XIV
ARCADIA HOUSE
Little by little, Constans succeeded in piecing together the puzzle, forpuzzle indeed it was. Here in this city of the dead he had found inactual operation one of the great power-producing plants of the ancientworld. How to account for the miracle of its preservation during thegenerations that had passed since the sun of knowledge had disappearedbeneath the sea of mental darkness. What sufficient explanation couldthere be for this amazing fact?
From Prosper, the priest, Constans drew the main outlines of the story,and his studies enabled him to fill in the details. In brief, it may beset down as follows:
When the convicts and criminals, who were the ancestors of the Doomsmen,took possession of the old-time city, it is reasonable to suppose thatamong them were a certain proportion of technically educatedmen--artisans, mechanics, engineers. A power-plant of such imposingproportions (designed, we may conjecture, for the furnishing of motivepower to one of the great transportation systems) could hardly escapetheir notice, and they would certainly know how to utilize it if theycared to do so. And they did--for a peculiar reason.
It is a matter of record that in the twentieth century the universalform of capital punishment was execution by electricity. In everystate-prison stood the "death-chair," the visible embodiment of themoral force which the wrong-doer had defied, and which, in the ensuingstruggle, had proved too strong for him. No wonder that it was bothfeared and hated by the citizens of the underworld of crime.
Now that the social fabric lay in ruins, now that the very foundationsof law and order had been razed, what could be more natural than theimpulse to turn this instrument of legal punishment into one ofunlicensed vengeance? Society had dealt, mercilessly, with the breakerof laws, and now it was to suffer in its turn. So it came to pass thatwhenever a House-dweller (as representative of the old law-creating andlaw-abiding classes) fell alive into the hands of the Doomsmen, it wasinvariably ordained that he must take his seat in the chair of death andin his own body make satisfaction for the ancient debt.
But the years rolled on, and with the new generations came a slow butsweeping change in sentiment. The Doomsmen were now the dominant race,and the Housemen had become their vassals. It was not good policy for amaster to wantonly destroy productive property, and so by degrees thesebarbarous reprisals slackened. The time was now ripe for the secondstage of the evolution--the introduction of the religious element andthe final conversion of the execution into the sacrifice. That thetransformation was a natural one may be easily shown.
Even among the ancient scientists the nature of electricity was butimperfectly understood, and as the night of ignorance settled down uponthe world it was inevitable that the various phenomena of electricalenergy should come to be regarded with ever-increasing awe. To thecommonalty among the Doomsmen this invisible, inaudible, intangibleforce which slew at a breath, became invested with supernaturalattributes; it was the spirit of a god that came and sat in the chair ofdeath, now transformed into the high altar of his chosen sacrifice.
But outside of the vulgar crowd were the initiated, the _illuminati_,the technically trained adepts who managed the whole business. How aboutthem? In the beginning, doubtless, they would be tempted to foster thenew cult, recognizing in it a weakness upon which they could profitablyplay. And this they did, only to be trapped, in turn, in the net ofsuperstition which they had helped to weave. It was now threegenerations back to the electricians and mechanical experts to whom thecare of the great engines had originally been intrusted. Their sons andgrandsons continued to preserve the practical knowledge which wasrequired for the management of the machinery under their charge, but astime went on they cared less and less about the principles of themysterious forces that they controlled. Now, let the tide of religiousfervor sweep onward to its flood, and inevitably the apprentice would bereplaced by the acolyte; the neophytes of the fourth generation would betaught only so much about the engines as was absolutely necessary fortheir maintenance in running order. At last, the Shining One had come tohis own, and all bowed before his throne.
Following upon this culmination came decadence; it is the universallaw. Through imperceptible degrees men fell away from the faith of theirfathers, and the worship of the god had become unfashionable. Thedevotees were reduced to a handful of women; of the once all-powerfulpriesthood, Prosper alone remained, and he was an old and feeble man.
One man but he had stood unfalteringly at his post; every Friday formore than thirty years he had caused the spirit of the god to descendinto his sanctuary, and had called upon all true-hearted believers todraw near and worship. That they would not heed was no concern of his;his duty was accomplished, and beyond this no man may go.
"And surely the Shining One is jealous of his own honor," said Constans,guardedly. "Will he not bring to naught these foolish contemners of hismajesty? Without doubt, else he were no god."
It was the afternoon of the following day, and the two men had been busywith the care of the machinery in the great hall, polishing up thebright parts and examining with infinite patience the innumerablebearings, their oil-cups and dust-caps. The conversation had naturallybeen colored by the pious character of their task, and Prosper hadspoken more unreservedly than was his wont, emboldening Constans to askthe question recorded above. "Else he were no god," he repeated,insistently. The old man turned on him.
