ALAN MASSEY LOSES HIMSELF
While Ruth and Larry steered their
storm tossed craft of love into smooth haven at last;
while Ted came into his own in the Canadian training
camp and Tony played Broadway to her heart’s
content, the two Masseys down in Mexico drifted into
a strange pact of friendship.
Had there been no other ministrations
offered save those of creature comfort alone Dick
would have had cause to be immensely grateful to Alan
Massey. To good food, good nursing and material
comfort the young man reacted quickly for he was a
healthy young animal and had no bad habits to militate
against recovery.
But there was more than creature comfort
in Alan’s service. Without the latter’s
presence loneliness, homesickness and heartache would
have gnawed at the younger man retarding his physical
gains. With Alan Massey life even on a sick bed
took on fascinating colors like a prism in sunlight.
For the sick lad’s delectation
Alan spun long thrilling tales, many of them based
on personal experience in his wide travels in many
lands. He was a magnificent raconteur and Dick
propped up among his pillows drank it all in, listening
like another Desdemona to strange moving accidents
of fire and flood which his scribbling soul recognized
as superb copy.
Often too Alan read from books, called
in the masters of the pen to set the listener’s
eager mind atravel through wondrous, unexplored worlds.
Best of all perhaps were the twilight hours when Alan
quoted long passages of poetry from memory, lending
to the magic of the poet’s art his own magic
of voice and intonation. These were wonderful
moments to Dick, moments he was never to forget.
He drank deep of the soul vintage which the other
man offered him out of the abundance of his experience
as a life long pilgrim in the service of beauty.
It was a curious relation this
growing friendship between the two men. In some
respects they were as master and pupil, in others were
as man and man, friend and friend, almost brother
and brother. When Alan Massey gave at all he
gave magnificently without stint or reservation.
He did now. And when he willed to conquer he
seldom if ever failed. He did not now. He
won, won first his cousin’s liking, respect,
and gratitude and finally his loyal friendship and
something else that was akin to reverence.
Tony Holiday’s name was seldom
mentioned between the two. Perhaps they feared
that with the name of the girl they both loved there
might return also the old antagonistic forces which
had already wrought too much havoc. Both sincerely
desired peace and amity and therefore the woman who
held both their hearts in her keeping was almost banished
from the talk of the sick room though she was far
from forgotten by either.
So things went on. In time Dick
was judged by the physician well enough to take the
long journey back to New York. Alan secured the
tickets, made all the arrangements, permitting Dick
not so much as the lifting of a finger in his own
behalf. And just then came Tony Holiday’s
letter to Alan telling him she was his whenever he
wanted her since he had cleared the shield forever
in her eyes by what he had done for Dick. She
trusted him, knew he would not ask her to marry him
unless he was quite free morally and every other way
to ask her. She wanted him, could not be surer
of his love or her own if she waited a dozen years.
He meant more to her than her work, more than her
beloved freedom more even than Holiday Hill itself
although she felt that she was not so much deserting
the Hill as bringing Alan to it. The others would
learn to love him too. They must, because she
loved him so much! But even if they did not she
had made her choice. She belonged to him first
of all.
“But think, dear,” she
finished. “Think well before you take me.
Don’t come to me at all unless you can come
free, with nothing on your soul that is going to prevent
your being happy with me. I shall ask no questions
if you come. I trust you to decide right for us
both because you lave me in the high way as well as
all the other ways.”
Alan took this letter of Tony’s
out into the night, walked with it through flaming
valleys of hell. She was his. Of her own
free will she had given herself to him, placed him
higher in her heart at last than even her sacred Hill.
And yet after all the Hill stood between them, in
the challenge she flung at him. She was his to
take if he could come free. She left the decision
to him. She trusted him.
Good God! Why should he hesitate
to take what she was willing to give? He had
atoned, saved his cousin’s life, lived decently,
honorably as he had promised, kept faith with Tony
herself when he might perhaps have won her on baser
terms than he had made himself keep to because he loved
her as she said “in the high way as well as
all the other ways.” He would contrive
some way of giving his cousin back the money.
