Evening Republican, Volume 15, Number 273, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 18 November 1911 — The POOL of FLAME [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The POOL of FLAME

by LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE

aLWTRATIOMSBY I RIJLSVrORJTfi YOCWC ■ T/YWfy

. CHAPTER I. ... ' A srtill and sultry dusk had fallen, dosing an oppressive, wearing day: one of those days whose sole function seems to reside 4n rendering us irritably conscious of our too-close casings of too-solld flesh; whose humid and Inert atmosphere, sodden with tepid moisture, clings palpably to the body, causing men to feel as if they crawled, half-suffocated, at the bottom of a sea of rarefied water. The hou? may have been eight; it may have been not quite that, but if was almost dark. The windows were oblongs, black as night in the yellow walls of O’Rourke’s bedchamber in the Hotel d’Orient Monte Carlo. I have the honor to make known •to you the O’Rourke of Castle O’Rourke tn the county of Galway, Ireland; otherwise and more widely known as Colonel Terence O’Rourke: a chevalier of the Legion of Honor of France; sometime an officer in the Foreign Legion tn Algiers; a wanderver, spendthrift, free-lance, cosmopolite—a gentleman-adventurer, he’s been termed. He was dressing for dinner. The glare of half a dozen electric bulbs discovered him all but ready for public appearance—not, however, quite ready. In his shirt sleeves he faced a chevalglass, pluckily (if with the haggard eye of exsisperation) endeavoring to a demon of Inanimate perversity which had entered into his dress tie, inciting it to refuse to assnme, for all his coaxing and his stratagems. that effect of nonchalant perfection so much sought after, so seldom achieved. Patently was the thing possessed by a devil; O’Rourke made nd manner of doubt of that. Though for minutes at a time he fumbled, fidgeted, fumed, ft was without avail. * His room itself was In a state of "'naiderable disorder—something due mainly to O’Rourke's characteristic efforts to find just what be might happen to desire at any given time without troubling to think where it ought properly to be. Something of thia confusion, mirrored in the glass, was likewise reflected in O’Rourke’s eyes, what time he paused for breath and profanity. "Faith, tis worse than a daw’s nest, tbe place,” he admitted, scandalized. “How ever did I—one lone man —do an that, will ye be telling me?” He flung out two helpless baffled hands, and let them toll. After a meditative pause he added: “Damu that Alsatian!”—with reference to bis latest and least competent valet, who had but recently’ been discharged with a flea ia his ear and a mouth’s unearned wage in his pocket. “For knowing me ways,” sighed O’Rourke, “there was never anyone the like of Danny.” For as many as three livelong days this man had been reduced to the necessity of dressing himself with his own fair hands—and that at least thrice dally, who did nothing by halves. And, somehow, mysteriously, his discarded garments had for the most part remained. where he had thrown them, despite the earnest efforts of the femme de chambre to restore something resembling order frOm this man-made chaos. For servants all liked well the O’Rourke, improvident soul that be was, freehanded to a fault You are invited to picture to yourself O’Rourke as invariably he was in one of his not infrequent but ever transient phases of .affluence: that is, a very magnificent figure indeed. Standing a bit over six feet, deep of chest and lean of flank, with his long, straight legs he looked what he had been meant to be, a man of arms and action. His head was shapely. Its dark hair curling the least in the world; and, incredibly stained, a transparent brown, his features were lean, eager, and rendered very attractive by quick boyish eyes in whose warm blue-gray depths humor twinkled more often than not, though those same eyes were not seldom thoughtful, a trace wistful, perhaps, with the look of one who recalls dear memories, old friends and sweethearts loved and lost . For be had begun to live early in life and had much to look back upon, though for all that It’s doubtful if he were more than thirty at the time he became involved In the fortunes of the Pool es Flame. For the rest of him, barring the refractory tie, the man was strikingly well groomed, while his surroundings spoke for comfortable circumstances. On the authority of the absent and regretted Danny, who had long served the O’Rourke- in the Intimate capaci ties of body-servant, confidant and chancellor of the exchequer (this last, of course, whenever there happened to be any exchequer to require a chan ceilor), there was never anyone at all Who could spend money or wear clothes like himself, moaning the master. And at this time O’Rourke was ostensibly id funds and consequently 1M tbe saying runs) cutting a wide swath. Heaven sad himself only knew the limits of hfs resources; but bit manner a Montp Cristo might have Er ' —*- *

