[COPYRIGHT STORY]. THE MAN WITH THE AXE

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVI, Issue 22, 2 June 1906, Page 9

[COPYRIGHT STORY]. THE MAN WITH THE AXE

By

Dr. C. W. Doyle

Author of '

The Taming of the Jungle," Etc.

ONE bright Hunny afternoon in October, 189—, in the city of Loa Angeles. California, a man with a curious shambling gait was leading by the hand a little girl about eight years of age. They proceeded towards Main Street along one of the smaller streets that branch off from that thoroughfare. He was of medium height. .and his spreading shoulders and immense hairy hands were indicative of great strength. A tangled fringe of red hair emphasised his ruddy complexion and surrounded his face with a fiery halo. The vacuous expression of his countenance, the untidy condition of his dress and person, his beard checkered with crumbs of food, and stained with the tobacco juice that dribbled from the corners of his mouth—all showed that his mind was unbalanced. His clothes were old and shabby; and from his neck was suspended a much-worn bag that permitted the scroll of a violin to protrude, and in the belt round his waist there hung a woodman’s axe. The Tittle child was a striking contrast to her companion. She was dressed entirely in red. and from l»cr hood, there escaped a wealth of light flaxen hair, which formed a dainty setting to her sweetheart face. She carried a small tambourine adorned with red ribbons. and as she tripped beside her strange companion she laughed and prattled with all the artlessness of happy, careless, childhood. The half-dazed expression in the man’s face almost vanished when he looked at his companion, and the love that shone in his eyes at such times transformed him into a reasonable being. To her remarks. which were framed in a curious mixture of Spanish and English, he replied briefly when they were by themselves; but when they were with others his expression became imbecile, and he spoke in monosyllables only. “Henrique, tio. thou wilt let me dance to-day the cachucha 1 learnt of thee last night?” enquired the little one. looking up archly at her companion. “W’oulds’t bring shame on thine old uncle**'* he replied, shaking his head at her. “thou are not perfect yet, carissima.” But. uncle mine.'* she answered, “thou knowest not that I danced it all night long in my dreams. See.” whereupon, freeing her hand from his. and deftly shaking the tambourine aloft, she went through the steps of the stately dance with the daintiest grace. He rewarded her with a smile of ineffable love, muttering to himself. “Mother of God, could Felisa but see her now!” 1 hen as heads began to 'appear at the window, he caught her hand again, and once more they resumed their way, whilst he lapsed into his usual apathetic condition. Passing down Main Street a little way. with a gathering crowd behind them, they stopped in front of a large, hotel. Here the man went down on his knees and dusted his companion’s shoes; then rising to his feet and leaning against a lamp-post, he took his violin out of its bag. and proceeded to play a slow movement. His knowledge of harmonics, anil an occasional brilliant chromatic passage. -bowed .him to possess a tine technique, and a diigh degree of skill in his difficult art. that were surprising in such a half-demented creature. The performance closed with a series of arpeggios, which presently shadowed forth the theme of “In Fair Sevilla,” and when, after a pause, he commenced to play the air of that beautiful song, the little girl began to dance a bolero to the lovely strains. She danced with charming abandon for so young a creature, and appeared to be intent on pleasing herself rather than those who watched her. The exercise and excitement increased the rosy hue of her cheeks, and gave an added sparkle to her eyes, whilst her smiles, and dimples, and white teeth, completed a picture of gaiety and in-

