaver and the servants were the only persons who, so far as I had been able to learn, were within many miles of me. That the lines had been written by one of the rough-mannered and illiterate manservants, was, of course, impossible. But what other man had been in the neighborhood? Who was it who had come to my window while I slept?

Once more the old fears took possession of me. Had I been followed from Europe by someone who----? But, no, this, too, was impossible. While there I had only two suitors--Lord Galonfield and Glyncamp. The first had sought me only for the wealth he believed me to possess, and the second had gone to Asia. Thus, except Meschid, Prince Maranotti and Trevison, all men were strangers to me.

I was only a child of the harem, however, and in Moslem harems many superstitions that would be laughed to scorn in Western households are deeply rooted in all minds. And so, assured that there was no man about me who could have written these lines, I fell to speculating as to whether or not the verses had come to me through some supernatural agency.

At breakfast I again inquired of Mrs. Seaver whether any of the neighboring valleys was inhabited.

She shook her head gravely.

“No,” she replied. “We are many miles from any other house. Even the sportsmen who come to the Adirondacks for deer and bear seldom penetrate so far as this. That is one reason why I like it so.”

I resumed my breakfast, and for several minutes the silence that followed remained unbroken. Mrs. Seaver was the first to speak.

“Perhaps, my dear, it is better that you should know something else,” she said, hesitatingly. “What I have told you is the truth, as I understand it. I know of no other habitation than ours, but there are times when rumors reach us that some strange persons occasionally are to be seen about Deadwood Lake--a body of water that lies in the valley immediately north of ours. Who they are we never have been able to learn. My men have seen these strangers on several occasions, but they never succeeded in getting close enough to them to describe them accurately. One undoubtedly is an aged Indian, while the second is a white youth, who, if the rumors are to be credited, is strangely handsome. These two are always together, but a third--a white man of patriarchal appearance, is sometimes observed. It is scarcely likely that you will see them, but, if you do, it is just as well, perhaps, to avoid them as much as possible.”

My breath came quickly. So far from exciting my fears, this information stimulated my curiosity. Who was this mysterious young man whom my prosaic hostess had described as “strangely handsome”? If these three men were the only persons in our neighborhood who were unknown to me, one of them doubtless was the author of the verses I had received. Assuredly, the Indian had not written them, nor was it probable that the “man of patriarchal appearance” had done so. But the other--ay, it might have been this other.

The stream which filled the lake I had come to love so well, entered our valley from the north. This fact indicated that the clear waters over which my canoe daily glided were the outflow of Deadwood Lake. Then, I remembered that one of the menservants had told me that our lake was merely one link of a beautiful crystal chain that extended well back into the mountains.

When breakfast was done, I left the house and, singing as I went, I made my way to where my shining, green canoe was drawn up on the pebbled shore. One of the menservants, who was painting a fishing punt, smiled and nodded a “good-morning” as I drew near.

“You are going out to-day, Miss?” he asked.

I felt my cheeks flush slightly as I answered:

“Yes, I am going to gather some lilies for my room.”

The man rose, and, as he started toward my canoe to run it down the beach, he glanced toward the southwest, and hesitated.

“I wouldn’t go out far or stay too long, Miss,” he said, thoughtfully. “The sky looks bad over yonder, and one who is down in the valley can’t see a bad blow coming till it’s on us. The weather’s been pretty respectful-like since you’ve been here, but there ain’t no other hell on earth that’s quite so bad as an Adirondack storm. Does the missis know you’re going?”

“No,” I answered, coldly. “Mrs. Seaver has never required me to report to her anything which it pleases me to do or not to do.”

The man shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, I meant no harm,” he said, almost curtly. “But when thunder once begins to bellow up here, it’s mighty seldom a strong man can drive a boat inshore before he gets a soaking, and a soaking is the least of it. Small as this lake of ours is, it can kick up waves on shorter notice than the Atlantic can.”

Realizing that I had unkindly slighted one whose only fault had been over-zealousness in manifesting a regard for my safety, I laughed reassuringly and said indulgently:

“You are right, I know, so, though I see no storm clouds, I will not go too far from the shore.”

And, as my canoe glided over the shimmering lake to where the lilies were, I was resolved to keep my word. But the dancing sunlight lured me on and on, and my promise, dying like the song of a bird, went to mingle with the lily-scented airs.

The valley in which Mrs. Seaver’s log-house stood was about three miles long and two miles wide, and the lake covered three-fourths of its bottom. Well out in the lake were five or six tree-covered islets, and on one that lay furthest to the south I had discovered a little leafy nook to which I sometimes went with one of the volumes from Mrs. Seaver’s shelves.

But it was not to the south that I turned this morning. At first I kept the head of my little craft toward the center of the lake, then, as my glance continued to stray curiously toward the north, I found, at last, that, half-unconsciously, I was moving in that direction.