aped to advantage. His play was a. wonder of the Casino; for the matter of that, his high-handed and extravagant ways had made the entire Principality of Monaco conscious of his presence tn the land. And you fail in the least to understand the nature of the man If you think for a paoment that it irked him to be admired, pointed out, courted, pursued. He was, indeed, never so splendid as when aware that he occupied the public eye. In short, he was just an Irishman. . . . Sb, then. It’s nothing wonderful that he should seem a thought finical about the set of his tie. Now as he stood scowling at his image, and wishing from the bottom of his heart he bad never been fool enough to let Danny leave him, and calling fervent blessings down upon tbe head of the fiend who first designed modern evening-dress for men—he found himself suddenly with a mind divested of any care whatever and attentive alone to a sound Which came to him faintly, borne upon the heavy wings of the sluggish evening air. It was nothing more nor less than a woman singing softly tp herself (humming would probably be the more accurate term), and it was merely the tune that caught his fancy; a bit of an old song he himself had once been wont to sing, upon a time when he had been a happier man. It seemed strange to hear it there, stranger still that the woman’s voice, indistinct as it was, should have such a familiar ring in his memory. He frowned in wonder and shook his head. “The age of miracles Is past,” he muttered; “Twould never be herself. I’ve had me chance—and forfeited it. Twill not cpme to me a second time. . . The singing ceased. Of a sudden O’Rourke swore with needless heat, and, plucking away the offending tie, cast it savagely from him. “The divvle fly away with ye!” he said. Ts It bent on driving me mad ye are? I’d give me fortune to have Danny back! ... Me fortune —faith!” He laughed the word to bitter scorn. "’Tis meself that never had the least of anything like that without 'twas feminine —with a ‘mis-’ tacked onto the front of it!” And he strode away to the window to cool off.

It was like him to forget his exasperation in the twinkling'of an eye; another mood entirely swayed him by the time he found himself gazing out into the vague, velvety dusk that momentarily was closing down upon tbe fairy-like panorama of terraced gardens and sullen, silken sea/ His thoughts had winged back to that dear woman of whom that fragment of melody had put hlnj in mind; and he' was sighing and heavy of heart with longing for the sight of her and the touch of her hand.

Even as he watched, stajk night fell, black as a pocket beneath a portentous pall of cloud. . . . Far out upon the swelling bosom of the Mediterranean a cluster of dim lights betrayed a stealthy coasting steamer,

making westward. Nearer, tn tbe harbor, a fleet of pleasure craft, riding at anchor on the still, dark tide, was revealed in many faint, wraith-like shapes of gray, all studded with yellow stars. Ashore, endless festoons of colored the gloom of the terraces; the facade of the Casino stood out lurid against the darkness; the hotels shone with reflected brilliance, the palace of the Prince de Monaco loomed high upon the peninsula, its elevations picked out with lines of soft fire. The O’Rourke shook his head, condemning It all. “Tis beautiful,” he said; “faith, yes! Tis all of that But I’m thinking ’tis too beautiful to be good for one—like some women I’ve known in me time. Tis not good for Terence —that’s sure; Tie the O’Rourke that’s going stale and soft with all this easy living ... Me that has more than many another to live for and hope for and strive for! . . . And Tm lingering here In the very Jap of luxury stuffing meself with rare food, befuddling maoelf with rarer wlaqp—me that has tought a day sad a eight and a half a 4*7