nocence such as that unlovely street had never before witnessed. When she ceased, the shower of silver that fell at her feet was a due tribute to her beauty and grace. The crowd cheered and clamoured for a repetition of the performance. She could obtain silence only by putting a linger to her lips. Then, amidst a feeling of expectation on the part of the crowd, and after a few preluding chords by the violin, she sang the following song —her high shrill treble being softened by the richness and depth of the obligato played by her companion. She sang as unconsciously as a bird on its native bough, and was all too young to have any understanding of her song: — How sweet when Evening wraps the world in twilight dim! Her silent feet Go westering when day s Hag is furled The star-decked solemn Night to meet. How sweet when ploughs are left afield, And tired klne with tinkling bells .Draw nearer home their dues to yield. And all the lea of quiet tells. How sweet when labour o’er, at ease The ploughman stretched before his fire Thanks God for all: while on his knees Climb children —Dove’s fulfilled desire. But, oh. tis sweeter far in fight To fold your arms about your foe, And raise your knife aloft and smite. And smiling slay him with one blowj When her song was over the man replaced his violin in its bag. and taking the axe from his belt he ran the thumb of his left hand along its edge, as though he were testing its keenness, the while taking no notice of those about him. The crowd stirred uneasily, for there was something uncanny about the whole incident: the savage ending of the song was as little in keeping with the beautiful music, as was the shambling idiot, fingering his dangerous weapon, with‘the fairy singer beside him. As the child proceeded to pick up the coins lying at her feet, the crowd rapidly dispersed, and in a few minutes the street had resumed its usual appearance. Amongst those who had watched and listened to the strange man and his young companion, was a party of ladies and gentlemen assembled on the balcony of the hotel in front of which the performance had taken place. Somewhat apart from the rest was Carey of Washington, who, whilst reading a newspaper, had fallen asleep in a rocking chair. He was a stout middle-aged man, handsome in spite of his heavy jowl : his empurpled complexion and puffy eye-lids brought to mind the psalmist’s description of the ungodly, whose ‘‘eyes swell with fatness, and they do even what they lust.*’ He was an attorney for one of the wickedest corporations in the world, and had a large and lucrative practice throughout the state of California, owing to his influence with the corrupt politicians in many of the county towns,, who elected •the judges and arranged the personnel ' of the juries. He had a special reputation for drawing up contracts which could he legally evaded By his clients, When necessary, and his services" were accordingly greatly in demand by 'fill sorts of usurers and bloodsiudiers, But Sumner Carey had sown a harvest of hatred and revenge in his successful and unscrupulous career, that he was likely to reap some day. As soon as the first notes of the violin were heard that afternoon he awoke with a start, and looking down on the street ho encountered the gaze of the man who was playing: the next instant he was apparently deeply absorbed in the newspaper that concealed his face: but Sun • ner Carey’s complexion had turned many shades paler, and the newspaper shook in. his hand. After the crowd had dispersed and the musicians had gone, Carey went to his

room and fur a bottle of whisky, of which he partook freely before the colour returned tu his fave; and steadiness to his hands. That evening, at the dinner table, it was noticed that Carey was somewhat excited; his face was unusualy flushed from his recent potations, and there was a feverish haste in his speech ami actions. He drank freely of the magnum of chain pagne he had ordered, and laughed so noisily and defiantly, that he attracted the attention of the entire company. Behind him was an open window, which looked out on the garden, and it was noticed that he cast several furtive glances behind him that evening. The dinner had not proceeded very far. when the conversation turned on the performance that had been witnessed in front of the hotel. The musician’s strange appearance, his excellent playing. and the beauty and grace of the child, called forth many comments; but nobody knew anything about them. Sumner Carey tried to introduce soniu other topic of conversation, but the company would not be turned away from the latest sensation, and finally a whitehaired old gentleman, who had hut lately arrived, and who regarded Carey curiously during the early part of the dinner. said —”1 think 1 can tell you all about the minstrels/* An expectant hush fell upon those present: they were so interested in the old gentleman’s story that they failed to notice the change which had come over Carey’s face, and that his hand shook so violently that he spilled his wine as he lifted it to his lips. As his story proceeded the narrator glanced significantly at Carey from time to time. The latter pushed his plate to one side, and leaning Baek in his chair, he mopped Vac* clammy perspiration from his face at intervals, and drank frequently from the bottle before him. ”’fhe man we saw this evening.” began the old gentleman, “is named Henrique Garcia, and the little child with him was his niece. Luc a.” “The following narrative was told me by his sister. Felisa. a few days b‘f(.re her death: Her father. Manuel Garda, was a Castilian of good family who lived in Napa County, wlirie he owned a considerable ranche bought under the alcalde’s grant. Manx yeuis after the completion of the purchase, there arose some dispute as to tin* validity of his title. A clever ami unscrupulous San Francisco lawyer, who made a -pedal study of the old Spanish grants, ami who owned property adjoining Manuel Garcia’s. laid claim to a portion of the latter’s rancho. "In the suit that ensued. Manuel’s interests were looked after by a young attorney. whom 1 call Standish, and who was. really. acting in collusion with the claimant in the case. “I’nder such circumstances it can b.e easily imagined how the proceedings dragged along till the proud Castilian was Urnkrupt in health, in hope and in wealth. lie died a’bout ten year- agA; his wife’s death soon followed, and Henrique and his sister. Felisa. became heirs to an unsettled law suit. Henrique was then a young man. about twenty-five yeffrs of age; with imperfectly•• developed faculties. He had a special gift for music, however, ami attained to a high degree of excellence as a violin player. Hr was devoted to his lovely sister. Felisa. who was then about nineteen years of age. Her beauty was of a type must unusual amongst the Spanish:- -he hail a fair akin and blur eyes, and a wealth of light auburn hair, -uch as Titian loved to paint. •’Before a year elap.-ed from the time

