The Incendiary: A Story of Mystery

by William Augustine Leahy

All at once Emily remembered that she had often divined a more emotional and mystical side to the criminal lawyer.

And then in a flash many things became clear to her—Shagarach's constant repression of emotion, his frugality and tireless toil, his shutting out of the gypsy violinist's strain that day when she brought him the news of Bertha—all these told of some great resignation, the ruthless division of a dual nature and the discarding of one part, perhaps the better beloved, and the abandonment with that resignation of almost all that was personal to him in life—leaving only the restlessly energizing intellect, the ethical strenuousness as of a modern Isaiah, the filial love and these sealed mementos of a more congenial but probably less successful past.

"And this is Spinoza—the greatest of our race," added Shagarach. "Not the least refined of human faces."

"My ancestors were his kinsmen," added the mother, not without pride. "We were Spanish once and my son can claim the title of count in Spain if he chose—"

"And many a castle in that country besides," added the son, smiling the rare, sweet smile which he reserved for this privacy of his home.

"But my mother speaks the truth, Miss Barlow. She is an accurate historian, as you see. An ancestor of mine rose to power in the court of Ferdinand and left his wealth to two sons. The elder, bearer of the title, chose exile when our people were harried from Spain. The younger, by apostatizing, succeeded to his name and property, and the heirs of that brother still survive in Valencia. That makes us feel for Spinoza, who was also an exile—and a heretic," he concluded, in a lower tone.

"This way, Miss Barlow," the mother led Emily through portieres into a rear room, not unlike the parlor in its furnishings. "Here are the flowers which you were so good, so thoughtful, to send. I have changed the water twice every day, and last night put them out to drink in the rain, for they love the rain from heaven, it is manna to them." The mother fondled them as if they were living things, and gave them to Emily to smell. They were indeed wonderfully fresh, considering the number of days they had been kept.

Shagarach stepped to the cleft in the portieres and excused himself to answer a ring at the doorbell. Emily was left chatting alone in the dim light with his mother. From flowers to other subjects of feminine interest the transition was easy, and the old lady's vivacity, strong sense and above all her warmth of heart made the minutes pass delightfully for the sensitive young girl. She had not been conscious of any unusual merit in offering Shagarach a simple bouquet, yet it had deeply touched the lonely son and his devoted mother, both of whom seemed to regard her now with that intensity of friendship which the Arab lavishes upon the stranger whom he admits to his hospitality.

It was while they were alone in the rear chamber, and Shagarach was conversing in low tones with the visitor behind the drawn portieres—probably a client calling in the evening—that Emily's attention was called to a tapping noise which seemed to come from the window. She thought it best not to speak of it, though it continued for almost a minute. Besides, she remembered having often arisen in the night to investigate the origin of just such a tapping, and lifted the sash to find nothing and hear nothing, not even a departing sparrow, who, perched on the sill, might have been feeling his way along the transparent glass. Shagarach's mother was talking herself at the time and probably the sound of her voice obscured the interruption.

"Is it not pleasanter in here, mother?" Shagarach had thrown the portieres aside and stood again in the cleft, widening it for the ladies to pass. His visitor had been dismissed, but it was a few moments before he recovered his earlier manner. By a graduated ascent, however, his conversation rose to its former glow of enthusiasm, and Emily could not help contrasting its richness and elasticity with the sententiousness, the compressed statement, bare of all accessories, which characterized him when at his desk in the office. Probably this was the style he had used in addressing his caller, and the transition to and fro was not easy.