He did not want it. He only wanted Tony and her
love. Why in the name of all the devils should
he who had sinned all his life, head up and eyes open,
balk at this one sin, the negative sin of mere silence,
when it would give him what he wanted more than all
the world? What was he afraid of? The answer
he would not let himself discover. He was afraid
of Tony Holiday’s clear eyes but he was more
afraid of something else his own soul which
somehow Tony had created by loving and believing in
him.
All the next day, the day before they
were to leave on the northern journey, Alan behaved
as if all the devils of hell which he had invoked
were with him. The old mocking bitterness of tongue
was back, an even more savage light than Dick remembered
that night of their quarrel was in his green eyes.
The man was suddenly acidulated as if he had over night
suffered a chemical transformation which had affected
both mind and body. A wild beast tortured, evil,
ready to pounce, looked out of his drawn, white face.
Dick wondered greatly what had caused
the strange reaction and seeing the other was suffering
tremendously for some reason or other unexplained
and perhaps inexplicable was profoundly sorry.
His friendship for the man who had saved his life
was altogether too strong and deep to be shaken by
this temporary lapse into brutality which he had known
all along was there although held miraculously in abeyance
these many weeks. The man was a genius, with all
the temperamental fluctuations of mood which are comprehensible
and forgivable in a genius. Dick did not begrudge
the other any relief he might find in his debauch
of ill humor, was more than willing he should work
it off on his humble self if it could do any good
though he would be immensely relieved when the old
friendly Alan came back.
Twilight descended. Dick turned
from the mirror after a critical survey of his own
lean, fever parched, yellow countenance.
“Lord! I look like a peanut,”
he commenced disgustedly. “I say, Massey,
when we get back to New York I think I should choke
anybody if I were you who dared to say we looked alike.
One must draw the line somewhere at what constitutes
a permissible insult.” He grinned whimsically
at his own expense, turned back to the mirror.
“Upon my word, though, I believe it is true.
We do look alike. I never saw it until this minute.
Funny things resemblances.”
“This isn’t so funny,”
drawled Alan. “We had the same great grandfather.”
Dick whirled about staring at the
other man as if he thought him suddenly gone mad.
“What! What do you know
about my great grandfather? Do you know who I
am?”
“I do. You are John Massey,
old John’s grandson, the chap I told you once
was dead and decently buried. I hoped it was true
at the time but it wasn’t a week before I knew
it was a lie. I found out John Massey was alive
and that he was going under the name of Dick Carson.
Do you wonder I hated you?”
Dick sat down, his face white.
He looked and was utterly dazed.
“I don’t understand,”
he said. “Do you mind explaining? It it
is a little hard to get all at once.”
And then Alan Massey told the story
that no living being save himself knew. He spared
himself nothing, apologised for nothing, expressed
no regret, asked for no palliation of judgment, forgiveness
or even understanding. Quietly, apparently without
emotion, he gave back to the other man the birthright
he had robbed him of by his selfish and dishonorable
connivance with a wicked old man now beyond the power
of any vengeance or penalty. Dick Carson was
no longer nameless but as he listened tensely to his
cousin’s revelations he almost found it in his
heart to wish he were. It was too terrible to
have won his name at such a cost. As he listened,
watching Alan’s eyes burn in the dusk in strange
contrast to his cool, liquid, studiously tranquil voice,
Dick remembered a line Alan himself had read him only
the other day, “Hell, the shadow of a soul on
fire,” the Persian phrased it. Watching,
Dick Carson saw before him a sadder thing, a soul
which had once been on fire and was now but gray ashes.
The flame had blazed up, scorched and blackened its
path. It was over now, burnt out. At thirty-three
Alan Massey was through, had lived his life, had given
up. The younger man saw this with a pang which
had no reactive thought of self, only compassion for
the other.
“That is all, I think,”
said Alan at last. “I have all the proofs
of your identity with me. I never could destroy
them somehow though I have meant to over and over
again. On the same principle I suppose that the
sinning monk sears the sign of the cross on his breast
though he makes no outward confession to the world
and means to make none. I never meant to make
mine. I don’t know why I am doing it now.
