"Three thousand," he murmured, "will be enough. I will take a year. I will see everything that my fancy asks for, do everything, be everything. They call it the Old World. Well, it must be able to furnish amus.e.m.e.nt for me, be it old or young."

He turned to the unfinished sketches, the letters and the other impediments that littered the room. "These shall not hold me a minute,"

he said. "I want a change of air. I am going to take it. Nor friends, nor promises, nor prospects shall stay me. It's goodbye."

He laughed again, and went out to buy an evening paper, to scan the sailing-lists for the out-going steamers.

CHAPTER XIV

On one of the hottest days of August, a month by no means the most delightful of Berlin's moods, there sat in the pleasant, shady garden of the restaurant "Zum Kapuziner," facing the Schlossplatz, a tall young man, whose material externals proclaimed him, to the trained eye, either as an Englishman or an American. It is a safe axiom that all the well-dressed people in the German capital are either English or American.

In front of the young man, on the table, were a gla.s.s, a bottle of _Mai-trank_ and an ill.u.s.trated paper. But the young man was not regarding any of these things, but kept his eyes to an observance of the pa.s.sers-by. This seemed to amuse him, for from time to time he smiled softly.

It was certainly a pleasant spot. In front there stretched the broad, paved square that gave to the Old Castle of the first German Emperors on the left, to the royal stables on the right, and beyond, straight ahead, gave a glimpse of the quaint, old-fashioned architecture of the "_Alte Stadt_." For the Schlossplatz marks the limits of the newer portion of Berlin; beyond the bridge everything is the real Berlin, the Berlin untouched by the triumphant splendors that came after '71, the Berlin that knows but little of the pa.s.sing stranger and the ways to despoil him. And that was why d.i.c.k Lancaster had chosen the spot. The pa.s.sers-by were not at all cosmopolitan; there was little of that mixture of all races, all garbs, all voices, that was to be seen and heard on the "_Linden_." These were the real Berliners.

In the months that lay between this day and the day on which Lancaster had first felt the soil of Europe under his foot, there had come to him many experiences, many amus.e.m.e.nts. He had accepted all things.

Unfettered by any restraints he had probed all the novelties that presented themselves. He had lived in alternating fevers of discriminations and hard work. For all these new aspects of life and living filled him with the old, dear mania to create. He found himself inspired by the very overflow of his sensations. From long draughts of enjoyment he plunged into as long fits of artistic energy.

He found, moreover, that the increased tension of his spiritual being put a peculiar force into his pencil. Because it was merely one way of laughter, because he began in a spirit of flippancy, the sketches all succeeded immensely. Fortune began to favor him in artistic ways. In Paris he had made a portfolio full of the most admirable sketches of types. There was a crafty cynicism about his work that gave a fascination to them; something not caricature, but finer. Now he chose as his subject the traveling millionaire, now the splendid queen of the boulevard, now the phantom of the "bra.s.serie," and now the rag-picker.

One day he had showed some sketches to a man that had begged permission to glance through the portfolio, as they sat, in a crowded cafe, at the same table. The man was the manager of a famous ill.u.s.trated paper. He bought some of the sketches, and presently there appeared a most astonishingly eulogistic article, about this young American.

People carefully read the name. They had never heard of him. They looked at the sketches. That was certainly talent of a significant sort. The other papers followed suit. The noise of this discovery went across the channel. There came to this young man orders from London, and the newspapers of that town began to print the most extraordinary inventions, by way of personalities, about him. The world, now as ever, is always glad of a new subject. After that Parisian journal had sounded the first note, the volume of sound that had as its burden Lancaster's name, grew and grew. Of course, there were those that dissented, that took occasion to flay this young man's achievements until there seemed left only a skeleton of faults. But even that only swelled the flood.

All the while, his sketches grew in force and individuality. For, whatever else his detractors denied him, they admitted the originality of his style. It had never been done before. Some called it hideous, some grotesque; but all called it new. That was the great point.

He became the fad. The representatives of American newspapers, who had been prompt to cable home reports of the successes of this unheard-of youth, began to attempt to interview him. Whereupon, having by that time exhausted the immediate enjoyments of Paris, he fled abruptly.