For the first time since my arrival in the Adirondacks, I was dominated by a desire to see the stream whose waters filled the clear lake in our valley. The sun was still shining brightly, when, suddenly determining to give rein to my curiosity, I brought the bow of the canoe directly to the northward, and, in response to the determined paddle-strokes, the little craft moved swiftly over the gleaming waters.

As I approached an indentation in the northern shore I marveled that I never had been inspired with the desire to visit it before. Here the lily-pads seemed to form a great green, white and yellow rug, and the perfume of the blossoms so filled the air that it was no longer possible for me to identify the odor of the pines in the breezes which, rushing down the great mountain slopes, seemed to dally in love-rapt idleness among the langourous spirits of the flowers.

I had been singing as I left the log-house, and I was singing now, but, as I kept glancing to right and left to find places in which to thrust my paddle without breaking lily leaves or blossoms, I was singing a song that had been sung by no human lips before. It was a song in which the words of the verses I had received that morning had adapted themselves to an Arabian air that, in the harem of Meschid Pasha, had been one of the lullabies sung by my mother to each of her little ones.

Thus singing and moving slowly through the lilies and their wide-spread leaves, I suddenly found myself at the very stream I had been seeking. At its mouth it was about a hundred feet in width, but, as I looked up along the course, I saw that it narrowed perceptibly. Laying my dripping paddle across the canoe, I stopped singing and listened.

The very air seemed motionless. Within a distant leafy covert on the mountainside at my right a single woodlark was piping its clear, sad notes. All else was so still that the very perfume that filled the air was eloquent.

For several moments a feeling of fear and awe stole over me, and I looked at the sky. There the blue hue had given place to a pinkish tint, but the sun still was shining and there was scarcely a ripple on the clear, gleaming waters over which I had passed.

Should I go back, and return some other day to explore this unknown watercourse? Surely, I could find no fairer day than this. I would do it now.

Owing to the fact that the beauties of the lake and dingles so often caused me to give no thought to the flight of the hours, it often had happened that the hour for luncheon found me far from the hospitable table in the log-house. Thus it had come to pass that, whenever I left the house in the morning for a stroll or a canoe trip, I took with me, in a little net-work bag, sandwiches, cake and fruit. Fortunately I had done so to-day.

Glancing at my watch, I now saw that it was only a few minutes after ten, then, with a sigh of pleasurable anticipation, I again picked up my paddle and, more reckless concerning the fate of leaves and blossoms than I had been before, I forced the canoe into the sluggish current of the mysterious stream.

As I proceeded, my progress became less and less impeded by sprawling lily-pads. I was now at the feet of two lofty mountains at the bases of which the stream pursued a winding course.

At length, with a little sigh of excitement and pleasure, I saw that the splendors of a second valley were being unfolded to my view.

But, ah, how different was this valley from the one I had just left behind me. The ruggedness of its lofty, bare granite precipices filled me with a half-defined sense of alarm. Over the bosom of this shining stream I seemed to have passed from one of Nature’s pleasure gardens to the vast portal of one of her towering, deserted and crumbling abbeys. A chillness seemed to enter the air. The arms of the giant pine trees appeared to be gently beckoning and nodding to the unseen spirits of the valley.

But, though the valley’s lofty walls thus were revealed to my eyes, of the mysterious lake I saw nothing. Ahead of me was a great expanse of tall rushes through which the stream had cut its way. Around me, however, the waters seemed to have lost their lustre. Like the mountains whose images they reflected they appeared to be dark, sullen and forbidding.

The speed of my canoe was gradually abating for, half-overcome by distrust, I was paddling mechanically.

Darker and darker grew the waters, then a greater chillness smote me. I was about to raise my eyes toward the sky when I beheld something that riveted my attention.

Before me lay the waters of Deadwood Lake and, as I looked, I shrank back in affright. Trunks and roots of fallen trees that had been wrung from the mountainsides by tempests or great avalanches were rotting on the narrow, gray pebbled shores. The waters were of a brownish black, and the hundreds of white-trunked birches that they reflected near their margin gave to them a weird, ghostly effect.

I was not yet clear of the masses of high rushes that grew out of the water, and the channel between them was so narrow that I could touch each green wall with my paddle. Deciding to return at once to the other valley, I was about to reverse my position in the canoe, when I beheld something so startling that I almost dropped my paddle, and for several seconds I seemed to lose the power to breathe.

What I saw was a canoe, fashioned out of the bark of birch trees, and, as I looked, it moved slowly across the thin screen of rushes that separated me from the clear surface of the lake. In this canoe were two human figures, but the appearance of each was so extraordinary that I suspected that they were indeed more than men.