XIV
It was just that time in an autumn day when the light is fading out ofthe sky. The thick, heavy mists that the cold air encourages were rollingin chill and heavy from the river and leveling the hollow places in theland. The clouds were still a claret colored purple in the west, but inanother few minutes that color would be gone. The shapes around us werefast losing their distinctiveness, and their outlines were becoming moreand more a matter for the memory, and not the eye. And it seems to methat I never knew the air to seem more fresh and sweet.
We had broken into a sharp gallop down the rutted lane. The house, gauntand spectral, and bleaker and more forbidding than the darkening sky,was behind us, and ahead were the broad level meadows, checkered withlittle clumps of willow and cedars, as meadows are that lie near thesalt marshes. I had feared we might be intercepted at our gate, but Iwas mistaken. We had swerved to the left and were thudding down thelevel road, when an exclamation from Mademoiselle made me turn in mysaddle. My look must have been a somewhat blank interrogation, forMademoiselle was laughing.
"To think," she cried, "I should have said you resembled your mother!Where are we going, Monsieur?"
But I think she knew without my answering, for she laughed again, and Idid not entirely blame her. It was pleasant enough to leave our housebehind. It was pleasant to feel the bite of the salt wind, and to see thetrees and the rocks by the roadside slip past us, gaunt and spectral inthe evening. I knew the road well enough, which was fortunate, even whenwe turned off the beaten track over a trail which was hardly as good as afoot path. I was forced to reduce our pace to a walk, but I was confidentthat it did not make much difference. Once on the path, the farm was nothalf a mile distant, just behind a ridge of rocks that was studded by astunted undergrowth of wind beaten oak. I knew the place. I could alreadypicture the gaping black windows, the broken, sagging ridge pole, and thecrumbling chimney. For years the wind had blown sighing through itsdeserted rooms, while the rain rotted the planking. It was not strangethat its owners had left it, for I can imagine no more mournful ordesolate spot. Our own house, three miles away, was its nearest neighbor,and scarcely a congenial one. Around it was nothing but rain soggedmeadows that scarcely rose above the salt marshes that ran to the duneswhere the Atlantic was beating.
As I stared grimly ahead, I could picture her there behind me, the windwhipping the color to her cheeks and playing with her hair, her eyesbright and gay in the half-light. Save for the steady plodding of thehorse, it was very still. I fancied that she had leaned nearer, that hershoulder was touching mine, that I could feel her breath on my cheek.Then she spoke, and her voice was almost a whisper.
"It was good of you to take me with you," she said.
"Surely, Mademoiselle," I replied, "You did not think that I wouldleave you?"
"I should, if I had been you," she answered, "I was rude to you,Monsieur, and unjust to you this morning. You see I did not know."
"You did not know?"
"That the son would be as brave and as resourceful as the father. Youare, Monsieur, and yet you are different."
"Yes," I said.
"And I am glad, glad," said Mademoiselle.
"And I am sorry you are glad," I said.
"You are sorry?"
"Perhaps, Mademoiselle," I replied with a tinge of bitterness I could notsuppress, "if I had seen more of the world, if my clothes were in bettertaste, and my manners less abrupt--you would feel differently. I wonder.But let us be silent, for we are almost there."
As we drew near, making our way through damp thickets, a sense ofuneasiness came over me. Somehow I feared we might be too late, though Iknew that this was hardly possible. I feared, and yet I knew well enoughit was written somewhere that we should meet once more. With six menafter him he would not have ridden straight to the place. We should meet,and it would be different from our other meetings. I wished that it waslight enough to see his face.
At a turn of the path I reined up and listened. It was very still.Already the light had gone out of the sky, and little was left of theland about us, save varying tones of black. Had he gone?
I cautiously dismounted. In a minute we should see. In a minute--ThenMademoiselle interrupted me, and I was both astonished and irritated, formy nerves were more on edge than I cared to have them. She was right. Shewas never overwrought.
"We are there?" she inquired.
"Softly, Mademoiselle," I cautioned her. "If you will dismount, you cansee the place. It is not three hundred feet beyond the thicket. So! Youwill admit it is not much to look at. If you will hold the horse's head,I will go forward."