"And who shall tell us whether he be a god or no?" he demanded, withstartling vehemence. "What manner of divinity can he be who allows thesefeeble hands to call him into existence and again to reduce him tonothingness? A god! This senseless block of iron that lives only at mywill and pleasure. Behold, boy! shall the Shining One suffer indignitysuch as this and not worthily avenge himself?" and as he spoke, hecaught up a handful of refuse from the floor and deliberately threw itat the great dynamo before which they were standing.
"A god!" he reiterated, with contemptuous bitterness, and spat upon themass of polished metal.
There was a moment of suspense so real that Constans, despite hisvantage ground of superior knowledge, trembled with an inexplicableterror. Surely, the outraged divinity had started into life; it waspreparing to strike down the blasphemer.
"Perchance he is on a journey, or he sleeps," said the old priest,coldly. "He is a wise man who knows in whom he believes, and the ShiningOne shall, doubtless, be justified of his children." Then, with agesture of indescribable dignity, he drew a corner of his flowing outercape across his face and passed out into the gathering shadows of thewinter day.
The task was still unfinished, but not for worlds would Constans haveremained alone in that echoing, wind-swept cavern, surrounded by thesemonstrous shapes of metal. Lever and piston, wheel and shaft, thefamiliar outlines had disappeared, and in their stead a vast,indefinable bulk loomed through the dusk. It hung in the background likea wild beast, eternally watchful and waiting, waiting. Of a sudden,Constans felt horribly afraid. Stumbling and panting he ran up-stairsand gained the shelter of his own little room. A fire was smouldering onthe hearth; he blew the log into a flame and lighted every candle uponwhich he could lay his hand. Then as mind and body relaxed under thecheering influence of light and warmth he drew a chair to the fire andsat down to seriously consider his future course of action. Thesituation had forced itself upon him. How was he to grapple with it?
In the first place, here was this tremendous power whose secret he alonepossessed; the day and hour might even now be at hand when he should beable to wrest this superior knowledge to advantage.
Secondly, there was the question of personal safety, and assuredly itwould be to his interest to be numbered among the accredited servants ofthe Shining One. The people might have grown indifferent to the worshipof their ancient gods, but superstition still counselled an outwardmeasure of respect towards those who wore the priestly garb. Finally,there was the pressing necessity of putting food into his mouth, acommonplace but still cogent consideration. Constans had been living onshort rations now for a week past
, his provisions were just aboutexhausted, and the prospects for the future had caused him no littleanxiety. In the service of the Shining One he would at least be fed. Sohe resolved to accept the issue that had been forced upon him: he hadpassed his word, and he would keep it until destiny itself absolved him.
Several days later Constans adventured forth, making directly for theCitadel Square and from thence into the Palace Road. His official garb,a long black soutane and hood, was a tolerable disguise in itself, whilethe emblem of the forked lightning, worked in gold thread upon his leftsleeve, vouched for his sacerdotal character as a member of theinferior priesthood. The Doomsmen whom he encountered looked at himwith indifference, a very few saluted him with a perfunctory respect. Itwas plain that his appearance awakened neither interest nor distrust,and during the course of his walk he was enabled to add materially tohis stock of knowledge about the city and its defences.
Half way down the Palace Road he overtook a man, a squat,broad-shouldered fellow, who limped as he walked. Constans would havebrushed by, but the man plucked at his sleeve, and he was forced to stopand accommodate his pace to that of his interlocutor. A disagreeableappearing personage, with a crafty face, yet he spoke civilly enough.
"A fair day, master. Eh! but a black cassock's a rare bird nowadays uponthe Palace Road."
"Is it not wide enough for us both?" returned Constans, as easily as hecould.
"Oh, of a most noble broadness; I've no complaint to make on that score.It's the length of the way that is troubling me just now--this cursedleg of mine! Might I be so bold to ask the loan of your arm so far asthe fortress? An old sailorman with a sprung spar navigates but badly onthese icy stones."
Constans could do nothing but comply, albeit somewhat ungraciously. Hisnew acquaintance did not seem to notice his coldness. He went onvolubly:
"A fair day, as I have said, but I should prefer a leaden sky and thefighting-deck of the _Black Swan_, with the oars ripping through theyeast of a north-wester."
"The _Black Swan_!" ejaculated Constans, forgetting himself for themoment.