Or rather I do. I couldn’t marry Tony with
this thing between us. I tried to think I could,
that I’d made up to you by saving your life,
that I was free to take my happiness with her because
I loved her and she loved me. And she does love
me. She wrote me yesterday she would marry me
whenever I wished. I could have had her.
But I couldn’t take her that way. I couldn’t
have made her happy. She would have read the
thing in my soul. She is too clean and honest
and true herself not to feel the presence of the other
thing when it came near her. I have tried to
tell myself love was enough, that it would make up
to her for the rest. It isn’t enough.
You can’t build life or happiness except on
the quarry stuff they keep on Holiday Hill, right,
honor, decency. You know that. Tony forgave
my past. I believe she is generous enough to
forgive even this and go on with me. But I shan’t
ask her. I won’t let her. I I’ve
given her up with the rest.”
The speaker came over to where Dick sat, silent, stunned.
“Enough of that. I have
no wish to appeal to you in any way. The next
move is yours. You can act as you please.
You can brand me as a criminal if you choose.
It is what I am, guilty in the eyes of the law as
well as in my own eyes and yours. I am not pleading
innocence. I am pleading unqualified guilt.
Understand that clearly. I knew what I was doing
when I did it. I have known ever since. I’ve
never been blind to the rottenness of the thing.
At first I did it for the money because I was afraid
of poverty and honest work. And then I went on
with it for Tony, because I loved her and wouldn’t
give her up to you. Now I’ve given up the
last ditch. The name is yours and the money is
yours and if you can win Tony she is yours. I’m
out of the face for good and all. But we have
to settle just how the thing is going to be done.
And that is for you to say.”
“I wish I needn’t do anything
about it,” said Dick slowly after a moment.
“I don’t want the money. I am almost
afraid of it. It seems accursed somehow considering
what it did to you. Even the name I don’t
seem to care so much about just now thought I have
wanted a name as I have never wanted anything else
in the world except Tony. It was mostly for her
I wanted it. See here, Alan, why can’t
we make a compromise? You say Roberts wrote two
letters and you have both. Why can’t we
destroy the one and send the other to the lawyers,
the one that lets you out? It is nobody’s
business but ours. We can say that the letter
has just fallen into your hands with the other proof
that I am the John Massey that was stolen. That
would straighten the thing out for you. I’ve
no desire to brand you in any way. Why should
I after all I owe you? You have made up a million
times by saving my life and by the way you have given
the thing over now. Anyway one doesn’t
exact payment from one’s friends. And you
are my friend, Alan. You offered me friendship.
I took it was proud to take it. I
am proud now, prouder than ever.”
And rising Dick Carson who was no
longer Dick Carson but John Massey held out his hand
to the man who had wronged him so bitterly. The
paraquet in the corner jibbered harshly. Thunder
rumbled heavily outside. An eerily vivid flash
of lightning dispelled for a moment the gloom of the
dusk as the two men clasped hands.
“John Massey!” Alan’s
voice with its deep cello quality was vibrant with
emotion. “You don’t know what that
means to me. Men have called me many things but
few have ever called me friend except in lip service
for what they thought they could get out of it.
And from you well, I can only say, I thank
you.”
“We are the only Masseys.
We ought to stand together,” said Dick simply.
Alan smiled though the room was too dark for Dick
to see.
“We can’t stand together.
I have forfeited the right. You chose the high
road long ago and I chose the other. We have both
to abide by our choices. We can’t change
those things at will. Spare me the public revelation
if you care to. I shall be glad for Tony’s
sake. For myself it doesn’t matter much.
I don’t expect to cross your path or hers again.
I am going to lose myself. Maybe some day you
will win her. She will be worth the winning.
But don’t hurry her if you want to win.
She will have to get over me first and that will take
time.”
“She will never get over you,
Alan. I know her. Things go deep with her.
They do with all the Holidays. You shan’t
lose yourself. There is no need of it. Tony
loves you. You must stay and make her happy.
