II
WHICH BEGINS THE STORY OF THE BISHOP'S HEAD
"Harry is the most modern character in my little museum," said theHonorable Socrates Potter, as I sat with him in his cozy office. "Iwas really introduced to Harry by the Bishop of St. Clare, who died in1712. I didn't know his heart until the Bishop made us acquainted.Strange! Well, that depends on the point of view. You see, the Bishopwas acquired and imported as an ancestor by one of the best families,and that's how I happened to meet him. They would have got William theConqueror--of England and Fifth Avenue--if he hadn't been wellhidden.
"I am inclined to converse long and loudly on the reconstruction ofPointview. Of course I shall talk too much, but I am a licensed liar,and the number of my machine is 4227643720, so if I smash a dog hereand there, make a note of the number and charge it. I'm going fast andshall not have time to stop for apologies.
"In Pointview even Time has quickened his pace. Last year is ancienthistory. Lizzie has been succeeded by Miss Elizabeth, who needs amaid, a chauffeur, a footman, and a house-party to maintain herspirits. Harry and his drag have taken the place of Dan and hisrunabout.
"The enemy has arrived in force. We are surrounded by country-housesand city abdomens of appalling size and arrogance. Mansions crown theslopes and line the water-front. The dialect of the lazy Yankee andhis industrious hens are heard no more in the hills of Pointview.Where the hoe and the sickle were stirred by the fear of hunger, thegolf-club and the tennis-racket are moved by the fear of fat. Thesweat of toil is now the perspiration of exercise. The chatter ofsociety has succeeded that of the goose and the polliwog. Land hasgone up. Rocks have become real estate even while they belonged toChristian Scientists. Ledges, smitten by the modern Moses, have gusheda stream of gold. Once the land supported its owner. Now wealthsupports land and landlord and the fullness thereof. The Fifth Avenuefarmer has begun to raise his own vegetables at a dollar apiece and acrop of criminals second to none. In his hands farming becomesagriculture and the farm a swarming nest of parasites.
"We are in the midst of a new migration from the cities back to theland, and all are happy save the philosophers. It is a remote reactionof former migrations to the mines and the oil-fields. The descendantsof these very pioneers now seek to exchange a part of their gold forthe ancient sod in which are the roots of their family trees anddelusions.
"With these rich men came Henry Delance, who grew up with me here andwent to Pittsburg in his early twenties and made a fortune in the coaland iron business. His grandfather was old Nick Delance, a blacksmith;and his father owned a farm on the hills and made a bare living forhimself and a large family. They had been simple, hard-working, honestpeople. I helped Henry to buy the old place, and, as we stood togetheron the hilltop, he said to me:
"'I often think of the old days that were full of hard labor. What awoman my mother was! Did all the work of the house and raised sevenboys and two girls, and every one of them has had some success in theworld--except me. One built a big railroad, one was governor of aState, one a member of Congress, one a noted physician, two have mademillions, and both of the girls married well. Now, my boy has hadevery advantage--'
"'But poverty,' I suggested.
"'But poverty,' he repeated, 'and I'm unable to give him that. It'sprobably the one thing that would make a man of him, and I wouldn'twonder if he succeeded in achieving it.'
"'A rather large undertaking,' I said.
"'Yes, but he's well qualified,' Henry answered, with a smile.
"'What's the matter with your boy?' I asked.
"'So busy with tomfoolery--no time for anything else. I've had so muchto do that I've rather neglected Harry, and now he's too much for me.He knows that he's got me beat on education, but that's only thebeginning of what he knows. Good fellow, you understand, but he'syoung and thinks me old-fashioned. I wish you'd help me to make a manof him.'
"'What can I do?'
"'Get him interested in some kind of work. He doesn't like mybusiness. He hates Wall Street, and, knowing it as I do, how can Iblame the boy? He doesn't take to the law--'
"'And, knowing it as I do, how can _I_ blame him?' I interrupted.
"'But, somehow, he hasn't the spring in his bow that I had--theget-up-and-get--the disposition to move all hell if necessary.'
"'You can't expect it,' I said. 'His mainspring is broken.'