I did not listen to an objection that she was framing, but slippedhastily through the trees. As the ugly mass of the house took a morecertain shape before me, I felt my pulse beat more rapidly, and notentirely through elation. Even today when I look at a place that men havebuilt and then abandoned, something of the same feeling comes over me,but not as strongly as it did that evening. It was another matter thatmade me hesitate. From the shadow of the doorway I heard a sound whichwas too much like the raising of a pistol hammer not to make me rememberthat a sword was all I carried.
"There is no need to cock that pistol," I said, in a tone which I hopedsounded more confident than my state of mind. I halted, but there was noanswer and no further sound.
"I said," I repeated, raising my voice, "there is no need to cock thatpistol. It is a friend of Captain Shelton who is speaking."
"So," said a voice in careful, precise English. "Walk three pacesforward, if you please, and slowly, v-e-r-y slowly. Now. You are a friendof the captain?"
"In a sense," I replied. "I am his son. I have come to you with amessage."
"So," said the voice again, and I saw that a man was seated before me onthe stone that had served as a doorstep, a man who was balancing a pistolin the palm of his hand.
"I fear I have been rude," he said, "but I find this place--what shall Isay?--annoying. Your voices are alike, and I know he has a son. You sayyou bring a message?"
I had thought what to say.
"It is about the paper," I began. "The captain was to bring it to youhere, and now he finds he cannot."
"Cannot?" he said, with the rising inflection of another language thanours. "Cannot?"
"Rather," I corrected myself hastily, "he finds it more expedient to meetyou elsewhere."
"Ah," he said, "that is better. For a moment I feared the captain wasdead. So the paper--he still has it?"
"He not only has it," I said, "but he is ready to give it to you--atanother place he has named. You are a stranger to the country here?"
My question was not a welcome one.
"Absolute!" he replied with conviction. "Do you take me for a native ofthese sink holes? Mon Dieu! Does your mud so completely cover me? Butsurely it must be this cursed darkness, or you would have saiddifferently. Where is this other place?"
I was glad it was too dark for him to see my smile.
"Unfortunately I cannot guide you there," I said, "for I am to stop herein case I am followed. We have had to be careful, very carefulindeed--you understand?"
Impatiently he shifted his position.
"For six months," he replied irritably, "I have been doing nothingelse--careful--always careful. It becomes unbearable, but where is thisplace you speak of--in some other bog?"
I pointed to the left of the trees where Mademoiselle was standing.
"I quite understand," I said politely, "even a day with this paper isquite enough, but it is not a bog and you can reach it quite easily. Yousee where I point? Simply follow that field in that direction for half amile, perhaps, and you will come to a road. Turn to your right, and afterthree miles you will see a house, the first house you will meet, in fact.It has a gambrel roof and overlooks the river. Simply knock on the doorso--one knock, a pause, and three in succession. It will be understood.You have a horse?"
"What is left of him," he replied, "though the good God knows how he hascarried me along this far. Y
es, he is attached to a post. Well, we areoff, and may the paper stay still till we get it. You wait here?"
"In case we are followed," I said.
He pointed straight before him.
"I have been hearing noises over there, breaking of branches and shouts."
"Then in the name of heaven ride on," I said, and added as anafterthought, "and turn out to the side if you see anyone coming."
The pleasure I took in seeing him leave was not entirely unalloyed. As Iwalked to the oak thicket where Mademoiselle was waiting, I even had somevague idea of calling him back, for I do not believe in doing anyone aturn that is worse than necessary. Yet there was only one other way Icould think of to keep him silent, besides sending him where he wasgoing. She was feeding the horse handfuls of grass.
"It is quite all right, Mademoiselle," I said. "Let us move to the house.It may be more comfortable in the doorway."
We stood silently for a while, listening to the wind and the dullmonotonous roar of the surf, while the night grew blacker. I listenedattentively, but there was no sound. Surely he was coming.
"Tell me, Monsieur," said Mademoiselle, "what sort of woman wasyour mother?"
Unbidden, a picture of her came before me, that seemed strangelyout of place.
"She was very beautiful," I said.
She sighed.
"And very proud," said Mademoiselle.
"Yes, very proud. Why did she call him a thief, Monsieur?"
But I did not answer.
"You are certain your father is coming?" she asked finally.
"I think there is no doubt," I told her. "I have seen him ride,Mademoiselle. It would take more than a dozen men to lay hands on him.They should have known better than let him leave the house. Listen,Mademoiselle! I believe you can hear him now."
