Idolatry: A Romance

Chapter 5

A NEW MAN WITH AN OLD FACE.

About an hour before noon on this same twenty-seventh of May, Mr. Dyke

heard a voice in the outer room. He had held his position in the house

as confidential clerk for nearly or quite twenty-five years, was

blessed with a good memory, and was fond of saying that he never

forgot a face or a voice. So, as this voice from the outer room

reached his ears, he turned one eye up towards the door and muttered,

"Heard that before, somewhere!"

The ground-glass panel darkened, and the door was thrown wide open.

Upon the threshold stood a young man about six feet in height, of

figure rather graceful and harmonious than massive. A black velveteen

jacket fitted closely to his shape; he had on a Tyrolese hat; his

boots, of thin, pliant leather, reached above the knee. He carried a

stout cane, with a handle of chamois-horn; to a couple of straps,

crossing each shoulder, were attached a travelling-scrip and a

telescope-case.

But neither his attire nor the unusual size and dark brilliancy of

his eyes was so noticeable as his hair and beard, which outgrew the

bounds of common experience. Beards, to be sure, were far more rare

twenty years ago than they have since become. The hair was yellow,

with the true hyacinthine curl pervading it. Rejoicing in luxuriant

might, it clothed and reclothed the head, and, descending lower,

tumbled itself in bold masses on the young man's shoulders. As for the

beard, it was well in keeping. Of a purer yellow than the hair, it

twisted down in crisp, vigorous waves below the point marked by

mankind's third shirt-stud. It was full half as broad as it was long,

and lay to the right and left from the centre-line of the face. The

owner of this oriflamme looked like a young Scandinavian god.

There seems to be a deeper significance in hair than meets the eye.

Sons of Esau, whose beards grow high up on their cheek-bones, who are

hairy down to their ankles, and to the second joints of their fingers,

are generally men of a kindly and charitable nature, strong in what we

call the human element. One remembers their stout hand-grip; they look

frankly in one's face, and the heart is apt to go out to them more

spontaneously than to the smooth-faced Jacobs. Such a man was Samson,

whose hair was his strength,--the strength of inborn truth and

goodness, whereby he was enabled to smite the lying Philistines. And

although they once, by their sophistries, managed to get the better

of him for a while, they forgot that good inborn is too vigorous a

matter for any mere razor finally to subdue. See, again, what a great

beard Saint Paul had, and what an outspoken, vigorous heart! Was it

from freak that Greeks and Easterns reverenced beards as symbols of

manhood, dignity, and wisdom? or that Christian Fathers thundered

against the barber, as a violator of divine law? No one, surely, could

accuse that handy, oily, easy little personage of evil intent; but he

symbolized the subtile principle which pares away the natural virtue

of man, and substitutes an artificial polish, which is hypocrisy. It

is to be observed, however, that hair can be representative of natural

evil as well as of good. A tangle-headed bush-ranger does not win our

sympathies. A Mussulman keeps his beard religiously clean.

Meanwhile the yellow-haired Scandinavian, whom we have already laid

under the imputation of being a dandy, stood on the threshold of Mr.

Dyke's office, and that gentleman confronted him with a singularly

inquisitive stare. The visitor's face was a striking one, but can be

described, for the present, only in general terms. He might not be

called handsome; yet a very handsome man would be apt to appear

insignificant beside him. His features showed strength, and were at

the same time cleanly and finely cut. There was freedom in the arch

of his eyebrows, and plenty of eye-room beneath them.

He took off his hat to Mr. Dyke, and smiled at him with artless

superiority, insomuch that the elderly clerk's sixty years were

disconcerted, and the Cerberus seemed to dwindle into the bumpkin!

This young fellow, a good deal less than half Mr. Dyke's age, was yet

a far older man of the world than he. Not that his appearance

suggested the kind of maturity which results from abnormal or

distorted development,--on the contrary, he was thoroughly genial and

healthful. But that power and assurance of eye and lip, generally

bought only at the price of many years' buffetings, given and taken,

were here married to the first flush and vigor of young manhood.

"My name is Helwyse; I have come from Europe to see Mr. Amos

MacGentle," said the visitor, courteously.

"Helwyse!--Hel--" repeated Mr. Dyke, having seemingly quite forgotten

himself. His customary manner to strangers implied that he knew,

better than they did, who they were and what they wanted; and that

what he knew was not much to their credit. But he could only open his

mouth and stare at this Helwyse.