His success had at first surprised, then amused him. When, presently, he found that his bank account was swelling most astonishingly, he was more entertained than ever. He laughed--that unpleasant, mirthless laugh. But he felt no duties toward his success. When Paris became tiresome, he had no hesitation about quitting it without leaving an address. For that matter, he did not, himself, know just whither he would go.

His ticket had been taken for Monaco. The life of that place fascinated him no less than that of Paris, when Paris was fresh to him. Day after day he watched the procession that filed to and from the green tables; the princes of the blood, the newest nabobs, the touring Americans, the Russians, the worldlings and half-worldlings of all nations and degrees.

He watched the blue of the Mediterranean as a contrast to the blacknesses of humanity that he saw daily.

And then without an accompanying word, he sent a selection of sketches to that Parisian paper whose discovery, so to say, he was. There came another salvo of applause from the world of art. It seemed, so they all said, as if this young man was destined to show such possibilities in black-and-white as had not yet been dreampt of.

From Monaco the wanderer went to Egypt. A white-sailed fishing-smack, anch.o.r.ed in the bay below him, had started the thought in his mind one sunny afternoon, when the attractions of Monte Carlo were beginning to pall. He could afford extravagances now. The fisherman, when he was accosted, had smiled. Yes, he might charter the boat. But where would the gentleman wish to sail to? And it was of Egypt that d.i.c.k thought, suddenly, with a longing for the cold silences of the sands, and the pyramids, and the quaking waves of heat. And so the bargain was arranged and to Egypt went the artist.

Thence he swung back to Italy. Then through Switzerland. Everywhere he roved through the corners that his fancy led him to; nowhere did he merely echo the footsteps of the millions of tourists. Sometimes he walked for whole days at a time. Sometimes he went to a petty inn and astonished the host by staying all day in his room and working. Whenever he found his purse suffering unduly through the vagaries of his nomadic fancies, he posted some sketches to such of the Paris or London papers as had been most clamorous for them.

It was, perhaps, just because he cared so little for it all, that this luck was come to him. In the old days he had chafed against misfortunes, against limitations of all sorts; he had declared that great successes were no longer possible, that everything worth doing had been done long ago. Now, when he cared not at all, fortune kissed him.

Which also amused him.

Another man would have laid plans for the furtherment of this fame, would have counted the ways and means of plucking the fruit of success at it's ripest, would have plotted against the erasure--by caprice, of the world, or loss of his own skill, of his own name from the list of the world's favorites. d.i.c.k Lancaster did none of these things. He merely accepted the gifts of the moment, and continued recklessly in alternate disappearances and bursts of splendid achievement. There was nothing, he argued bitterly, for which he needed all the fame; so why should he care to be Fame's courtier? If fame chose to pursue him, that was another matter, and beyond his heed.

So, carelessly, recklessly eager for novelties and excitements, this young man adventured over the continent of Europe, gaining everywhere a reputation for devil-may-care-dom and bitterness.

And over many of these things he was thinking, as he sat in the garden of the "Kapuziner." He thought, too, with something of amused wistfulness of the d.i.c.k Lancaster that had once been himself,--the boy that had suffered twinges of conscience at the thought of giving up a Sunday to enjoyment, and had felt forever stained because of things that now caused him little save ennui. Was it possible that he had once been like that? Oh, yes, all things were possible; he had found that out plainly enough. Indeed, he reflected, if it should happen to him that the End came tomorrow, he would have the satisfaction of having lived his life, completely, fully, even to satisfy, in half the time that most men take for that task. Since that night, after a certain girl had told him to "forget," he had spared himself in nothing that promised entertainment. With the old restraints completely cast to the winds, with nothing but studied recklessness as his Mentor, he had followed all the promptings of that epicureanism that he now feigned to consider the only philosophy.

In all things he was fickle. Just as the artistic side of him tired quickly of one place, one set of types, so his animal nature was essentially of the dilettante rather than the enthusiast. Wherever he saw a will-o'-the-wisp he followed; but it was no sooner caught than he was repentant of his success. The taste of pleasure was of the briefest to him; it turned to bitterness in a moment.

And yet, he mused, with all his varied experiences, with the feeling of satiety that sometimes overcame him from sheer excess of sensations, the fascination of the town was still upon him. It was surely in his blood, he speculated. He remembered with what pa.s.sionate eagerness, after the final shaking off of all the old consciences--all those moral skins that he had shed, and left to rot, over there, in America--he had come to the realization of the varied facets of that bewildering jewel, the town.