My ears were quicker in those days. For a minute we listened in silence,and then on the wind I heard more distinctly still the regular thud of agalloping horse. So he was coming, as I knew he would. I knew he would bemethodical and accurate.
"Yes, Mademoiselle," I continued, "my father has many accomplishments,but this time even he may be surprised. Who knows, Mademoiselle? Praystep back inside the doorway until I call you."
But she did not move.
"No," said Mademoiselle, "I prefer to stay where I am. I have seen toomuch of you and your father to leave you alone together."
"But surely, Mademoiselle," I protested, "you forget why we have come."
"Yes," she answered quickly, "yes, you are right. I do forget. I haveseen too much of this, too much of utter useless folly--too many mendying, too many suffering for a hopeless cause. I have seen three menlying dead in our hall, and as many more wounded. I have seen a strongman turned into a blackguard. I have seen a son turned against hisfather, and all for a bit of paper which should never have been written.I hate it--do you hear me?--and if I forget it, it is because I choose. Iforget it because--" She seemed about to tell me more, and then to thinkbetter of it. "Surely you see, surely you see you cannot. He is yourfather, Monsieur, the man who is coming here."
"Mademoiselle," I replied, "you are far too kind. I hardly think he or Ihave much reason to hold our lives of any particular value, but as youhave said, my father was a gentleman once, and gentlemen very seldom killtheir sons, nor gentlemen's sons their fathers. Pray rest assured,Mademoiselle, it will be a quiet interview. I beg you, be silent, for heis almost here."
I was not mistaken. A horse was on the path we followed, running hard,and crashing recklessly through the bushes. Before I had sight of him Iheard my father's voice.
"Ives!" he called sharply. "Where the devil are you?"
And in an instant he was at the door, his horse breathing in hard,sobbing breaths, and he had swung from the saddle as I went forwardto meet him.
"Here," he said, "take it, and be off. Those fools have run me over halfthe state. In fact," he continued in the calm tones I remember best, "infact, I have seldom had a more interesting evening. I was fired on beforeI had passed the gate, and chased as though I carried the treasures ofthe Raj. I have your word never to tell where you got it. Never mind myreasons, or the thanks either. Take it Ives. It has saved me so many adull day that it has quite repaid my trouble."
There he was, half a pace away, and yet he did not know me. I think itwas that, more than anything else, which robbed me of my elation. To himthe whole thing seemed an ordinary piece of business. I saw him test hisgirth, preparatory to mounting again, saw him slowly readjust his cloak,and then I took the paper he handed me and buttoned it carefully in myinside pocket. He turned to his horse again and laid a hand on hiswithers, but still he did not mount. I think he was staring into thenight before him and listening, as I had been. Then he turned againslowly, and half faced me. On the wind, far off still, but neverthelessdistinct, was the sound of voices.
"It is time we were going," said my father. "I only gave them the slipfive minutes back. It was closer work than I had expected."
And then he started, and looked at me more intently through the darkness.
"Name of the devil!" said my father. "How did you get here?"
But that was all. He never even started. His hand still rested tranquillyon the reins and he still half faced me. Had it been so on that othernight long ago, when his world crumbled to ruins about him? Did he alwayswin and lose with the same passive acquiescence? Did nothing everastonish him? There was a moment's silence, and I felt his eyes on me,and suddenly became very cautious. I knew well enough he would not let itfinish in such a manner, but what could he do? The game was in my hands.
"Quite simply," I told him. "My horse was in the stable."
When he spoke again his voice was still pleasantly conversational.
"And Brutus?" he asked. "Where the devil was Brutus? Surely the age ofmiracles is past. Or do I see before me--" he bowed with all his oldcourtesy--"another David?"
"Brutus," I replied, "jumped through a second story window."
"Indeed?" he said. "He always was most agile."
"He was," I replied. "Not five minutes after you left, Uncle Jasonarrived."
My father removed his hand from the reins and looped them through hisarm.
"Indeed?" he said. "He came in heels first, I trust?"
"No," I said, "he is alive and well."
"The devil!" said my father, and sighed. "I am growing old, my son. Iknow my horse spoiled my aim, and yet he fell, and I rode over him. Ihad hoped to be finished with your Uncle Jason. You say he enteredthe house?"
