Trailin'!

BLUEBEARD’S ROOM

As Anthony Woodbury, he knelt beside the dying.  As Anthony Bard he rose with the dead man in his arms a mighty burden even for his supple strength; yet he went staggering up the slope, across a level terrace, and back to the house.  There it was Peters who answered his call, Peters with a flabby face grown grey, but still the perfect servant who asked no questions; together they bore the weight up the stairs and placed it on John Bard’s bed.  While Anthony kept his steady vigil by the dead man, it was Peters again who summoned the police and the useless doctor.

To the old, uniformed sergeant, Anthony told a simple lie.  His father had gone for a walk through the grounds because the night was fine, and Anthony was to join him there later, but when he arrived he found a dying man who could not even explain the manner of his death.

“Nothin’ surprises me about a rich man’s death,” said the sergeant, “not in these here days of anarchy.  Got a place to write?  I want to make out my report.”

So Anthony led the grizzled fellow to the library and supplied him with what he wished.  The sergeant, saying good-bye, shook hands with a lingering grip.

“I knew John Woodbury,” he said, “just by sight, but I’m here to tell the world that you’ve lost a father who was just about all man.  So long; I’ll be seein’ you again.”

Left alone, Anthony Bard went to the secret room.  The key fitted smoothly into the lock.  What the door opened upon was a little grey apartment with an arched ceiling, a place devoid of a single article of furniture save a straight-backed chair in the centre.  Otherwise Anthony saw three things-two pictures on the wall and a little box in the corner.  He went about his work very calmly, for here, he knew, was the only light upon the past of John Bard, that past which had lain passive so long and overwhelmed him on this night.

First he took up the box, as being by far the most promising of the three to give him what he wished to know; the name of the slayer, the place where he could be found, and the cause of the slaying.  It held only two things; a piece of dirty silk and a small oil can; but the oil can and the black smears on the silk made him look closer, closer until the meaning struck him in a flare, as the glow of a lighted match suddenly illumines, even if faintly, an entire room.

In that box the revolver had lain, and here every day through all the year, John Bard retired to clean and oil his gun, oil and reclean it, keeping it ready for the crisis.  That was why he went to the secret room as soon as he heard the call from the garden, and carrying that gun with him he had walked out, prepared.  The time had come for which he had waited a quarter of a century, knowing all that time that the day must arrive.  It was easy to understand now many an act of the big grim man; but still there was no light upon the slayer.

As he sat pondering he began to feel as if eyes were fastened upon him, watching, waiting, mocking him, eyes from behind which stared until a chill ran up his back.  He jerked his head up, at last, and flashed a glance over his shoulder.

Indeed there was mockery in the smile with which she stared down to him from her frame, down to him and past him as if she scorned in him all men forever.  It was not that which made Anthony close his eyes.  He was trying with all his might to conjure up his own image vividly.  He looked again, comparing his picture with this portrait on the wall, and then he knew why the grey man at the Garden had said:  “Son, who’s your mother?” For this was she into whose eyes he now stared.

She had the same deep, dark eyes, the same black hair, the same rather aquiline, thin face which her woman’s eyes and lovely mouth made beautiful, but otherwise the same.  He was simply a copy of that head hewn with a rough chisel—­a sculptor’s clay model rather than a smoothly finished re-production.

Ah, and the fine spirit of her, the buoyant, proud, scornful spirit!  He stretched out his arms to her, drew closer, smiling as if she could meet and welcome his caress, and then remembered that this was a thing of canvas and paint—­a bright shadow; no more.

To the second picture he turned with a deeper hope, but his heart fell at once, for all he saw was an enlarged photograph, two mountains, snow-topped in the distance, and in the foreground, first a mighty pine with the branches lopped smoothly from the side as though some tremendous ax had trimmed it, behind this a ranch-house, and farther back the smooth waters of a lake.

He turned away sadly and had reached the door when something made him turn back and stand once more before the photograph.  It was quite the same, but it took on a different significance as he linked it with the two other objects in the room, the picture of his mother and the revolver box.  He found himself searching among the forest for the figures of two great grey men, equal in bulk, such Titans as that wild country needed.

West it must be, but where?  North or South?  West, and from the West surely that grey man at the Garden had come, and from the West John Bard himself.  Those two mountains, spearing the sky with their sharp horns—­they would be the pole by which he steered his course.

A strong purpose is to a man what an engine is to a ship.  Suppose a hull lies in the water, stanchly built, graceful in lines of strength and speed, nosing at the wharf or tugging back on the mooring line, it may be a fine piece of building but it cannot be much admired.  But place an engine in the hull and add to those fine lines the purr of a motor—­there is a sight which brings a smile to the lips and a light in the eyes.  Anthony had been like the unengined hulk, moored in gentle waters with never the hope of a voyage to rough seas.  Now that his purpose came to him he was calmly eager, almost gay in the prospect of the battle.

On the highest hill of Anson Place in a tomb overlooking the waters of the sound, they lowered the body of John Bard.

Afterward Anthony Bard went back to the secret room of his father.  The old name of Anthony Woodbury he had abandoned; in fact, he felt almost like dating a new existence from the moment when he heard the voice calling out of the garden:  “John Bard, come out to me!” If life was a thread, that voice was the shears which snapped the trend of his life and gave him a new beginning.  As Anthony Bard he opened once more the door of the chamber.

He had replaced the revolver of John Bard in the box with the oiled silk.  Now he took it out again and shoved it into his back trouser pocket, and then stood a long moment under the picture of the woman he knew was his mother.  As he stared he felt himself receding to youth, to boyhood, to child days, finally to a helpless infant which that woman, perhaps, had held and loved.  In those dark, brooding eyes he strove to read the mystery of his existence, but they remained as unriddled as the free stars of heaven.

He repeated to himself his new name, his real name:  “Anthony Bard.”  It seemed to make him a stranger in his own eyes.  “Woodbury” had been a name of culture; it suggested the air of a long descent.  “Bard” was terse, short, brutally abrupt, alive with possibilities of action.  Those possibilities he would never learn from the dead lips of his father.  He sought them from his mother, but only the painted mouth and the painted smile answered him.

He turned again to the picture of the house with the snow-topped mountains in the distance.  There surely, was the solution; somewhere in the infinite reaches of the West.

Finally he cut the picture from its frame and rolled it up.  He felt that in so doing he would carry with him an identification tag—­a clue to himself.  With that clue in his travelling bag, he started for the city, bought his ticket, and boarded a train for the West.