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Seven Keys to Baldpate

<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> <h3>A FALSEHOOD UNDER THE PALMS</h3> "Make me a willow cabin at your gate," quoted Mr. Magee, looking at the hermit's shack with interest. "U-m-m," replied Miss Norton. Thus beautiful sentiments frequently fare, even at the hands of the most beautiful. Mr. Magee abandoned his project of completing the speech. The door of the hermit's abode opened before Mr. Max's masterful knock, and the bearded little man appeared on the threshold. He was clad in a purple dressing-gown that suggested some woman had picked it. Surely no man could have fallen victim to that riot of color. "Come in," said the hermit, in a tone so colorless it called added attention to the gown. "Miss, you have the chair. You'll have to be contented with that soap-box davenport, gentlemen. Well?" He stood facing them in the middle of his hermitage. With curious eyes they examined its architecture. Exiled hands had built it of poles and clay and a reliable brand of roofing. In the largest room, where they sat, were chairs, a table, and a book-shelf hammered together from stray boards—furniture midway between that in a hut on a desert isle and that of a home made happy from the back pages of a woman's magazine. On the wall were various posters that defined the hermit's taste in art as inflammatory, bold, arresting. Through one door at the rear they caught a glimpse of a tiny kitchen; through another the white covering of a hall-room cot could be seen. "Well?" repeated Mr. Peters. "I suppose you're a delegation, so to speak?" "A cold unfeeling word," objected Mr. Magee. "We have come to plead"—began Miss Norton, turning her eyes at their full candle-power on the hermit's bearded face. "I beg pardon, miss," interrupted Mr. Peters, "but it ain't any use. I've thought it all out—in the night watches, as the poet says. I came up here to be alone. I can't be a hermit and a cook, too. I can't and be true to myself. No, you'll have to accept my resignation, to take effect at once." He sat down on an uncertain chair and regarded them sorrowfully. His long well-shaped fingers clutched the cord of the purple gown. "It isn't as though we were asking you to give up the hermit business for good," argued Magee. "It's just for a short time—maybe only for a few days. I should think you would welcome the diversion." Mr. Peters shook his head vigorously. The brown curls waved flippantly about his shoulders. "My instincts," he replied, "are away from the crowd. I explained that to you when we first met, Mr. Magee." "Any man," commented Mr. Max, "ought to be able to strangle his instincts for a good salary, payable in advance." "You come here," said the hermit with annoyance, "and you bring with you the sentiments of the outside world—the world I have foresworn. Don't do it. I ask you." "I don't get you," reflected Mr. Max. "No, pal, I don't quite grab this hermit game. It ain't human nature, I say. Way up here miles from the little brass rail and the sporting extra, and other things that make life worth living. It's beyond me." "I'm not asking your approval," replied the hermit. "All I ask is to be let alone." "Let me speak," said Miss Norton. "Mr. Peters and I have been friends, you might say, for three years. It was three years ago my awed eyes first fell upon him, selling his post-cards at the inn. He was to me then—the true romance—the man to whom the world means nothing without a certain woman at his side. That is what he has meant to all the girls who came to Baldpate. He isn't going to shatter my ideal of him—he isn't going to refuse a lady in distress. You will come for just a little while, won't you, Mr. Peters?" But Peters shook his head again. "I dislike women as a sex," he said, "but I've always been gentle and easy with isolated examples of 'em. It ain't my style to turn 'em down. But this is asking too much. I'm sorry. But I got to be true to my oath—I got to be a hermit." "Maybe," sneered Mr. Max, "he's got good reason for being a hermit. Maybe there's brass buttons and blue uniforms mixed up in it." "You come from the great world of suspicion," answered the hermit, turning reproving eyes upon him. "Your talk is natural—it goes with the life you lead. But it isn't true." "And Mr. Max is the last who should insinuate," rebuked Mr. Magee. "Why, only last night he denounced suspicion, and bemoaned the fact that there is so much of it in the world." "Well he might," replied the hermit. "Suspicion is the key-note of modern life—especially in New York." He drew the purple dressing-gown closer about his plump form. "I remember the last time I was in the big town, seeing a crowd of men in the grill-room of the Hoffman House. One of them—long, lean, like an eel—stooped down and whispered in the ear of a little fellow with a diamond horseshoe desecrating his haberdashery, and pointing to another man near by. 