The Red Cross Girl
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Richard Harding Davis >> The Red Cross Girl
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Although the young woman had spoken not a single word, although
indeed she was biting impatiently at her lower lip, Philip had
distinguished the words clearly. Or, if he had not distinguished
them, he surely was going mad. It was a matter to be at once
determined, and the young woman should determine it. He advanced
boldly to her, and raised his hat.
"Pardon me," he said, "but I believe you are waiting for your
maid Hudson?"
As though fearing an impertinence, the girl regarded him in
silence.
"I only wish to make sure," continued Philip, "that you are she
for whom I have a message. You have an appointment, I believe, to
be photographed in fancy dress as Mary Queen of Scots?"
"Well?" assented the girl.
"And you telephoned Hudson," he continued, "to bring you your
muff."
The girl exclaimed with vexation.
"Oh!" she protested; "I knew they'd get it wrong! Not muff, ruff!
I want my ruff."
Philip felt a cold shiver creep down his spine.
"For the love of Heaven!" he exclaimed in horror; "it's true!"
"What's true?" demanded the young woman in some alarm.
"That I'm a mind reader," declared Philip. "I've read your mind!
I can read everybody's mind. I know just what you're thinking
now. You're thinking I'm mad!"
The actions of the young lady showed that again he was correct.
With a gasp of terror she fled past him and raced up the stairs
to the studio. Philip made no effort to follow and to explain.
What was there to explain? How could he explain that which, to
himself, was unbelievable? Besides, the girl had served her
purpose. If he could read the mind of one, he could read the
minds of all. By some unexplainable miracle, to his ordinary
equipment of senses a sixth had been added. As easily as, before
that morning, he could look into the face of a fellow-mortal, he
now could look into the workings of that fellow-mortal's mind.
The thought was appalling. It was like living with one's ear to a
key-hole. In his dismay his first idea was to seek medical
advice--the best in London. He turned instantly in the direction
of Harley Street. There, he determined, to the most skilled
alienist in town he would explain his strange plight. For only as
a misfortune did the miracle appear to him. But as he made his
way through the streets his pace slackened.
Was he wise, he asked himself, in allowing others to know he
possessed this strange power? Would they not at once treat him as
a madman? Might they not place him under observation, or even
deprive him of his liberty? At the thought he came to an abrupt
halt His own definition of the miracle as a "power" had opened a
new line of speculation. If this strange gift (already he was
beginning to consider it more leniently) were concealed from
others, could he not honorably put it to some useful purpose?
For, among the blind, the man with one eye is a god. Was not
he--among all other men the only one able to read the minds of
all other men--a god? Turning into Bruton Street, he paced its
quiet length considering the possibilities that lay within him.
It was apparent that the gift would lead to countless
embarrassments. If it were once known that he possessed it, would
not even his friends avoid him? For how could any one, knowing
his most secret thought was at the mercy of another, be happy in
that other's presence? His power would lead to his social
ostracism. Indeed, he could see that his gift might easily become
a curse. He decided not to act hastily, that for the present he
had best give no hint to others of his unique power.
As the idea of possessing this power became more familiar, he
regarded it with less aversion. He began to consider to what
advantage he could place it. He could see that, given the right
time and the right man, he might learn secrets leading to
far-reaching results. To a statesman, to a financier, such a gift
as he possessed would make him a ruler of men. Philip had no
desire to be a ruler of men; but he asked himself how could he
bend this gift to serve his own? What he most wished was to marry
Helen Carey; and, to that end, to possess money. So he must meet
men who possessed money, who were making money. He would put
questions to them. And with words they would give evasive
answers; but their minds would tell him the truth.
The ethics of this procedure greatly disturbed him. Certainly it
was no better than reading other people's letters. But, he
argued, the dishonor in knowledge so obtained would lie only in
the use he made of it. If he used it without harm to him from
whom it was obtained and with benefit to others, was he not
justified in trading on his superior equipment? He decided that
each case must be considered separately in accordance with the
principle involved. But, principle or no principle, he was
determined to become rich. Did not the end justify the means?
Certainly an all-wise Providence had not brought Helen Carey into
his life only to take her away from him. It could not be so
cruel. But, in selecting them for one another, the all-wise
Providence had overlooked the fact that she was rich and he was
poor. For that oversight Providence apparently was now
endeavoring to make amends. In what certainly was a fantastic and
roundabout manner Providence had tardily equipped him with a gift
that could lead to great wealth. And who was he to fly in the
face of Providence? He decided to set about building up a
fortune, and building it in a hurry.