You can now you are free. She need never know
the worst of this any more than the rest of the world
need know. We can divide the money. It is
the only way I am willing to have any of it.”
Alan shook his head.
“We can divide nothing, not
the money and not Tony’s love. I told you
I was giving it all up. You cannot stop me.
No man has ever stopped me from doing what I willed
to do. I have a letter or two to write now and
so I’ll leave you. I am glad you don’t
hate me, John Massey. Shall we shake hands once
more and then good-night?”
Their hands met again. A sharp
glare of lightning lit the room with ominous brilliancy
for a moment. The paraquet screamed raucously.
And then the door closed on Alan Massey.
An hour later a servant brought word
to Dick that an American was below waiting to speak
to him. He descended with the card in his hand.
The name was unfamiliar, Arthur Hallock of Chicago,
mining engineer.
The stranger stood in the hall waiting
while Dick came down the stairs. He was obviously
ill at ease.
“I am Hallock,” announced
the visitor. “You are Richard Carson?”
Dick nodded. Already the name
was beginning to sound strange on his ears. In
one hour he had gotten oddly accustomed to knowing
that he was John Massey. And no longer needed
Tony’s name, dear as it was.
“I am sorry to be the bearer
of ill news, Mr. Carson,” the stranger proceeded.
“You have a friend named Alan Massey living here
with you?”
Again Dick nodded. He was apprehensive
at the mention of Alan’s name.
“There was a riot down there.”
The speaker pointed down the street. “A
fuss over an American flag some dirty German dog had
spit at. It didn’t take long to start a
life sized row. We are all spoiling for a chance
to stick a few of the pigs ourselves whether we’re
technically at war or not. A lot of us collected,
your friend Massey among the rest. I remember
particularly when he joined the mob because he was
so much taller than the rest of us and came strolling
in as if he was going to an afternoon tea instead
of getting into an international mess with nearly
all the contracting parties drunk and disorderly.
There was a good deal of excitement and confusion.
I don’t believe anybody knows just what happened
but a drunken Mexican drew a dagger somewhere in the
mix up and let it fly indiscriminate like. We
all scattered like mischief when we saw the thing
flash. Nobody cares much for that kind of plaything
at close range. But Massey didn’t move.
It got him, clean in the heart. He couldn’t
have suffered a second. It was all over in a
breath. He fell and the mob made itself scarce.
Another fellow and I were the first to get to him
but there wasn’t anything to do but look in
his pockets and find out who he was. We found
his name on a card with this address and your name
scribbled on it in pencil. I say, Mr. Carson,
I am horribly sorry,” suddenly perceiving Dick’s
white face. “You care a lot, don’t
you?”
“I care a lot,” said Dick
woodenly. “He was my cousin and my
best friend.”
“I am sorry,” repeated
the young engineer. “Mr. Carson, there is
something else I feel as if I had to say though I shan’t
say it to any one else. Massey might have dodged
with the rest of us. He saw it coming just as
we did. He waited for it and I saw him smile as
it came a queer smile at that. Maybe
I’m mistaken but I have a hunch he wanted that
dagger to find him. That was why he smiled.”
“I think you are entirely right,
Mr. Hallock,” said Dick. “I haven’t
any doubt but that was why he smiled. He would
smile just that way. Where where
is he?” Dick brushed his hands across his eyes
as he asked the question. He had never felt so
desolate, so utterly alone in his life.
“They are bringing him here.
Shall I stay? Can I help anyway?”
Dick shook his head sadly.
“Thank you. I don’t
think there is anything any one can do. I I
wish there was.”
A little later Alan Massey’s
dead body lay in austere dignity in the house in which
he had saved his cousin’s life and given him
back his name and fortune together with the right
to win the girl he himself had loved so well.
The smile was still on his face and a strange serenity
of expression was there too. He slept well at
last. He had lost himself as he had proclaimed
his intent to do and in losing had found himself.
One could not look upon that calm white sculptured
face without feeling that. Alan Massey had died
a victor undaunted, a master of fate to the end.