'No, I won't,' says the man with the diamonds, 'I don't introduce nobody to nobody. Let every man play his own game, I say.' That's New York. That's the essence of the town. 'I introduce nobody to nobody.'" "It seems odd," remarked Mr. Magee, "to hear you speak of the time you walked on pavements." "I haven't always been on Baldpate Mountain," replied the hermit. "Once I, too, paid taxes and wore a derby hat and sat in barbers' chairs. Yes, I sat in 'em in many towns, in many corners of this little round globe. But that's all over now." The three visitors gazed at Mr. Peters with a new interest. "New York," said Mr. Max softly, as a better man might have spoken the name of the girl he loved. "Its a great little Christmas tree. The candles are always burning and the tinsel presents always look good to me." The hermit's eyes strayed far away—down the mountain—and beyond. "New York," said he, and his tone was that in which Max had said the words. "A great little Christmas tree it is, with fine presents for the reaching. Sometimes, at night here, I see it as it was four years ago—I see the candles lit on the Great White Way—I hear the elevated roar, and the newsboys shout, and Diamond Jim Brady applauding at a musical comedy's first night. New York!" Mr. Max rose pompously and pointed a yellow finger at the Hermit of Baldpate Mountain. "I got you!" he cried in triumph. "I'm wise! You want to go back." A half-hearted smile crossed the visible portion of the hermit's face. "I guess I'm about the poorest liar in the world," he said. "I never got away with but one lie in my life, and that was only for a little while. It was a masterpiece while it lasted, too. But it was my only hit as a liar. Usually I fail, as I have failed now. I lied when I said I couldn't cook for you because I had to be true to my hermit's oath. That isn't the reason. I'm afraid." "Afraid?" echoed Mr. Magee. "Scared," said Mr. Peters, "of temptation. Your seventh son of a seventh son friend here has read my palm O. K. I want to go back. Not in the summer, when the inn blazes like Broadway every evening, and I can sit here and listen to the latest comic opera tunes come drifting up from the casino, and go down and mingle with the muslin brigade any time I want, and see the sympathetic look in their eyes as they buy my postals. It ain't then I want to go back. It's when fall comes, and the trees on the mountain are bare, and Quimby locks up the inn, and there's only the wind and me on the mountain—then I get the fever. I haven't the post-card trade to think of—so I think of Ellen, and New York. She's—my wife. New York—it's my town. "That's why I can't come among you to cook. It'd be leading me into temptation greater than I could stand. I'd hear your talk, and like as not when you went away I'd shave off this beard, and burn the manuscript of Woman, and go down into the marts of trade. Last night I walked the floor till two. I can't stand such temptation." Mr. Peters' auditors regarded him in silence. He rose and moved toward the kitchen door. "Now you understand how it is," he said. "Perhaps you will go and leave me to my baking." "One minute," objected Mr. Magee. "You spoke of one lie—your masterpiece. We must hear about that." "Yes—spin the yarn, pal," requested Mr. Max. "Well," said the hermit reluctantly, "if you're quite comfortable—it ain't very short." "Please," beamed Miss Norton. With a sigh the Hermit of Baldpate Mountain sank upon a most unsocial seat and drew his purple splendor close. "It was like this," he began. "Five years ago I worked for a fruit company, and business sent me sliding along the edges of strange seas and picture-book lands. I met little brown men, and listened to the soft swish of the banana growing, and had an orchestra seat at a revolution or two. Don't look for a magazine story about overthrown tyrants, or anything like that. It's just a quiet little lie I'm speaking of, told on a quiet little afternoon, by the sands of a sea as blue as Baldpate Inn must have been this morning when I didn't show up with breakfast. "Sitting on those yellow sands the afternoon I speak of, wearing carpet slippers made for me by loving, so to speak, hands, I saw Alexander McMann come along. He was tall and straight and young and free, and I envied him, for even in those days my figure would never have done in