From Bruton Street he had emerged upon Berkeley Square; and, as
Lady Woodcote had invited him to meet Helen at luncheon at the
Ritz, he turned in that direction. He was too early for luncheon;
but in the corridor of the Ritz he knew he would find persons of
position and fortune, and in reading their minds he might pass
the time before luncheon with entertainment, possibly with
profit. For, while pacing Bruton Street trying to discover the
principles of conduct that threatened to hamper his new power, he
had found that in actual operation it was quite simple. He
learned that his mind, in relation to other minds, was like the
receiver of a wireless station with an unlimited field. For,
while the wireless could receive messages only from those
instruments with which it was attuned, his mind was in key with
all other minds. To read the thoughts of another, he had only to
concentrate his own upon that person; and to shut off the
thoughts of that person, he had only to turn his own thoughts
elsewhere. But also he discovered that over the thoughts of those
outside the range of his physical sight he had no control. When
he asked of what Helen Carey was at that moment thinking, there
was no result. But when he asked, "Of what is that policeman on
the corner thinking?" he was surprised to find that that officer
of the law was formulating regulations to abolish the hobble
skirt as an impediment to traffic.
As Philip turned into Berkeley Square, the accents of a mind in
great distress smote upon his new and sixth sense. And, in the
person of a young gentleman leaning against the park railing, he
discovered the source from which the mental sufferings emanated.
The young man was a pink-cheeked, yellow-haired youth of
extremely boyish appearance, and dressed as if for the
race-track. But at the moment his pink and babyish face wore an
expression of complete misery. With tear-filled eyes he was
gazing at a house of yellow stucco on the opposite side of the
street. And his thoughts were these: "She is the best that ever
lived, and I am the most ungrateful of fools. How happy were we
in the house of yellow stucco! Only now, when she has closed its
doors to me, do I know how happy! If she would give me another
chance, never again would I distress or deceive her."
So far had the young man progressed in his thoughts when an
automobile of surprising smartness swept around the corner and
drew up in front of the house of yellow stucco, and from it
descended a charming young person. She was of the Dresden-
shepherdess type, with large blue eyes of haunting beauty and
innocence.
"My wife!" exclaimed the blond youth at the railings. And
instantly he dodged behind a horse that, while still attached to
a four-wheeler, was contentedly eating from a nose-bag.
With a key the Dresden shepherdess opened the door to the yellow
house and disappeared.
The calling of the reporter trains him in audacity, and to act
quickly. He shares the troubles of so many people that to the
troubles of other people he becomes callous, and often will rush
in where friends of the family fear to tread. Although Philip was
not now acting as a reporter, he acted quickly. Hardly had the
door closed upon the young lady than he had mounted the steps and
rung the visitor's bell. As he did so, he could not resist
casting a triumphant glance in the direction of the outlawed
husband. And, in turn, what the outcast husband, peering from
across the back of the cab horse, thought of Philip, of his
clothes, of his general appearance, and of the manner in which he
would delight to alter all of them, was quickly communicated to
the American. They were thoughts of a nature so violent and
uncomplimentary that Philip hastily cut off all connection.
As Philip did not know the name of the Dresden-china doll, it was
fortunate that on opening the door, the butler promptly
announced:
"Her ladyship is not receiving."
"Her ladyship will, I think, receive me," said Philip pleasantly,
"when you tell her I come as the special ambassador of his
lordship."
From a tiny reception-room on the right of the entrance-hall
there issued a feminine exclamation of surprise, not unmixed with
joy; and in the hall the noble lady instantly appeared.
When she saw herself confronted by a stranger, she halted in
embarrassment. But as, even while she halted, her only thought
had been, "Oh! if he will only ask me to forgive him!" Philip
felt no embarrassment whatsoever. Outside, concealed behind a cab
horse, was the erring but bitterly repentant husband; inside, her
tenderest thoughts racing tumultuously toward him, was an unhappy
child-wife begging to be begged to pardon.
For a New York reporter, and a Harvard graduate of charm and good
manners, it was too easy.
"I do not know you," said her ladyship. But even as she spoke she
motioned to the butler to go away. "You must be one of his new
friends." Her tone was one of envy.
"Indeed, I am his newest friend," Philip assured her; "but I can
safely say no one knows his thoughts as well as I. And they are
all of you!"
