Stark Tragedy Awaited the Hero of This
Story When He Investigated the
Weird Philosophy of the Orient
The Soul of Peter Andrus
By HUBERT LA DUE
PETER ANDRUS is dead. His body lies at the foot of a simply-graven stone in the cemetery at Fairdale, and his soul. . .
But I am forgetting. I do not know that Peter Andrus, at the time of his death, had a soul. And may I, a humble country doctor, be forgiven for such heresy?
I like best to visualize Peter as a boy just entering adolescence. Dark, he was, with the features of a young Apollo, the wavy, black hair of a gypsy and the large, far-seeing eyes of a dreamer.
When I called at the Andrus home, which was often—the boy's mother was not strong I would generally discover Peter curled up in an armchair, poring over one of the many leather-bound volumes from his late father's library. Profound books, they were, too—intricate essays on philosophy, abstract studies of the human mind, as heavy as the books themselves, hadly what one would expect a lad in knickerbockers to choose. But the father had been a deep student; at one time he had been the professor of psychology in one of the smaller universities of the state.
Or, possibly, Peter would be standing before his favorite window, looking out upon the poplar trees in the old-fashioned garden, tearing weird tunes from the strings of his violin. He played with the power of a genius and the technique of a master. Truly, a strange, baffling personality; but, withal, lovable and a young gentleman to the very tips of his slender, well-kept fingers.
I recall, also, the day, six years later, when Peter's mother was dying. I telegraphed to the boy, who was then at college, and he arrived the following morning, haggard from a sleepless night on the train.
I met him at the door. "My boy," I began, "my boy. . ." It was hard to speak to him. But he gripped my hand and did not wait for me to conclude my announcement. Somehow, he knew.
Thus it was that I assumed the role of adviser to Peter. He was twenty at the time, a tall, upstanding fellow. His years at college had hardened, slightly, the softness of his eyes, but beneath the surface he was still a dreamer.
He did not return to college. There was much to be attended to at home during the weeks that followed; and, after that, he was content to settle down quietly with his books and music.
But when Peter was twenty-three there came an inheritance from his maternal aunt in New York. It was a large sum, even for this day, and it assured him of every comfort during the remainder of his life. At first I was troubled over its possible effect on the lad. He was not accustomed to handling large sums; indeed, he had never given finance more than a passing thought. Now there was suddenly opened up to him a broad, alluring vista, that seemed to thrill the depths of his intense being.
"It seems like a dream, Uncle Joseph!" he exclaimed, upon his return from New York, where he had gone to attend to necessary legal matters. "Now I can enjoy life!" He waved his arms in a sudden ecstasy of enthusiasm. "Life! Life! To live; to learn; to be a real personality, above the drudgery that warps and destroys the soul! It makes everything possible. . . even to marrying the girl I love. It's wonderful, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is very pleasing," I returned; "but this girl you mention, Peter—may I ask who she is?" I could think of no one in Fairdale whom Peter would choose to marry. In fact, the boy had always seemed to avoid the other sex.
He searched my face eagerly for a moment, as if doubting whether he could trust me with the secret. Somehow, I felt that I was about to learn something disquieting.
Then he spoke, half audibly: "It's Aileen, Uncle Joseph. . . Aileen Mallory!"
I was standing at the time, but I felt a sudden need of sitting down. Dropping into my easy chair, I looked at him, feeling like a father who feared for his son.
"Aileen Mallory!" I repeated, "Aileen Mallory!" Despite my effort to restrain my feelings, a note of dismay had crept into my voice. "Peter, my boy, I am afraid. . . I don't think. . ."
He advanced toward me, fists partly clenched; and there was strong emotion in his face—anger, fierce and blazing.
"To perdition with you and your opinion," he uttered harshly. Then he turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
What was I to do? Could I tell him what I knew of Aileen Mallory? Would he understand the inevitable influence of heredity? Of her mother, the pretty, but hardened little chorus girl who had entrusted the girl to me, eighteen years before, whispered into my ear the name of the father—a man who was not her husband—and then passed away? Could I tell him of how I had threatened and coaxed and shamed handsome, dissipated Harry Mallory into doing his duty toward this bit of humanity?
The marriage and birth certificates Mallory had exhibited at home were forgeries—through my connivance. But would Peter believe this? He would think the whole tale nothing but the figment of a distorted and prejudiced imagination.
The girl was shallow beyond all belief. She was pretty, as the adoration of every bachelor in Fairdale testified; but she was a butterfly, with her mother's tendencies. The law of heredity could not be denied. And she was so totally different from any type of girl I would have expected Peter to marry.
They had nothing in common. She would not have been able to understand the books and essays in which he delighted; she cared nothing for music, beyond the fox-trots and tangoes ground out by the orchestras at the dances she attended. Peter had none of the vices common to men; she smoked cigarettes and drank alarmingly at every opportunity. Beyond a worship of her own beautiful body, she had no religion. Peter, on the other hand, was deeply