of Manuel Garcia’s death, the entire rj»tate had disappeared in costs, ami Felisa was hiding in a miserable tenement house iu San Francisco. “When his sister disappeared. Henrique was disconsolate for many days, but there slowly arose in his mind a. determination to find her. It was known that she had taken tiie train to San Francisco, but enquiries instituted by some of the old friends of the family' failed to elicit her whereabouts. So they made up a small purse fur Henrique, who, taking his laduved violin with him. set out on his weary search fur Felisa. “It was his hope that she would hear the familiar strains of his instrument, and so come bark to him: and with such a thought in his mind it van be easily understod what pleading and pathos were added to the magical notes that responded to his rushing bow. and flying fingers. He had no difficulty in maintaining himself in San Francisco, and might have had a permanent income. and a manager to exploit him. at one of the variety theatres, but he resisted all the tempting offer> that were made to 'him. He used to spend the whole day wan tiering about the streets and noisome alleys south of Market Stre>*l. peering up at the windows in a pathetic dazed fashion, and when he fancied he saw a look of sympathy in the face of a passer-by. he would question him concerning Felisa. At night it was his wont to take up his stand under a lamp post at. oi near, some crowded crossing, ami play on his violin for half an hour at a time, chang ing his station four or live times an evening. Without appearing to notice anyone, there were very few passers-by who escaped his observation, and often, in the middle of a passage, he would abruptly cease playing to follow som« one. whose face, or figure, reminded him of Felisa. One night, as he was play ing at the corner of Fourth and Market Street, a woman, heavily veiled and concealed in the shadow of a hou-r on Fourth Street that projected slightly from its neighbour, stood listening to hi- music. As she had turned out of Marki t Street under the brilliant light that -t reamed from the cafe at the corner. Henrique had an opportunity of watching her closely, and he knew he had at last found his sister. He was about to fol low her when she stopptnl in the -diadow to listen to his music. Wheieiqion he played some of her favourite songs by' Schumann and Schubert. So full of passion was his rendering of *l)u bist die Ruh.’ that a woman in the < rowd sebbed. and threw a dollar a! his feet. When the last nolo had died on the air. tin* veiled woman resumed her course down Fourth Street. Ilemique followed her warily. and when she turned down Jessie Street he q li• kly overtook her. “‘Felisa, carissima.’ he m. it is I. Henrique. Oh. sister mine. I knew that my violin would find tln/v.’ She turned abruptly as he rame towards her with outstretched hands, hut she stopped him with a gesture as he was about to take her in his arm-. Lifting the veil she wiped the tears from her <\es, for -he was greatly moved, and then in a voice as of one entirely bereft of hope she said *Henri<|iie G.ir< ia. I am no longer thy sister: think of me as one who is dead, ami go thy way. ami may God help thee.’ But li • pei-i-te.i in following her with piteous appeal, so that she could not refu-e I.mi entrance when they reached tin wieHlied house where she lived. When they gained her room, he knelt I esido her and kissed her hand whilst the tears streamed down his face, and lie looked at her with such a love a- only dumb beasts can bestow. And she put her arms alkrnt him. and laid In i h a 1 on his shotibler. and the poor uncouth creature wept with her ami tin-I to soothe Ikt in his own pitiful \ >y “From that day H-mriqiir m\. r h -t sight of his sister. I ’ndet -• ■ ling in some dim way that die wa- in 1r- ulde, he devoted liim-elf to het. and 11 <• I in every possible way to . mu n I *llB-