of that on nothing and a glass of muddy water!—risking mo money as if there was no end to It, throwing it away tn scandalous tips like any. drunken sailor! And all for the scant; satisfaction of behaving like a fool of an Irishman. . . Tis sickening—disgusting; naught lees. . Fm thinking this night ends it, though; come the morning I’ll be pulling up stakes and striking out for a healthier, simpler place, where there’s something afoot a man can take an intereat In without losing his self-respect. . . . PH do Just that, I will!” This he meant, firmly, and was glad of it, with a heart immeasurably lightened by the strength of his good resolution. Ho began to.hum the old tune that the unknown woman’s voice had set buzzing in his brain. 'Mnd broke off to snap his fingers defiantly at the Casino. “That for ye!” he flouted it—“sitting there with your painted smile and your cold eyes, like the brazen huzzy ye are—Goddess of Chance, indeed!—thinking ye have but to bide your time for all men to come and render up their souls to ye! Here's once ye lose, madam; after sols night I’m done with ye; not a sou of mine will ever again cross your tables. I’ll have ye to understand the O’Rourke’s a reformed character from the morning on!” He laughed softly, in high feather with his conceit; and, thinking cheerfully ■ of the days of movement and change that were to follow, the song in his heart shaped Itself in words upon his lips. •’l’m Paddy Whack From Ballyhack, Not long ago turned ■oldler—O At grand attack, Or storm or sack. None then I will prove bolder—O!” His voice was by way of being a tenor of tolerable quality and volume, but untrained—nothing wonderful. It was just the way he trolled out the rollicking stanza that rendered it infectious, irresistible. For as he paused the voice of the woman that had reminded him of the song capped the verse neatly. “An’ whin we get tho routs Wld a shout. How they pout! i Wld a ready right-about Goes the bould soldier-boy!*—

O’Rourke caught his breath, startled, stunned. “It can’t be—” he whispered. For if at first her voice, subdued in distance, had stirred his memory with a touch as vague and thrilling as the caress of a woman’s hand In darkness, now that he heard the full strength of that soprano, bellclear and spirited, he was sure he knew the stager. He told himself that there could be no two women in the world with voioes just like that; not another than her he knew could have rendered the words with so true a spirit, so rare a brogue—tinged as that had been with the faintest, quaintest exotit inflection imaginable.

But she had stopped with the verse half sung. His pulses quickening, O’Rourke leaned forth from the window and carried It on: “O, ’tie thin the Indies-fair In despair Tear their hair! But—* Tit dlvvle a bit I carer Cries the bould soldier-boy!" There fell a pause. He listened with his heart in his mouth, but heard nothing. And it seemed impossible to surmise whence, from which one of all the rooms with windows opening upon that side of the hotel, had come the voice of the woman. She might as well have been above as below him, or on either side: he could not guess. But he was determined. Now there was beneath his window a balcony with a floor of wood and a rail of iron-filigree—a long balcony, extending from one corner of the hotel to the other. At Intervals it was splashed with light from the windows of chambers still occupied by guests belated or busy, like himself, with the task of dressing for the evening. The window to his left was alight; that on his right, dark. With half his body on the balcony, his legs dangling'within the room, O’Rourke watched the opening on his left with jealous, breathless expectancy. Not a sound came therefrom. He hesitated. “If that weren't her room. I’d hear somebody moving about,” he reasoned. “•Tls frightened she is—not suspectin *tis me. . . . But how do I know ’tls herself? . . . Faith! could me ears deceive mes

With that he took heart of hope and broke manfully into the chorus, singing directly to the lighted window, singing the first line with ardor and fervor, with confidence and with hope, singing persuasively, pleadingly, anxiously, insistently. • "For the worrld Is all befo-oro us— * he sang and then paused. He heard no echo. And again he essayed, with that in his tone to melt a heart of ice: '. „ "For the worrld is all befo-ore us-—** And now he triumphed and was lifted but of himself with sheer do*, light; for from the adjoining room came the next line: "And landladies ado-ore us " Unable to contain himself, he chimed inland in duet they sang it out to the rousing finale: ‘They ne’er rayfuse to aco-ore us. But chalk us up wld joy We taste her tap. we tea* her cap—•O. that’s the chap For nMCqtles she—ha rfiorllvit them hwwsaldß arvhlia*. w , seev aPSPsg hoy!’ - woman had switabed oft the MgMh. Si ’W . f’fdks * , * -