He shut his eyes to escape the glare of the noon-day, and evolve, behind his closed lids, the aspect of the town after lamps are lit. The constant current of humanity, of the swishing of the women's gowns as they walked, the rattle of the cabs over the stones,--it all filled him with a pa.s.sion of pleasure. His young blood went more quickly at each sight of that surging sea. The crowds going to the theatres and music-halls; the shadows that flitted hawk-like about the corners; the colors of the occasional uniforms; he drank in the picture thirstily.

Both the artist and the man were joined, too, in a pa.s.sionate eagerness for beauty; he had been known, in his folly as men may call it, to walk a mile so that he might the more often meet an attractive face again.

The vision of a beautiful female figure, of a well-fitting gown, gave him an almost painful joy; he felt that charm of mere feminity most acutely and covetously.

And yet, with all, he had been a lonely creature. His pleasures were evanescent and he was ever constrained to browse upon fresh pastures.

From this novel experience, that colorful scene, and that delightful companion he extracted the essence all too soon; and the dregs he ever avoided. In his mind there was a gallery of places, faces and voices--all loves of a moment.

It was a cheerless train of thought that he found himself in. But, as he sipped the pale _Mai-trank_, the glad reflection occurred that the world was very large and that he had seen very little of it so far; there were still plenty of things left that were new to him. Surprise would not die for him just yet.

He was watching the rainbows that glimpsed in and out of the streams of cool water that the fountain, in the square, was sending up into the sun-light. And as he was so engaged, there came to his ear the sound of men's voices, speaking English with an unmistakable American accent.

He turned about.

One of the men was Wooton. As they came nearer, he recognized the other as Laurence Stanley. They were coming directly toward the garden, and in another instant they had seen him. Stanley put on his pince-nez. Then they hurried up to him with a flourish of hands.

"Why, G.o.d bless our home," laughed Wooton, "if here isn't our famous young friend, d.i.c.k Lancaster, the talk of two continents! I'm glad to see you, mighty glad."

"Stanley," said d.i.c.k, after they had all shaken hands, "what are you doing here? Where's Mrs. Stanley."

"My boy, I'm enjoying myself. I presume Mrs. Stanley is doing the same.

For reasons not necessary of explanation to the mind capable in deduction we are not, at this moment, breathing the air of the same hemisphere."

"Will you fellows take a bit of lunch? We ought to celebrate this meeting with the famous, etcetera, etcetera," said Wooton.

"Look here," said Lancaster, a trifle coldly, "I'd just as soon you'd drop that adjective business. Here's the bill of the play, Stanley." He handed the carte-du-jour over.

While they were discussing their luncheon, chatting of the various causes that had brought them together, and recounting stories, and adventures, Wooton rose solemnly, after a few moments of reflection, and held out his hand to Lancaster. "I want to shake hands with you," he declared, "as with a genuine thoroughbred. I've been listening to you, watching you, and--but that was a long time ago,--hearing about you.

You're not the Lancaster I knew."

But, for some strange reason, Lancaster did not hold out his hand. He pretended to be engaged in lifting his gla.s.s to his lips. Then he said, "I don't consider that a compliment."

Wooton scowled a little to himself, but pa.s.sed the matter off lightly enough. "Well," he continued, "at any rate it does me good to see you.

How are they all? I've not been back in years, you know." The reason for, and occasion of his exodus did not seem to touch him with the least shade of annoyance.

Lancaster looked at Stanley. "I'm not the man to say. I left there almost a year ago. Stanley was still there then. Stanley, tell us the news from home."

"Yes," was Stanley's reply, "and a nice lot of speculation there was about your sudden disappearance, d.i.c.k. There were all sorts of rumors.

Some of them hinted at affairs of the heart." He caught the look on d.i.c.k's face, and stopped. "However, that's not to the point, I suppose you're thinking? Well, now let me see: they're all about as usual, I think, except, of course, Mrs. Stewart."

The others both started a little.

"Yes. Her husband died in January. She gave up the 'salon' of course; in fact, I think she went abroad."

Lancaster wondered what she would say to him, were they ever to meet.

She must have heard about his sudden leap into public notice, his vagabondian ways, his reckless career. He became moody, abstracted. The others were not slow to observe the change in him.