"Mr. MacGentle is an old friend; run in and tell him I'm here, and you

will see." The young man put his hand kindly on the elderly clerk's

shoulder, much as though the latter were a gaping school-boy, and

directed him gently towards the inner door.

Mr. Dyke regained his voice by an effort, though still lacking

complete self-command. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Helwyse, sir,--of

course, of course,--it didn't seem possible,--so long, you know,--but

I remembered the voice and the face and the name,--I never

forget,--but, by George, sir, can you really be--?"

"I see you have a good memory; you are Dyke, aren't you?" And Mr.

Helwyse threw back his head and laughed, perhaps at the clerk's

bewildered face. At all events, the latter laughed, too, and they both

shook hands very heartily.

"Beg pardon again, Mr. Helwyse, I'll speak to the President," said Mr.

Dyke, and stepped into the sanctuary of sanctuaries.

Mr. MacGentle was taking a nap. He was seventy years old, and could

drop asleep easily. When he slept, however lightly and briefly, he was

pretty sure to dream; and if awakened suddenly, his dream would often

prolong itself, and mingle with passing events, which would themselves

put on the semblance of unreality. On the present occasion the sound

of Helwyse's voice had probably crept through the door, and insinuated

itself into his dreaming brain.

Mr. Dyke was too much excited to remark the President's condition. He

put his mouth close to the old gentleman's ear, and said, in an

emphatic and penetrating undertone,--

"Here's your old friend Helwyse, who died in Europe two years ago,

come back again, _younger than ever!_"

If the confidential clerk expected his superior to echo his own

bewilderment, he was disappointed. Mr. MacGentle unclosed his eyes,

looked up, and answered rather pettishly,--

"What nonsense are you talking about his dying in Europe, Mr. Dyke? He

hasn't been in Europe for six years. I was expecting him. Let him come

in at once."

But he was already there; and Mr. Dyke slipped out again with

consternation written upon his features. Mr. MacGentle found himself

with his thin old hand in the young man's warm grasp.

"Helwyse, how do you do?--how do you do? Ah! you look as well as ever.

I was just thinking about you. Sit down,--sit down!"

The old President's voice had a strain of melancholy in it, partly the

result of chronic asthma, and partly, no doubt, of a melancholic

temperament. This strain, being constant, sometimes had a curiously

incongruous effect as contrasted with the subject or circumstances in

hand. Whether hailing the dawn of the millennium; holding playful

converse with a child, making a speech before the Board,--under

whatever rhetorical conditions, Mr. MacGentle's intonation was always

pitched in the same murmurous and somewhat plaintive key. Moreover, a

corresponding immobility of facial expression had grown upon him; so

that altogether, though he was the most sympathetic and sensitive of

men, a superficial observer might take him to be lacking in the common

feelings and impulses of humanity.

Perhaps the incongruity alluded to had not altogether escaped his own

notice, and since discord of any kind pained him, he had mended the

matter--as best he could--by surrendering himself entirely to his

mournful voice; allowing it to master his gestures, choice of

language, almost his thoughts. The result was a colorlessness of

manner which did great injustice to the gentle and delicate soul

behind.

This conjecture might explain why Mr. MacGentle, instead of falling

upon his friend's neck and shedding tears of welcome there, only

uttered a few commonplace sentences, and then drooped back into his

chair. But it throws no light upon his remark that he had been

expecting the arrival of a friend who, it would appear, had been dead

two years. Helwyse himself may have been puzzled by this; or, being a

quick-witted young man, he may have divined its explanation. He looked

at his entertainer with critical sympathy not untinged with humor.

"I hope you are as well as I am," said he.

"A little tired this morning, I believe; I never was so strong a man

as you, Helwyse. I think I must have passed a bad night. I remember

dreaming I was an old man,--an old man with white hair, Helwyse."

"Were you glad to wake up again?" asked the young man, meeting the

elder's faded eyes.