flea. “ Tis herself,” he declared ini an agony of anticipation—“herself and none other! And I’m thinking she’ll be coming to the window now—” ;He was right. Abruptly he discovered her by the reflected glow from the illumination behind him. He was, conscious of the pallid oval of her face, of a sleek white sheen of arms and shoulders, of a dark mass ©f hair, but more than all else of the glamour of eyes that shone Into his softly, like limpid pools of darkness touched by dim starlight. .Inflamed, he leaned toward her. "Whist, darling!” he stammered. “Whist! "ns myself—’tis Terence—” But she was gone. A low, stifled laugh was all his answer—that and the silken whisper of her skirts as she scurried from the window. He flushed crimson, waited an instant, then flung discretion to the winds, and found himself scrambling out upon the balcony. Heaven only knows to what lengths the man wbuld' have gone had not the slam of a door brought him up standing; she had left her rooin! So she thought to escape him so easily! He swore between his teeth with excitement and tumbled back whence he had come. Regardless of the fact that he was still in his shirtsleeves he rushed madly for the door. On the way's shooting-jacket on the door, perhaps in revenge for neglect and ill-treatment, maliciously wound it-

self around his feet and all but threw him headlong; only a frantic elutch at' the footrail of the bed saved him. Kicking the thing savagely oft hfe flung himself upon the door and threw it open. His jaw dropped. The lift shaft was directly opposite. Before it, in more ot less patient waiting, stood a very young and beautiful woman in’ a gown whosfe extreme candor was surpassed only by the perfection of its design and appointment—both blatant of the Rue de la a type as common to the cognoscenti of Monte Carlo as the Swiss hotel porters. But O’Rourfee did not knqw her from Eve. ,

"The divvls!" said he beneath hi* breath. He was mistaken; but the young woman, at first startled by his unceremonious appearance, on instantaneous second thought decided to permit him to discover that twin imps, at least, resided In her eyes. And when his disappointment prevented him from recognising them, her dawning smile was swiftly erased and her ascending eyebrows spoke eloquently enough of her haughty displeasure. Synchronously the lift hesitated *at that landing and the gate clanged wide; the young woman wound her skirt about her and showed him a back which at any other time would have evoked his unstinted admiration. Then the gate shot to with a rattle and bang, an<f the lift dropped out of sight, leaving the man with mouth agape and eyes as wide. , 4 ' A beaming but elderly femme de chambre on dufy in the corridor, remarking O’Rourke’s pause of stupefied chagrin, hoped and believed he needed her services. She bore down upon him accordingly. “M’sleu’ is desirous of—,

He came out of his trance. “Nothing,” he told her with acid brevity. “But, yes," he reconsidered with haste. “That lady who but this moment took the lift—her name?” “Her name, m’sleu’? Ma’m’selle Voltaire.” “Impossible!” he told himself aloud, utterly unable to forge any connecting link between the lady in the lift and her whose voice had bewitched him.

,r ßut assuredly, m’sleu*. Bo I not know —I who have waited upon her hand and foot these three days and to whom she has not given as much as —that.’’ The woman ticked a fingernail against her strong white teeth. "MaXselle Ylctoftne Voltaire,’’ she asserted stubbornly. O’Rourke fumbled in his pocket and fouhd a golden ten-franc piece, surrendering It td the woman as heedlessly, aa though It had been as many centimes. “I’ll be leaving me room in five minutes, now. And do ye, for the love of Heaven, me dear, try to set me things the least trifle to rights. Will ye now, like the best llttM girl in ttio world?” The beat little girl in the world, who was forty-live if a day, promised miracles—with a bob' of *a . courtesy. But so disgruntled was O’Rourke that he shut his door In her face. “Tts meself that’s the fool,’* he said savagely enough, “to think for a moment that ever again I’ll set mo eyes on her pretty face—God bless It, wherever she may be! . Tor why should I deserve to—l, the ymo —*l . -r 1 nsMOs aeveniuiM i (To he continued _ a ‘MO- - O »•-

O’Rourke Caught his Breath, Stunned.

“The Divvlel" He Said Beneath His Breath.