The china shepherdess blushed with happiness, but instantly she
shook her head.
"They tell me I must not believe him," she announced. "They tell
me--"
"Never mind what they tell you," commanded Philip. "Listen to ME.
He loves you. Better than ever before, he loves you. All he asks
is the chance to tell you so. You cannot help but believe him.
Who can look at you, and not believe that he loves you! Let me,"
he begged, "bring him to you." He started from her when,
remembering the somewhat violent thoughts of the youthful
husband, he added hastily: "Or perhaps it would be better if you
called him yourself."
"Called him!" exclaimed the lady. "He is in Paris-at the
races--with her!"
"If they tell you that sort of thing," protested Philip
indignantly, "you must listen to me. He is not in Paris. He is
not with her. There never was a her!"
He drew aside the lace curtains and pointed. "He is there--
behind that ancient cab horse, praying that you will let him tell
you that not only did he never do it; but, what is much more
important, he will never do it again."
The lady herself now timidly drew the curtains apart, and then
more boldly showed herself upon the iron balcony. Leaning over
the scarlet geraniums, she beckoned with both hands. The result
was instantaneous. Philip bolted for the front door, leaving it
open; and, as he darted down the steps, the youthful husband, in
strides resembling those of an ostrich, shot past him. Philip did
not cease running until he was well out of Berkeley Square. Then,
not ill-pleased with the adventure, he turned and smiled back at
the house of yellow stucco.
"Bless you, my children," he murmured; "bless you!"
He continued to the Ritz; and, on crossing Piccadilly to the
quieter entrance to the hotel in Arlington Street, found gathered
around it a considerable crowd drawn up on either side of a red
carpet that stretched down the steps of the hotel to a court
carriage. A red carpet in June, when all is dry under foot and
the sun is shining gently, can mean only royalty; and in the rear
of the men in the street Philip halted. He remembered that for a
few days the young King of Asturia and the Queen Mother were at
the Ritz incognito; and, as he never had seen the young man who
so recently and so tragically had been exiled from his own
kingdom, Philip raised himself on tiptoe and stared expectantly.
As easily as he could read their faces could he read the thoughts
of those about him. They were thoughts of friendly curiosity, of
pity for the exiles; on the part of the policemen who had
hastened from a cross street, of pride at their temporary
responsibility; on the part of the coachman of the court
carriage, of speculation as to the possible amount of his
Majesty's tip. The thoughts were as harmless and protecting as
the warm sunshine.
And then, suddenly and harshly, like the stroke of a fire bell at
midnight, the harmonious chorus of gentle, hospitable thoughts
was shattered by one that was discordant, evil, menacing. It was
the thought of a man with a brain diseased; and its purpose was
murder.
"When they appear at the doorway," spoke the brain of the maniac,
"I shall lift the bomb from my pocket. I shall raise it above my
head. I shall crash it against the stone steps. It will hurl them
and all of these people into eternity and me with them. But I
shall LIVE--a martyr to the Cause. And the Cause will flourish!"
Through the unsuspecting crowd, like a football player diving for
a tackle, Philip hurled himself upon a little dark man standing
close to the open door of the court carriage. From the rear
Philip seized him around the waist and locked his arms behind
him, elbow to elbow. Philip's face, appearing over the man's
shoulder, stared straight into that of the policeman.
"He has a bomb in his right-hand pocket!" yelled Philip. "I can
hold him while you take it! But, for Heaven's sake, don't drop
it!" Philip turned upon the crowd. "Run! all of you!" he shouted.
"Run like the devil!"
At that instant the boy King and his Queen Mother, herself still
young and beautiful, and cloaked with a dignity and sorrow that
her robes of mourning could not intensify, appeared in the
doorway.
"Go back, sir!" warned Philip. "He means to kill you!"
At the words and at sight of the struggling men, the great lady
swayed helplessly, her eyes filled with terror. Her son sprang
protectingly in front of her. But the danger was past. A second
policeman was now holding the maniac by the wrists, forcing his
arms above his head; Philip's arms, like a lariat, were wound
around his chest; and from his pocket the first policeman
gingerly drew forth a round, black object of the size of a glass
fire-grenade. He held it high in the air, and waved his free hand
warningly. But the warning was unobserved. There was no one
remaining to observe it. Leaving the would-be assassin struggling
and biting in the grasp of the stalwart policeman, and the other
policeman unhappily holding the bomb at arm's length, Philip
sought to escape into the Ritz. But the young King broke through
the circle of attendants and stopped him.