"Ay, master, and I may well curse my luck in missing the chance,"continued the fellow grumblingly. "There is always fat picking to be hadunder that same bird's beak, but this bad knee of mine has kept me outof it for twice a twelvemonth. Perhaps it might be worth my while," headded, hesitatingly, "to humble myself before the Shining One. Who knowsbut that he might help me, seeing that all the physicians have failed.How about a quarter of hung venison, my lord, and a gallon or so of thebest apple-wine--just by way of a peace-offering?"
"The Shining One makes no bargains," answered Constans, sternly, invirtue of his assumed office. "Submit yourself to his will, and thenperchance our lord may deign to hear. He grants his favors to hisobedient children; he sells them to none."
"But, my father----"
"Our ways part here," said Constans, decidedly, for they had now reachedthe north gate of the citadel and he was beginning to feel more and moreuncomfortable under those sharp eyes. "Farewell, my son, and rememberthat penitence precedes healing, whether of soul or of body."
Constans passed on, and the man stood looking after him with a certainmalevolent curiosity.
"Now so surely as I am Kurt, the Knacker, there is more in thispriestling than meets the eye," he muttered. "Is a blithe young chap,with such a pair of shoulders, to willingly prefer a black robe to avelvet jacket, a priest's empire over a score of silly women to a seatin a trooper's saddle, and the whole green world from which to pick andchoose his pleasures? Bah! it isn't reasonable, and if this knee of minewill permit me to hobble into the presence of the Shining One some finemorning I will have another guess at the riddle.
"To-morrow, now, is Friday," he continued, thoughtfully, "and my littledoves have been teasing me to give them an outing. There is thecertainty of a smile or even a kiss from the black-browed Nanna torecompense my good-nature, and a possible secret hanging in the wind.Finally, the off chance that the Shining One is not so hopelessly out offashion as we have been led to think. In this backsliding age he shouldappreciate the honor of my attendance in person, to say nothing of thevenison and the wine." Kurt, the Knacker, laughed silently under hiscurtain of black beard, and then stumped over to a bench in the gateway,sheltered from the wind and open to the sun. There he sat him down andproceeded to enjoy the pleasures of social converse with the warders onguard, an occupation pleasingly diversified by an occasional black-jackof ale and innumerable pipefuls of Kinnectikut shag. A highly respectedman among his fellow-citizens was Kurt, the Knacker.
* * * * *
It was the hour of the weekly sacrifice, and Prosper, the priest, stoodbefore the altar of the Shining One, performing the uncouth and ofttimeswholly meaningless ritual of his office. Constans, in his capacity ofacolyte, stood on the right of the altar. He felt out of place andsomewhat ridiculous; he was conscious that he performed hisgenuflections and posturing awkwardly, and there were all these womenwatching him. Especially the two in the front row, accompanied by thelimping scoundrel to whom he had yesterday lent his arm on the PalaceRoad. The one who seemed the elder of the two scanned him with bold,black eyes, unaffectedly amused by his clumsiness; the other, whose facewas hidden by a veil, looked at him but once or twice, yet Constans feltsure that she, too, was laughing at him. His position was becoming anintolerable one. Would the farce never come to an end?
Now the service was over, and one by one the worshippers withdrew. Lastof all the two women, escorted by the man who called himself Kurt, theKnacker. They passed within arm's-length of Constans, but he made asthough to turn his head away; youth is proverbially sensitive toridicule. He noticed, however, that the pilgrimage had not been ofmarked benefit to the lame man, for he limped as badly as ever. Thentheir eyes met, and Constans felt somewhat uncomfortable at beingfavored with a particularly sour smile of recognition. Still he need notconcern himself. It was evident that these people were not trueworshippers; it was mere curiosity that had brought them before thegates of the Shining One, and now that they had seen the show they weredoubtless satisfied. Let them depart whence they came; it was but apassing incident.
The snow that covered the ground a week before had nearly disappearedunder the influence of a three-days' warm rain. This morning had givenpromise of even more springlike weather, but as the day wore on it hadgrown cloudy and the air had turned chill. It had begun to snow againshortly before the hour of service, and so fast had the flakes come downthat the fall was already over an inch in depth. Constans, turning thecorner into the side-street to get a more extended view of the easternsky, suddenly halted to contemplate a curious appearing mark in the purewhite expanse--the imprint of a woman's foot.
It was an exquisitely moulded thing; even the slender arch of the instephad been preserved in unbroken line and curve, and yet Constans wonderedvaguely why it should seem so beautiful to him. He put out his own footand compared the two, laughed, half understood, and was silent.