tract her. A few bright ornaments and flowering plants were added to the dingy room, and it was his chief delight to pour his earnings into her lap every evening wtacn lie returned from the streets, but all his efforts were unavailing: a deep gloom had settled upon the poor girl, and she fell into a dull melancholy.”

The old gentleman paused a few moments to collect bis thoughts, and through the open window came the savage ending of the song sung by the little street minstrel that afternoon. Resuming his narrative the old man said. •‘One evening, when Henrique was playing on the streets, Standish came to the house to ascertain why the miserable pittance, which he used to send Felisa, had been returned to him of late. She informed Standish that Henrique had found her. and was earning enough money with his violin to maintain them both, and that she would not accept his alms any longer. She had not seen her lover for several weeks, and as he sat there, well-groomed, insolent, and careless, and with the air of superiority that comes of success, her old fondness for him stirred once more, and she made a final appeal to him to redeem his promises. Had Standish not been engrossed in scornful contemplation of the woman kneeling before him with clasped hands and streaming eyes, he might have seen in the mirror in front of him the visage of an angry man standing in the doorway behind him. Henrique had returned just in time to witness the end of the scene, and to hear Standish say ‘Don’t be a fool, Felisa.’ The next instant the attorney was torn from his chair; he was a heavy, powerful man. but his strength availed nothing against the fury of his assailant. By' the time the police arrived on the scene he had been beaten into insensibility. No charge was brought against Henrique. and no mention was made of the incident in the San Franeiseo papers, for the reason that Standish was a man of many resources, and of much influence with the newspapers.

“Felisa never saw Standish again. Her love had turned into the hate and fury

of a "woman scorned/ and she was at great pains to impress upon Henrique that Standish was the author of all their troubles. It would have gone ill with him if Henrique had met him in those days, but the corporation he served sent him to Washington on important business that required the attention of a skilled lobbyist. So well did he acquit himself, and so necessary had he become to his employers, that they gave him a permanent position in Washington to look after their interests, and he has never been in California since then until last week, when he arrived in this city to attend to some important business that he alone was considered fit to conduct.

"When Felisa’s baby was about eighteen months old, the poor girl, unable to bear the wretchedness of her life any longer, committed suicide. A few hours before her death she gave solemn charge to Henrique concerning her babe, and made him vow to kill Standish.”

Once more through the window was heard the child’s song. A shudder seemed to pass through Sumner Carey, and he glanced apprehensively behind him.

The old gentleman resumed his narrative: “The day after Felisa’s funeral, Henrique appeared with an axe in his belt, and since then he has never laid it aside. His only aim in life is to fulfil the promises made to his sister. How well he has taken care of his little niece, Lucia, you all witnessed to-day; that he will slay his sister’s betrayer is as certain as the fact that Mr Sumner Carey is at this moment under the spell of an overpowering dread.” "You lie, curse you!” shouted Carey, now livid with fear, and springing to his feet he clutched the bottle in front of him; whilst he was in the very act of throwing it at tlie old man, there was a yell of savage laughter near him, that stayed his hand, and struck a horror into the faces of all those who heard

Carey turned just in time to see Henrique leap in at the window behind him; he hurled the bottle at the intruder, but his aim was marred by fear, and his missile flew wide of its mark.

Before he could draw his pistol, Henrique—shouting “Felisa, Felisa!”—was upon him, and with one swift stroke of his axe he clove his skull to the shin.

"You have doubtless guessed,” said the old man soon after in the smokingroom to some of his fellow-guests, “you have doubtless guessed that Sumner Carey was the Standish of my narrative. He was a cruel unscrupulous scoundrel, and I am glad that I witnessed, Henrique’s fulfilment of the last promise made to his sister.”