"I hardly know whether I'm quite awake yet. And, after all, Thor, I'm

not sure that I don't wish the dream might have been true. If I were

really an old man, what a long, lonely future I should escape! but as

it is--as it is--"

He relapsed into reverie. Ah! Mr. MacGentle, are you again the tall

and graceful youth, full of romance and fire, who roamed abroad in

quest of adventures with your trusty friend Thor Helwyse, the

yellow-bearded Scandinavian? Do you fancy this fresh, unwrinkled face

a mate to your own? and is it but the vision of a restless

night,--this long-drawn life of dull routine and gradual

disappointment and decay? Open those dim eyes of yours, good sir! stir

those thin old legs! inflate that sunken chest!--Ha! is that cough

imaginary? those trembling muscles,--are they a delusion is that misty

glance only a momentary weakness There is no youth left in you, Mr.

MacGentle; not so much as would keep a rose in bloom for an hour.

"Have you seen Doctor Glyphic lately?" inquired Helwyse, after a

pause.

"Glyphic?--do you know, I was thinking of him just now,--of our first

meeting with him in the African desert. You remember!--a couple of

Bedouins were carrying him off,--they had captured him on his way to

some apocryphal ruin among the sand-heaps. What a grand moment was

that when you caught the Sheik round the throat with your

umbrella-handle, and pulled him off his horse! and then we mounted

poor Glyphic upon it,--mummied cat and all,--and away over the hot

sand! What a day was that! what a day was that!"

The speaker's eyes had kindled; for a moment one saw the far flat

desert, the struggling knot of men and horses, the stampede of the

three across the plain, and the high sun flaming inextinguishable

laughter-over all!--and it had happened nigh forty years ago.

"He never forgot that service," resumed Mr. MacGentle, his customary

plaintive manner returning. "To that, and to your saving the Egyptian

lad,--. Manetho,--you owe your wife Helen: ah! forgive me,--I had

forgotten; she is dead,--she is dead."

"I never could understand," remarked Helwyse, aiming to lead the

conversation away from gloomy topics, "why the Doctor made so much of

Manetho." "That was only a part of the Egyptian mania that possessed

him, and began, you know, with his changing his name from Henry to

Hiero; and has gone on, until now, I suppose, he actually believes

himself to be some old inscription, containing precious secrets, not

to be found elsewhere. Before the adventure with the boy, I remember,

he had formed the idea of building a miniature Egypt in New Jersey;

and Manetho served well as the living human element in it. 'Though I

take him to America,' you know he said, 'he shall live in Egypt still.

He shall have a temple, and an altar, and Isis and Osiris, and papyri

and palm-trees and a crocodile; and when he dies I will embalm him

like a Pharaoh.' 'But suppose you die first?' said one of us. 'Then he

shall embalm me!' cried Hiero, and I will be the first American

mummy.'"

Mr. MacGentle seemed to find a dreamy enjoyment in working this vein

of reminiscence. He sat back in his low arm-chair, his unsubstantial

face turned meditatively towards the Magdalen, his hands brought

together to support his delicate chin. Helwyse, apprehending that the

vein might at last bring the dreamer down to the present day,

encouraged him to follow it.

"It must have been a disappointment to the Doctor that his prot******* up the Christian religion, instead of following the faith and

observances of his Egyptian ancestors, for the last five thousand

years!"

"Why, perhaps it was, Thor, perhaps it was," murmured Mr. MacGentle.

"But Manetho never entered the pulpit, you know; it would not have

been to his interest to do so; besides that, I believe he is really

devoted to Glyphic, believing that it was he who saved him from the

crocodile. People are all the time making such absurd mistakes.

Manetho is a man who would be unalterable either in gratitude or

enmity, although his external manner is so mild. And as to his taking

orders, why, as long as he wore an Egyptian robe, and said his prayers

in an Egyptian temple, it would be all the same to Glyphic what

religion the man professed!"

"Doctor Glyphic is still alive, then?"

The old man looked at the young one with an air half apprehensive,

half perplexed, as if scenting the far approach of some undefined

difficulty. He passed his white hand over his forehead. "Everything

seems out of joint-to-day, Helwyse. Nothing looks or seems natural,

except you! What is the matter with me?--what is the matter with me?"

Helwyse sat with both hands twisted in his mighty beard, and one

booted leg thrown over the other. He was full of sympathy at the

spectacle of poor Amos MacGentle, blindly groping after the phantom of

a flower whose bloom and fragrance had vanished so terribly long ago;

and yet, for some reason or other he could hardly forbear a smile.

When anything is utterly out of place, it is no more pathetic than

absurd; moreover, young men are always secretly inclined to laugh at

old ones!

"Why should not Glyphic be alive?" resumed Mr. MacGentle. "Why not he,

as well as you or I? Aren't we all about of an age?"