"I must thank you," said the boy eagerly; "and I wish you to tell
me how you came to suspect the man's purpose."
Unable to speak the truth, Philip, the would-be writer of
fiction, began to improvise fluently.
"To learn their purpose, sir," he said, "is my business. I am of
the International Police, and in the secret service of your
Majesty."
"Then I must know your name," said the King, and added with a
dignity that was most becoming, "You will find we are not
ungrateful."
Philip smiled mysteriously and shook his head.
"I said in your secret service," he repeated. "Did even your
Majesty know me, my usefulness would be at an end." He pointed
toward the two policemen. "If you desire to be just, as well as
gracious, those are the men to reward."
He slipped past the King and through the crowd of hotel officials
into the hall and on into the corridor.
The arrest had taken place so quietly and so quickly that through
the heavy glass doors no sound had penetrated, and of the fact
that they had been so close to a possible tragedy those in the
corridor were still ignorant. The members of the Hungarian
orchestra were arranging their music; a waiter was serving two
men of middle age with sherry; and two distinguished-looking
elderly gentlemen seated together on a sofa were talking in
leisurely whispers.
One of the two middle-aged men was well known to Philip, who as a
reporter had often, in New York, endeavored to interview him on
matters concerning the steel trust. His name was Faust. He was a
Pennsylvania Dutchman from Pittsburgh, and at one time had been a
foreman of the night shift in the same mills he now controlled.
But with a roar and a spectacular flash, not unlike one of his
own blast furnaces, he had soared to fame and fortune. He
recognized Philip as one of the bright young men of the Republic;
but in his own opinion he was far too self-important to betray
that fact.
Philip sank into an imitation Louis Quatorze chair beside a
fountain in imitation of one in the apartment of the Pompadour,
and ordered what he knew would be an execrable imitation of an
American cocktail. While waiting for the cocktail and Lady
Woodcote's luncheon party, Philip, from where he sat, could not
help but overhear the conversation of Faust and of the man with
him. The latter was a German with Hebraic features and a pointed
beard. In loud tones he was congratulating the American many-time
millionaire on having that morning come into possession of a rare
and valuable masterpiece, a hitherto unknown and but recently
discovered portrait of Philip IV by Velasquez.
Philip sighed enviously.
"Fancy," he thought, "owning a Velasquez! Fancy having it all to
yourself! It must be fun to be rich. It certainly is hell to be
poor!"
The German, who was evidently a picture-dealer, was exclaiming in
tones of rapture, and nodding his head with an air of awe and
solemnity.
"I am telling you the truth, Mr. Faust," he said. "In no gallery
in Europe, no, not even in the Prado, is there such another
Velasquez. This is what you are doing, Mr. Faust, you are robbing
Spain. You are robbing her of something worth more to her than
Cuba. And I tell you, so soon as it is known that this Velasquez
is going to your home in Pittsburgh, every Spaniard will hate you
and every art-collector will hate you, too. For it is the most
wonderful art treasure in Europe. And what a bargain, Mr. Faust!
What a bargain!"
To make sure that the reporter was within hearing, Mr. Faust
glanced in the direction of Philip and, seeing that he had heard,
frowned importantly. That the reporter might hear still more, he
also raised his voice.
"Nothing can be called a bargain, Baron," he said, "that costs
three hundred thousand dollars!"
Again he could not resist glancing toward Philip, and so eagerly
that Philip deemed it would be only polite to look interested. So
he obligingly assumed a startled look, with which he endeavored
to mingle simulations of surprise, awe, and envy.
The next instant an expression of real surprise overspread his
features.
Mr. Faust continued. "If you will come upstairs," he said to the
picture-dealer, "I will give you your check; and then I should
like to drive to your apartments and take a farewell look at the
picture."
"I am sorry," the Baron said, "but I have had it moved to my art
gallery to be packed."
"Then let's go to the gallery," urged the patron of art. "We've
just time before lunch." He rose to his feet, and on the instant
the soul of the picture-dealer was filled with alarm.
In actual words he said: "The picture is already boxed and in its
lead coffin. No doubt by now it is on its way to Liverpool. I am
sorry." But his thoughts, as Philip easily read them, were:
"Fancy my letting this vulgar fool into the Tate Street workshop!