"'What would you call his mainspring?' he asked.
"'The desire to win money and its power. Mind you, I wouldn't callthat a high motive, but in a young man it's a kind of a mainspringthat sets him a-going and keeps the works busy until he can get bettermotive power. In Harry it's broken.'
"'You're right--it was busted long ago,' said Henry Delance.
"'Some one has got to contrive a new mainspring for the sons ofmillionaires--they're so plenty these days.'
"'There's the desire to be respectable,' he suggested.
"'But it is not nearly so universal as the love of money. If it werepossible to have millionaire carpenters and shoemakers there'd be morehope! But I'll try to invent a mainspring for Harry. If he doesn'tmarry some fool woman there's a chance for the boy--a good chance.Tell me all about him.'
"In his own way, which amused me a little, the old man sketched thecharacter of his son, or rather confessed it.
"'A kind of Alexander the Great,' he said. 'We shall have to becareful or lose our heads. Surfeited with power, you know. When hewants anything he goes to a store and says, "Charge it." That hasruined him. He's no scale of values in his mind.'
"He told me, then, with some evidence of alarm, that Harry had becomeinterested in a fool woman, older than he, noted for her beauty andequestrian skill--by name Mrs. Revere-Chalmers, of a well-knownSouthern family. I knew the woman--divorced from a rich old gentlemanof great generosity, who had taken all the blame for her sake. But Ihappened to know that the circumstances on her side were notcreditable. The truth, however, had been well concealed.
"In her youth Frances Revere had two beautiful parents. In fact, theywere all that any girl could desire--obedient and respectful to theiryoungers. She was always kind to them and kept them looking neatly andhelped them in their lessons and brought them up in the fear ofTiffany and the hope of future happiness. They played most of thetime, but never chased each other in and out of the bedrooms or madeany noise about the house when she lay sleeping in the forenoon. Theirsense of chivalry would not have permitted it. When she arose shecalled them to her and patted their heads and said: 'What dear parentsI have!' It might be thought that the fair Frances led an aimless andidle life. Not so. The young lady was very busy and never forgot heraim. She was preparing herself to be a marryer of men and the leadingmarryer in the proud city of her birth. Every member of the householdbecame her assistant in this noble industry. Many storekeepers hadunconsciously joined her staff and 'charged it' until they were weary.All her papa's money had been invested in the business, and he beganto borrow for a rainy day. Then there came a long spell of wetweather. At last something had to be done. Frances began to use hertalents. No prince or noble duke had come for her, so she married anold man worth ten million dollars and sent her parents to an orphanasylum with a fair allowance of spending-money. They are her onlyheirs, and now, at thirty, but with ample capital, she has set upagain in the marrying business.
"She lives in a big country-house, and has a lot of cats and dogs thatare shampooed every day. Her life is pretty much devoted to theregulation of hair. Her own requires the exclusive attention of ahired girl. Its tint, luster, and general effect show excellent tasteand close application. Considering its area, her scalp is the mostremarkable field of industry in Connecticut. Has herself made into akind of life-sized portrait every day and carefully framed and lightedand hung. It is a beautiful portrait, but it is not a portrait ofher.
"Her life is arduous. I have some reason to think that it wearies her.She rings for the masseuse at 10.30 A.M. and breakfasts in bed attwelve o'clock. Soon after that the chiropodist and the mani
cure andthe hair-dresser begin to saw wood; then the grooms and secondfootmen. At two o'clock she goes out to pat the head of theten-thousand-dollar bull and give some sugar to the horses, all ofwhom have been prepared for this ordeal by bathing and massage.
"It's great to be able to pat the head of a ten-thousand-dollar bull.It's a pretty vanity. All the Fifth Avenue farmers indulge in it. Someslap them on the back and some poke them in the ribs with the point ofa parasol, but the correct thing is to pat them on the head and say:Dear old Romeo!
"After a turn in the saddle Mrs. Revere-Chalmers led society untilmidnight. With her a new spirit had arrived in the ancient strongholdof the Yankee.