He went on a little farther, following the successive footprints as theyled down the street. Once his heavy boot half obliterated one of thedelicately marked prints; he backed quickly away, as though hisclumsiness had been an actual offence. Then he knit his brows over theabsurdity of the affair and stopped to consider.
Sophistry suggested that it might be the missing girl, Esmay, andcertainly she who had walked here was the veiled woman of the templeworshippers; there were the footprints, broader and heavier inappearance, of her companion, and the halting progress of theblack-chapped ruffian, who had accompanied them, was also plainlyvisible. Constans followed the trail at a smart pace, for it was snowingharder than ever, and it would not take long to obliterate the marks.But three blocks farther on the three sets of footprints suddenly turnedat right angles to the sidewalk and disappeared.
A mystery whose solution should have been apparent at once from thewheel-tracks parallel with the curb, but for a minute or two Constansdid not realize their true nature. The ord
inary vehicle in use amongthe House People was a springless cart, whose wheels were simplysections of an elm-tree butt, and these primitive constructions creakedhorribly upon their axles, unless liberally greased, and left a tracksix inches or more in width. It is not surprising, then, that Constanswas momentarily puzzled by the narrow, delicately lined marks thatbetokened the passage of a real carriage. For while Doom contained manyexamples of the ancient coach-builder's skill, they were not in generaluse. The old Dom Gillian occasionally employed a carriage in taking theair--at least, so Ulick had told him, but Constans had never seen it.For all that the check was but a momentary one; his wits had beensharpened by use, and now they helped him to the truth. He ran on at topspeed.
A course of a mile or more and he was entering a poorer part of the citya little north of east and close to the shore of the Lesser river. Itwas a region of tenement dwellings, a huddle of nondescript buildings,flanked by huge factories and sprawling coal and lumber yards--anunpromising region, surely, in which to look for Master Quinton Edge'sparticular retreat. And yet it would have marked the subtlety of the manto have set his secret here, where it would have been at once so easilyseen and overlooked. Every labyrinth has its clew, but the fugitivewalks safely in a crowd.
The wheel-tracks turned sharply to the right, going straight down a sidestreet to the river-front. On the left were the ruins of one of theancient plants for the manufacture of illuminating gas. The yard wasbut a wilderness of rusty iron tanks and fallen bricks; surely therewas nothing here to interest.
On the right, however, there was an enclosed area that comprised thegreater part of the block. It was separated from the highway by a brickwall ten feet in height, and the general level of the ground wasconsiderably higher than that of the street. Constans could see treesgrowing and the ruins of a pergola and trellises for fruit; it actuallylooked like a garden, and through the naked branches of the trees theregleamed the white stuccoed walls of a dwelling-house, with a flat roof,surmounted by a cupola. The estate, for it possessed certain pretensionsto that title, looked as though it had been transported from some morefavored region and set down all in a piece among these hideous irontanks and dingy, cliff-like factories.
Constans quickened his pace; his imagination was on fire. Yes, there wasa gateway, and surely the carriage had passed through but a few minutesbefore. Constans halted at the barrier and studied it attentively. Itwas snowing hard now, and he ran but small risk of being observed fromthe house.
The doors of the driveway were of heavy planking studded withinnumerable bands and rivets, and they were suspended between massivebrick piers. A structure of light open iron-work spanned the gateway andsupported a central lantern, with a coat of arms immediately below it.The device upon the shield was three roundels in chief and the crest, anarm holding a hammer.
In the left wing of the gate proper a small door had been cut forpedestrian use. It had been painted a dark green, the knocker anddoor-plate being of brass. Constans by dint of rubbing away some of theverdigris succeeded in making out the inscription. It read:
ARCADIA HOUSE RICHARD VAN DUYNE 1803
Actuated by a daring impulse he lifted the knocker and let it fall. Therat-tat sounded hollowly, but there was no response. Constans lookedlongingly at the wall, but without some special appliance, such as anotched pole or grappling-hooks, it was unscalable. There were no signsof life to be seen in or about the house. Not a light in any of thewindows or curl of smoke from a chimney-pot. The wheel-tracks leadingthrough the gateway had already become obliterated by the rapidlyfalling snow; the silence was profound. The whole adventure seemed to bevanishing into thin air; the wheel-tracks having led him into this landof folly had disappeared after the accustomed fashion of those mockingspirits whose delight is in leading the unwary traveller astray.Involuntarily, Constans glanced over his shoulder; he almost expected tosee some shadowy bulk stealing up behind him preparing to make itsspring.
Yet as he retraced his steps to the temple of the Shining One heresolved that he would pay another visit to Arcadia House. "To-morrow,"thought Constans, "I may find some one to answer the door."