Helwyse drew his chair close to his companion's, and took his hand, as

if it had been a young girl's. "My dear friend," said he, "you said

you felt tired this morning, but you forget how far you've travelled

since we last met. Doctor Glyphic, if he be living now, must be more

than sixty years old. Your dream of old age was such as many have

dreamed before, and not awakened from in this world!"

"Let me think!--let me think!" said the old man; and, Helwyse drawing

back, there ensued a silence, varied only by a long and tremulous sigh

from his companion; whether of relief or dejection, the visitor could

not decide. But when Mr. MacGentle spoke, it was with more assurance.

Either from mortification at his illusion, or more probably from

imperfect perception of it, he made no reference to what had passed.

Old age possesses a kind of composure, arising from dulled

sensibilities, which the most self-possessed youth can never rival.

"We heard, through the London branch of our house, that Thor Helwyse

died some two years ago."

"He was drowned in the Baltic Sea. I am his son Balder."

"He was my friend," observed the old man, simply; but the tone he used

was a magnet to attract the son's heart. "You look very much like him,

only his eyes were blue, and yours, as I now see, are dark; but you

might be mistaken for him."

"I sometimes have been," rejoined Balder, with a half-smile.

"And you are his son! You are most welcome!" said Mr. MacGentle, with

old-fashioned courtesy.

"Forgive me if I have--if anything has occurred to annoy you. I am a

very old man, Mr. Balder; so old that sometimes I believe I forget how

old I am! And Thor is dead,--drowned,--you say?"

"The Baltic, you know, has been the grave of many of our forefathers;

I think my father was glad to follow them. I never saw him in better

spirits than during that gale. We were bound to England from Denmark."

"Helen's death saddened him,--I know,--I know; he was never gay after

that. But how--how did--?"

"He would keep the deck, though the helmsman had to be lashed to the

wheel. I think he never cared to see land again, but he was full of

spirits and life. He said this was weather fit for a Viking.

"We were standing by the foremast, holding on by a belaying-pin. The

sea came over the side, and struck him overboard. I went after him.

Another wave brought me back; but not my father! I was knocked

senseless, and when I came to, it was too late."

Helwyse's voice, towards the end of this story, became husky, and Mr.

MacGentle's eyes, as he listened, grew dimmer than ever.

"Ah!" said he, "I shall not die so. I shall die away gradually, like a

breeze that has been blowing this way and that all day, and falls at

sunset, no one knows how. Thor died as became him; and I shall die as

becomes me,--as becomes me!" And so, indeed, he did, a few years

later; but not unknown nor uncared for.

Balder Helwyse was a philosopher, no doubt; but it was no part of his

wisdom to be indifferent to unstrained sympathy. He went on to speak

further of his own concerns,--a thing he was little used to do.

It appeared that, from the time he first crossed the Atlantic, being

then about four years old, up to the time he had recrossed it, a few

weeks ago, he had been journeying to and fro over the Eastern

Hemisphere. His father, who, as well as himself, was American by

birth, was the descendant of a Danish family of high station and

antiquity, and inherited the restless spirit of his ancestors. In the

course of his early wanderings he had fallen in with MacGentle, who,

though somewhat older than Helwyse, was still a young man; and later

these two had encountered Hiero Glyphic. About fifteen years after

this it was that Thor appeared at Glyphic's house in New Jersey, and

was welcomed by that singular man as a brother; and here he fell in

love with Glyphic's sister Helen, and married her. With her he

received a large fortune, which the addition of his own made great;

and at Glyphic's death Thor or his heirs would inherit the bulk of the

estate left by him.

So Thor, being then in the first prime of life, was prepared to settle

down and become domestic. But the sudden death of his wife, and the

subsequent loss of one of the children she had borne him, drove him

once more abroad, with his baby son, never again to take root, or to

return. And here Balder's story, as told by him, began. He seemed to

have matured very early, and to have taken hold of knowledge in all

its branches like a Titan. The precise age at which he had learned all

that European schools could teach him, it is not necessary to specify;

since it is rather with the nature of his mind than with the list of

his accomplishments that we shall have to do. It might be possible, by

tracing his-connection with French, or German, or English

philosophers, to make shrewd guesses at the qualities of his own!

creed; but these will perhaps reveal themselves less diffidently under

other tests.