Even HE would know that old masters are not found in a
half-finished state on Chelsea-made frames and canvases. Fancy my
letting him see those two half-completed Van Dycks, the new Hals,
the half-dozen Corots. He would even see his own copy of
Velasquez next to the one exactly like it--the one MacMillan
finished yesterday and that I am sending to Oporto, where next
year, in a convent, we shall 'discover' it."
Philip's surprise gave way to intense amusement. In his delight
at the situation upon which he had stumbled, he laughed aloud.
The two men, who had risen, surprised at the spectacle of a young
man laughing at nothing, turned and stared. Philip also rose.
"Pardon me," he said to Faust, "but you spoke so loud I couldn't
help overhearing. I think we've met before, when I was a reporter
on the Republic."
The Pittsburgh millionaire made a pretense, of annoyance.
"Really!" he protested irritably, "you reporters butt in
everywhere. No public man is safe. Is there no place we can go
where you fellows won't annoy us?"
"You can go to the devil for all I care," said Philip, "or even
to Pittsburgh!"
He saw the waiter bearing down upon him with the imitation
cocktail, and moved to meet it. The millionaire, fearing the
reporter would escape him, hastily changed his tone. He spoke
with effective resignation.
"However, since you've learned so much," he said, "I'll tell you
the whole of it. I don't want the fact garbled, for it is of
international importance. Do you know what a Velasquez is?"
"Do you?" asked Philip.
The millionaire smiled tolerantly.
"I think I do," he said. "And to prove it, I shall tell you
something that will be news to you. I have just bought a
Velasquez that I am going to place in my art museum. It is worth
three hundred thousand dollars."
Philip accepted the cocktail the waiter presented. It was quite
as bad as he had expected.
"Now, I shall tell you something," he said, "that will be news to
you. You are not buying a Velasquez. It is no more a Velasquez
than this hair oil is a real cocktail. It is a bad copy, worth a
few dollars."
"How dare you!" shouted Faust. "Are you mad?"
The face of the German turned crimson with rage.
"Who is this insolent one?" he sputtered.
"I will make you a sporting proposition," said Philip. "You can
take it, or leave it. You two will get into a taxi. You will
drive to this man's studio in Tate Street. You will find your
Velasquez is there and not on its way to Liverpool. And you will
find one exactly like it, and a dozen other 'old masters'
half-finished. I'll bet you a hundred pounds I'm right! And I'll
bet this man a hundred pounds that he DOESN'T DARE TAKE YOU TO
HIS STUDIO!"
"Indeed, I will not," roared the German. "It would be to insult
myself."
"It would be an easy way to earn a hundred pounds, too," said
Philip.
"How dare you insult the Baron?" demanded Faust. "What makes you
think--"
"I don't think, I know!" said Philip. "For the price of a
taxi-cab fare to Tate Street, you win a hundred pounds."
"We will all three go at once," cried the German. "My car is
outside. Wait here. I will have it brought to the door?"
Faust protested indignantly.
"Do not disturb yourself, Baron," he said; "just because a fresh
reporter--"
But already the German had reached the hall. Nor did he stop
there. They saw him, without his hat, rush into Piccadilly,
spring into a taxi, and shout excitedly to the driver. The next
moment he had disappeared.
"That's the last you'll see of him," said Philip.
"His actions are certainly peculiar," gasped the millionaire. "He
did not wait for us. He didn't even wait for his hat! I think,
after all, I had better go to Tate Street."
"Do so," said Philip, "and save yourself three hundred thousand
dollars, and from the laughter of two continents. You'll find me
here at lunch. If I'm wrong, I'll pay you a hundred pounds."
"You should come with me," said Faust. "It is only fair to
yourself."
"I'll take your word for what you find in the studio," said
Philip. "I cannot go. This is my busy day."
Without further words, the millionaire collected his hat and
stick, and, in his turn, entered a taxi-cab and disappeared.
Philip returned to the Louis Quatorze chair and lit a cigarette.
Save for the two elderly gentlemen on the sofa, the lounge was
still empty, and his reflections were undisturbed. He shook his
head sadly.
"Surely," Philip thought, "the French chap was right who said
words were given us to conceal our thoughts. What a strange world
it would be if every one possessed my power. Deception would be
quite futile and lying would become a lost art. I wonder," he
mused cynically, "is any one quite honest? Does any one speak as
he thinks and think as he speaks?"
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