a clothing advertisement, owing to the heritage of too many table d'hôtes about the middle. Well, McMann sat at my side, and little by little, with the sea washing sad-like near by, I got from him the story of his exile, and why. "I don't need to tell you it was woman had sent him off for the equator. This one's name was Marie, I think, and she worked at a lunch-counter in Kansas City. From the young man's bill-of-fare description of her, I gathered that she had cheeks like peaches and cream, but a heart like a lunch-counter doughnut, which is hard. "'She cast you off?' I asked. "'She threw me down,' said he. "Well, it seems he'd bought a ticket for that loud-colored country where I met him, and come down there to forget. 'I could buy the ticket,' he said, 'as soon as I learned how to pronounce the name of this town. But I can't forget. I've tried. It's hopeless.' And he sat there looking like a man whose best friend has died, owing him money. I won't go into his emotions. Mr. Bland, up at the inn, is suffering them at the present moment, I'm told. They're unimportant; I'll hurry on to the lie. I simply say he was sorrowful, and it seemed to me a crime, what with the sun so bright, and the sea so blue, and the world so full of a number of things. Yes, it certainly was a crime, and I decided he had to be cheered up at any cost. How? I thought a while, gazing up at the sky, and then it came to me—the lie—the great glorious lie—and I told it." The hermit looked in defiance round the listening circle. "'You're chuck full of sorrow now,' I said to McMann, 'but it won't last long.' He shook his head. 'Nonsense,' I told him. 'Look at me. Do you see me doing a heart-bowed-down act under the palms? Do you find anything but joy in my face?' And he couldn't, the lie unfolding itself in such splendor to me. 'You?' he asked. 'Me,' I said. 'Ten years ago I was where you are to-day. A woman had spoken to me as Mabel—or Marie—or what was it?—spoke to you.' "I could see I had the boy interested. I unfolded my story, as it occurred to me at the moment. 'Yes,' said I, 'ten years ago I saw her first. Dancing as a butterfly dances from flower to flower. Dancing on the stage—a fairy sprite. I loved her—worshiped her. It could never be. There in the dark of the wings, she told me so. And she shed a tear—a sweet tear of sorrow at parting. "'I went to my room,' I told McMann, 'with a lot of time-tables and steamship books. Bright red books—the color came off on my eager hands. I picked out a country, and sailed away. Like you, I thought I could never be happy, never even smile, again. Look at me.' "He looked. I guess my face radiated bliss. The idea was so lovely. He was impressed—I could see it. 'I'm supremely happy,' I told him. 'I am my own master. I wander where I will. No woman tells me my hour for going out, or my hour for coming in. I wander. For company I have her picture—as I saw her last—with twinkling feet that never touched earth. As the spirit moves, I go. You can move the memory of a woman in a flash, my boy, but it takes two months to get the real article started, and then like as not she's forgot everything of importance. Ever thought of that? You should. You're going to be as happy as I am. Study me. Reflect.' I waved my carpet-slippered feet toward the palms. I had certainly made an impression on Alexander McMann. "As we walked back over the sands and grass-grown streets to the hotel, his heart got away from that cupid's lunch-counter, and he was almost cheerful. I was gay to the last, but as I parted from him my own heart sank. I knew I had to go back to her, and that she would probably give me a scolding about the carpet slippers. I parted from McMann with a last word of cheer. Then I went to the ship—to her. My wife. That was the lie, you understand. She traveled everywhere with me. She never trusted me. "We were due to sail that night, and I was glad. For I worried some over what I had done. Suppose my wife and Alexander McMann should meet. An estimable woman, but large, determined, little suggesting the butterfly of the footlights I married, long before. We had a bad session over the carpet slippers. The boat was ready to sail, when McMann came aboard. He carried a bag, and his face shone. "'She's sent for me,' he said. 'Marie wants me. I got a letter from my brother. I'll blow into Kansas like a cyclone, and claim her.' "I was paralyzed. At that minute a large black figure appeared on deck. It headed for me. 'Jake,' it says, 'you've sat up long enough. Go below now.' "McMann's face was terrible. I saw it was all up. 'I lied, McMann,' I explained. 