"I began to learn things about Harry--a big, blond, handsome youth whohad traveled much. He had been to school in New York, London,Florence, and Paris, and had graduated from Harvard. For a time hecalled it Hahvud, but passed that trouble without serious injury andput it behind him. In the European stage of his career he had beenattacked by lions, griffins, and battle-axes and had lost some of hisred blood. There he had acquired a full line of Fifth Avenue dialectand conversation with trills and grace notes from France and Italy. Hehad been slowly recovering from that trouble for a year or so when Imet him. Now and then a good, strong, native idiom burst out in hisconversation.
"Harry was a man without a country, having never had a fair chance toacquire one. He had touched many high and low places--from the top ofthe Eiffel Tower to the lowest depths of the underworld. Also, he knewthe best hotels in Europe and eastern America, and the Duke ofSutherland and the Lord Mayor of London, and Jack Johnson, thepugilist. Harry knew only the upper and lower ends of life.
"He was an extremist. Also, he was a prolific and generous liar. Helied not to deceive, but to entertain. There was a kind of noblecharity in his lying. He would gladly perjure his soul to speed anhour for any good friend. His was the fictional imagination largelyexercised in the cause of human happiness. Now and then he became thehero of his own lies, but he was generally willing to divide thehonors. His friends knew not when to believe him, and he oftendeceived them when he was telling the truth.
"Early in April, Henry Delance came to me and said: 'Soc, you've beenworking hard for years, and you need a rest. Let's get aboard the nextsteamer and spend a fortnight in England.'
"I had little taste for foreign travel, but Betsey urged me to go, andI went with Henry and his wife, their daughter Ruth and the boy Harry,and sundry maids and valets. We had been a week in London, when Henryand the Mrs. came into my room one day, aglow with excitement. Mrs.Delance was first to address me.
"'Mr. Potter, congratulate us,' said she. 'We find that Henry is alineal descendant of William the Conqueror.'
"'Henry, it is possible that William could prove an alibi, or maybeyou could,' I suggested.
"'I'd make an effort,' said he, with a trace of embarrassment, 'but mywife thinks that we had better plead guilty and let it go. That kindof thing doesn't interest me so much as it does her.'
"'After all,' I answered, by way of consolation, 'if you think it'slike to do you any harm, it doesn't need to get out. I shall respectyour confidence.'
"'Too late!' his wife exclaimed. 'The facts have been cabled toAmerica.'
"I was writing letters in my room, next day, when Harry interrupted mewith a hurried entrance. He locked the door inside, and in a kind ofplayful silence drew from under his rain-coat, and deposited on mytable, a human skull.
"'The Bishop of St. Clare,' he whispered, in that curious dialectwhich I shall not try to imitate.
"'He isn't looking very well,' I said, not knowing what he meant.
"'This is the Bishop's head--the Bishop of St. Clare,' Harry whisperedagain. 'He was one of our ancestors--by Jove!'
"'Is that all that was the matter with him?' I asked.
"'No; his epitaph says that he died of a fever in 1712.'
"'How did you get hold of his head?' I asked. 'Win it in a raffle?'
"'I bribed the old verger in the crypt of St. Mary's. Offered him twosovereigns to lift the stone lid and let me look in. He said hecouldn't do that, but discreetly withdrew when I put the money in hishand. It was up to me, don't you know, and here is the Bishop'shead.'
"'Going to have him photographed in a group of the family?' I asked.
"'No, but you see Materna paid two pounds for a chunk off a tombstone,and I thought I would give her a souvenir worth having,' said he, andblushed for the first time since our interview had begun. 'This isunique.'
"'And you didn't think the Bishop would miss it?' I suggested.
"'Not seriously,' he answered. 'I guess it's a fool thing to havedone, but I thought that I could have some fun with the Bishop's head.Mother is going to round up all the Delances at Christmas for a bigdinner--uncles, aunts, and cousins, you know--a celebration of ourgenealogical discoveries with a great family tree in the center of thetable. The history of the Delances will be read, and I thought that Iwould spring a surprise--tell them that I had invited our oldancestor, Sir Robert Delance, Bishop of St. Clare; that, contrary tomy hope, he had accepted, and that I would presently introduce him. Indue time I would produce the head and read from his life and writings,which I bought in a London book-stall. Finally, I thought that I wouldhave him tell how he happened to be present. Don't you think he wouldmake a hit?'