"And told me to stop," I said.
"And you did not?"
"No," I replied. "I succeeded in getting out of a window also."
And then, although I could not see him, I knew he had undergone achange, and I knew that I was facing a different man.
His hand fell on my shoulder, and to my surprise, it was trembling.
"God!" he cried, in a voice that was suddenly harsh and forbidding. "Doyou mean to tell me you left Mademoiselle, and never struck a blow? Youleft her there?"
"Not entirely," I replied.
My father became very gentle.
"Will you be done with this?" he said, "The lady, where is she now?"
And then, half to himself he added.
"How was I to know they would break in the house after I had gone?"
"Mademoiselle," I replied, "is not fifteen feet away."
His hand went up to the clasp of his cloak, and again his voice becamepleasantly conversational.
"Ah, that is better," said my father. "And so you got the paper afterall. Yes, I am growing old, my son. I appear to have bungled badly. Doyou hope to keep the paper?"
In the distance I heard a voice again, raised in a shout. Surely heunderstood.
"They are coming," I said. "Yes, I intend to keep the paper."
"Indeed?" said my father. "Perhaps you will explain how, my son. I havehad an active evening, but you--I confess you go quite ahead of me."
"Because," I said, "you are not anxio
us to go back to France, father, andyou are almost on your way there."
"No, not to France," he answered, and I knew he saw my meaning.
"And yet they are coming to take you. If you so much as offer to touch meagain, I shall call them, father, and we shall go back together. Yourhorse is tired. He cannot go much further."
He was silent for a moment, and I prudently stepped back.
"You might shoot me, of course," I added, "but a pistol shot would beequally good. Listen! I can hear them on the road."
But oddly enough, he was not disturbed.
"On the road, to be sure," said my father. "You are right, Henry, you maykeep the paper. But tell me one thing more. Was there no one here whenyou arrived?"
"There was," I said, "but I sent him away--to our house, father."
He sighed and smoothed his cloak thoughtfully.
"I fear that I have become quite hopeless. As you say, if I fire apistol, they will come, and now I can hardly see any reason to keep themaway. So you sent him to the house, my son? And Jason is still alive? Andyou have got the paper? Can it be that I have failed in everything?Strange how the cards fall even if we stack the deck. Ah, well, then itis the pistols after all."
There was a blinding flash and the roar of a weapon close beside me, andI heard Mademoiselle scream. My father turned to quiet his horse.
"Do not be alarmed, Mademoiselle," he said gently, "we are not killingeach other. I am merely using a somewhat rigorous method of bringing myson to his senses."
He paused, reached under his cloak, drew a second pistol and fired again.From the road there came a sound that seemed to ring pleasantly to myfather's ears.
"Nearer than I thought," he said brightly. "They should be here in threeminutes at the outside. Shall we sit a while and talk, my son? It isgloomy here, I admit, but still, it has its advantages. They thought myrendezvous was ten miles to the north. Lord, what fools they were!Lawton bit at the letter I let him seize as though it were pork. Ah, ifit had not been for Jason! Well, everything must have an ending."
He threw his bridle over his arm, and was walking toward the doorstep,lightly buoyant, as though some weight were lifted from his mind. HastilyI seized his arm.
"Stop!" I cried. "What is to become of Mademoiselle? We cannot leave herhere like this. Have you forgotten she is with us?"
Seemingly still unhurried, he paused, and glanced toward the road, andthen back at me, and then for the first time he laughed, and hislaughter, genuine and care-free, gave me a start which the sound of hispistol had not. The incongruity of it set my nerves on edge. Was therenothing that would give him genuine concern?
"Good God, sir!" I shouted furiously. "There's nothing to laugh about!Don't you hear them coming?"
"Ah," said my father, "I thought that would fetch you. So you have cometo your senses then, and we can go on together? Untie your horse, Henry,while I charge the pistols."
My hand was on the bridle rein, when a shout close by us made me loosenthe knot more quickly than I intended. I could make out the black form ofa horseman moving towards us at full gallop.
"It must be Lawton," observed my father evenly. "He is well mounted, andquite reckless. I suppose we had better be going. I shall helpMademoiselle, if she will permit. No, it is not Lawton. I am sorry."