'The idea just came to me, it fascinated me, and I lied. She did turn me down—there in the wings. And she shed that tear I spoke of, too. But, when I was looking over the railroad folders, she sent for me. I went—on the wings of love. It was two blocks—but I went on the wings of love. We've been married twenty years. Forgive me, McMann!' "McMann turned around. He picked up the bag. I asked where he was going. 'Ashore,' he said, 'to think. I may go back to Kansas City—I may. But I'll just think a bit first.' And he climbed into the ship's boat. I never saw him again." The hermit paused, and gazed dreamily into space. "That," he said, "was my one great lie, my masterpiece. A year afterward I came up here on the mountain to be a hermit." "As a result of it?" asked Miss Norton. "Yes," answered Mr. Peters, "I told the story to a friend. I thought he was a friend—so he was, but married. My wife got to hear of it. 'So you denied my existence,' she said. 'As a joke,' I told her. 'The joke's on you,' she says. That was the end. She went her way, and I went mine. I'd just unanimously gone her way so long, I was a little dazed at first with my freedom. After fighting for a living alone for a time, I came up here. It's cheap. I get the solitude I need for my book. Not long ago I heard I could go back to her if I apologized." "Stick to your guns," advised Mr. Max. "I'm trying to," Mr. Peters replied. "But it's lonesome here—in winter. And at Christmas in particular. This dressing-gown was a Christmas present from Ellen. She picked it. Pretty, ain't it? You see why I can't come down and cook for you. I might get the fever for society, and shave, and go to Brooklyn, where she's living with her sister." "But," said Mr. Magee, "we're in an awful fix. You've put us there. Mr. Peters, as a man of honor, I appeal to you. Your sense of fairness must tell you my appeal is just. Risk it one more day, and I'll have a cook sent up from the village. Just one day. There's no danger in that. Surely you can resist temptation one little day. A man of your character." Miss Norton rose and stood before Mr. Peters. She fixed him with her eyes—eyes into which no man could gaze and go his way unmoved. "Just one tiny day," she pleaded. Mr. Peters sighed. He rose. "I'm a fool," he said. "I can't help it. I'll take chances on another day. Though nobody knows where it'll lead." "Brooklyn, maybe," whispered Lou Max to Magee in mock horror. The hermit donned his coat, attended to a few household duties, and led the delegation outside. Dolefully he locked the door of his shack. The four started down the mountain. "Back to Baldpate with our cook," said Mr. Magee into the girl's ear. "I know now how Cæsar felt when he rode through Rome with his ex-foes festooned about his chariot wheels." Mr. Max again chose the rear, triumphantly escorting Mr. Peters. As Mr. Magee and the girl swung into the lead, the former was moved to recur to the topic he had handled so amateurishly a short time before. "I'll make you believe in me yet," he said. She did not turn her head. "The moment we reach the inn," he went on "I shall come to you, with the package of money in my hand. Then you'll believe I want to help you—tell me you'll believe then." "Very likely I shall," answered the girl without interest. "If you really do intend to give me that money—no one must know about it." "No one shall know," he answered, "but you and me." They walked on in silence. Then shyly the girl turned her head. Oh, most assuredly, she was desirable. Clumsy as had been his declaration, Mr. Magee resolved to stick to it through eternity. "I'm sorry I spoke as I did," she said. "Will you forgive me?" "Forgive you?" he cried. "Why, I—" "And now," she interrupted, "let us talk of other things. Of ships, and shoes, and sealing-wax—" "All the topics in the world," he replied, "can lead to but one with me—" "Ships?" asked the girl. "For honeymoons," he suggested. "Shoes?" "In some circles of society, I believe they are flung at bridal parties." "And sealing-wax?" "On the license, isn't it?" he queried. "I'll not try you on cabbage and kings," laughed the girl. "Please, oh, please, don't fail me. You won't, will you?" Her face was serious. "You see, it means so very much to me." "Fail you?" cried Magee. "I'd hardly do that now. In ten minutes that package will be in your hands—along with my fate, my lady." "I shall be so relieved." She turned her face away, there was a faint flush in the cheek toward Mr. Magee. "And—happy," she whispered under her breath. They were then at the great front door of Baldpate Inn. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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