"'He would surely make a hit--a resounding hit,' I said, 'but not as aproof of respectability. Even if the Bishop is your ancestor, you haveno good title to his bones. I presume that every visitor to the oldchurch puts his name and address in a register?'
"'Yes.'
"'Well, suppose the theft is discovered and the verger gives you away.All the money you've got wouldn't keep you out of prison.'
"Harry began to turn pale. He was a good fellow, but this genealogicalfrenzy had turned his head, and his head was not as old as theBishop's. It was unduly young.
"'Assume that you get home with your prize, the Bishop's head would bethe worst enemy that his descendants ever had. It would always accuseyou and grin at your follies. And would you dare proclaim the truthover in Pointview that you really have the skull of the Bishop of St.Clare?'
"The boy was scared. He had suddenly discovered an important fact. Itwas the north pole of his education.
"'By Jove! I'm an ass,' he said. 'What shall I do with it?'
"'Say nothing of the thing to anybody, not even to your father, andget rid of it.'
"'That's what I'll do,' he said, as he wrapped the skull in a piece ofnewspaper, hid it under his coat, and left me.
"We sailed next afternoon, and that evening, when Harry and I satalone in a corner of the deck, I asked him what he had done with theBishop's head.
"'Tried to get rid of it, but couldn't,' he said. 'My consciencesmote me, and I took the old bone back to St. Mary's. Going to domy duty like a man, you see, but it wouldn't work. New verger on thejob! I weakened. Then I put it in a box and had it addressed to afictitious man in Bristol, and sent my valet to get it off byexpress. It went on, and was returned for a better address. You see,my valet--officious ass!--had left his address at the express office.How _gauche_ of him! While we were lying at the dock a messengercame to my state-room with the Bishop's head. I had to take it andpay five shillings and a sixpence for the privilege.'
"'The old Bishop seems to be quite attached to his new relative,' Isaid.
"'Yes, but when the deck is deserted, by and by, I'm going to drop himoverboard.'
"And that is what he did--dropped it, solemnly, from the ship's sideat dinnertime, and I witnessed the proceeding.
"The adventure had one result that was rather curious and unexpected.It brought Harry close to me and established our relations to eachother. That they admitted me to his confidence as a friend andcounselor of the utmost frankness was on the whole exceedinglyfortunate. From that time he began to trust me and to distrusthimself.
"So it happened that I was really introduced to Harry by the Bishop ofSt. Clare, who died in 1712, and those crede
ntials gave me a standingwhich I could not otherwise have enjoyed.
"Coming home, I limbered up my imagination and outlied Harry.
"I was forced to invent that cheerful, handy liar the late Dr. GodfreyVogeldam Guph, Professor of the Romance Languages in the University ofBrague and the intimate friend of any great man you may be pleased tomention. With his help I have laid low even the most authoritative,learned, and precise liars in the State of Connecticut. I do it byquoting from his memoirs.
"Harry's specialty were lies of adventure in court and palace, and, asDr. Guph had known all the crowned heads, he became an ever-presenthelp in time of trouble.
"Every lie of Harry's I outdid with another of ampler proportions. Heput on a little more steam, but I kept abreast or a length ahead ofhim. By and by he broke down and begged for quarter.
"'On my word as a gentleman,' said he, 'that last story I told wastrue. It really happened, don't you know?'
"'Well, Harry, if you will only notify me when you propose to tell thetruth, I shall be glad to take your word for it,' was my answer.
"'And keep Dr. Guph chained,' said he.
"'Exactly, and give you like warning when I have a lie ready tolaunch.'
"'That's a fair treaty,' he agreed.
"'And a good idea,' I said. 'As a liar of long experience I have foundit best to notify all comers what to expect of me when I see a usefullie in the offing. That has enabled me to give my fancy full playwithout impairing my reputation. My noblest faculties have had ampleexercise while my word has remained at par.'
"We made an agreement along that line, and Harry ceased to be a liar,and became a story-teller of much humor and ingenuity."