The last four or five years of his life Balder had spent in acquiring

such culture as schools could not give him. Where he went, what he did

and saw, we shall not exercise our power categorically to reveal;

remarking only that his means and his social rank left him free to go

as high as well as low as he pleased,--to dine with English dukes or

with Russian serfs. But a fine chastity inherent in his Northern blood

had, whatever were his moral convictions, kept him from the mire; and

the sudden death of his father had given him a graver turn than was

normal to his years. Meanwhile, the financial crash, which at this

time so largely affected Europe, swallowed up the greater part of

Balder's fortune; and with the remnant (about a thousand pounds

sterling), and a potential independence (in the shape of a learned

profession) in his head, he sailed for Boston.

"I knew you were my uncle Hiero's bankers," he added, "and I supposed

you would be able to tell me about him. He is my only living

relative."

"Why, as to that, I believe it is a long time since the house has had

anything to do with his concerns," returned the venerable President,

abstractedly gazing at Balder's high boots; "but I'll ask Mr. Dyke. He

remembers everything."

That gentleman (who had not passed an easy moment since Mr. Helwyse's

arrival) was now called in, and his suspense regarding the mysterious

visitor soon relieved. In respect to Doctor Glyphic's affair he was

ready and explicit.

"No dollar of his money has been through our hands since winter of

Eighteen thirty-five--six, Mr. Helwyse, sir,--winter following your

and your respected father's departure for foreign parts," stated Mr.

Dyke, straightening his mouth, and planting his fist on his hip.

"Hm--hm!" murmured the President, standing thin and bent before the

empty fireplace, a coat-tail over each arm.

"You have heard nothing of him since then?"

"Nothing, Mr. Helwyse, sir! Reverend Manetho Glyphic--understood to be

the Doctor's adopted son--came here and effected the transfer, under

authority, of course, of his foster-father's signature. Where the

property is at this moment, how invested with what returns, neither

the President nor I can inform you, sir."

"Hm--hm!" remarked Mr. MacGentle again. It was a favorite comment of

his upon business topics.

"It is possible I may be a very wealthy man," said Balder, when Mr.

Dyke had made his resolute bow and withdrawn. "But I hope my uncle is

alive. It would be a loss not to have known so eccentric a man. I have

a miniature of him which I have often studied, so that I shall know

him when we meet. Can he be married, do you think?"

"Why no, Balder; no, I should hardly think so," answered Mr.

MacGentle, who, at the departure of his confidential clerk, had

relapsed into his unofficial position and manner. "By the way, do

_you_ contemplate that step?"

"It is said to be an impediment to great enterprises. I could learn

little by domestic life that I could not learn better otherwise."

"Hm,--we could not do without woman, you know."

"If I could marry Woman, I would do it," said the young man,

unblushingly. "But a single crumb from that great loaf would be of no

use to me."

"Ah, you haven't learned to appreciate women! You never knew your

mother, Balder; and your sister was lost before she was old enough to

be anything to you. By the way, I have always cherished a hope that

she might yet be found. Perhaps she may,--perhaps she may."

Balder looked perplexed, till, thinking the old gentleman might be

referring to a reunion in a future state, he said,--

"You believe that people recognize one another in the next world, Mr.

MacGentle?"

"Perhaps,--perhaps; but why not here as well?" murmured the other, in

reply; and Balder, suspecting a return of absent-mindedness, yielded

the point. He had grown up in the belief that his twin-sister had died

in her infancy; but his venerable friend appeared to be under a

different impression.

"I shall go to New York, and try to find my uncle, or some trace of

him," said he. "If I'm unsuccessful, I mean to come back here, and

settle as a physician."

"What is your specialty?"

"I'm an eye-doctor. The Boston people are not all clear-eyed, I hope."

"Not all,--I should say not all; perhaps you may be able to help me,

to begin with," said Mr. MacGentle, with a gleam of melancholy humor.

"I will ask Mr. Dyke about the chances for a practice he knows

everything. And, Balder," he added, when the young man rose to go,

"let me hear from you, and see you again sometimes, whatever may

happen to you in the way of fortune. I'm rather a lonely old man,--a

lonely old man, Balder."

"I'll be here again very soon, unless I get married, or commit a

murder or some such enormity," rejoined Helwyse, his long mustache

curling to, his smile. They shook hands,--the vigorous young god of

the sun and the faded old wraith of Brahmanism,--with a friendly look

into each other's eyes.