He raised his arm and fired. My horse started at the sound of hisshot, and as I tried to quiet him, I saw my father lift Mademoiselleto the saddle.
"Yes," he said again, "I think it is time to be going. These men seem tohave a most commendable determination. Ha! There are two more of them.Put your horse to the gallop, my son. The tide is out, and we can managethe marsh."
"The marsh!" I exclaimed.
"Quite," he replied tranquilly. "If Brutus is alive, he will have a boatnear the dunes opposite. It seems as though we might be obliged to takean ocean voyage."
It seemed to me he had gone quite mad. The marsh, he knew as well as I,was as full of holes as a piece of cheese. Even in the daytime one couldhardly ride across it. And then I knew that what he said was true, thathe would stop at nothing; and suddenly a fear came over me. For the firsttime I feared the quiet, pleasant man who rode beside my bridle rein, asthough we were traversing the main street of our town.
"Ah," said my father, "it is pleasant to have a little exercise. Give himthe spurs Henry. We shall either get across or we shall not. There is nouse being cautious."
I put my horse over a ditch, and straight ahead, I may have ridden fourhundred yards with the even beating of his horse behind me, before what Ifeared happened. My horse stumbled, and the pull of my bridle barely gothim up again. I gave him the spur, but he was failing. In a quarter of aminute he had fallen again, and this time the bridle did not raise him. Isprang free of him before he had entirely slipped down in the soft seamud. He was lashing about desperately, nor could I get him to answer whenI pulled at the bridle. My father reined up beside me and dismounted.
"His leg is broken," he said. "It is inopportune. Ah, they are stillafter us." And he turned to look behind him.
"Why are you waiting?" I cried. "Ride on, sir!"
"And leave you here with the paper in your pocket?" said my father. "Thefall has quite got the better of you. The other pistol, Mademoiselle, ifyou have finished loading it. Here they come, to be sure. Would you notthink the fools would realize I can hit them?"
He fired into the darkness and a riderless horse ran almost on top of us.With a snort of fright, he reared and wheeled, and a second shot answeredmy father's.
"Ah," said my father, "they always will shoot before they can see. Thepistol from the holster, if you please, Mademoiselle."
They had not realized we had halted, for the last rider charged past usbefore he could check himself. I had a glimpse of his face, white againstthe night, and I saw him tug furiously at his bit--an unfortunate matter,so it happened, for the footing beneath the marsh grass was bad, and hishorse slewed and fell on top of him.
"Pah!" exclaimed my father. "It is almost sad to watch them. Let us go,Henry. He is knocked even more senseless than he was before. Keep thesaddle, Mademoiselle, and we will lead you across. I fancy that is thelast of them for a moment."
So we tumbled through the mud at a walk, slipping noisily at every step,but my father was correct in his prophecy. Only the noise of ourprogress interrupted us. The sand dunes were becoming something more thana shadow. My father walked in tranquil silence at the bridle, while Itrudged beside him.
"Are you hurt, Captain?" Mademoiselle demanded.
"Indeed not," he replied. "What was there to hurt me? I was thinking.That is all; but why do you ask, my lady?"
"Only," said Mademoiselle, "because you have been silent for the pastfive minutes, and you never are more gay than when you embark on anadventure. I never heard you say two words, Captain, until that night onthe Loire."
"Let us forget the Loire," replied my father. "Shall I be quite frankwith you, Mademoiselle?"
"It would be amusing," she admitted, leaning from the saddle towards him,"if it were only possible," she added.
"Then listen, Mademoiselle," he continued, "and I shall be very frankindeed. It must be the sea air which makes me so. I seldom talk unless Ifeel that my days for talking are nearly over, and at present they seemto stretch before me most interminably. In a moment we shall see theboat, and in a moment the _Sea Tern_. I fear I have been very foolish."
"Father," I inquired, "will you answer me a question?"
"Perhaps," said my father.
"What has my uncle to do with the paper?"
"My son," said my father, "may I ask you a question?"
"Perhaps," I replied.
"How much money did your mother leave you at her death?"
"She had none to leave," I replied quickly.
"Ah," said my father, "have you ever wondered why?"
"You should be able to tell me," I answered coldly.
"Indeed," said my father. "But here we are at the dunes. The boat, myson, do you
see it?"
I scrambled up ahead through the sand and beach grass, and the white lineof the beach, which even the darkest night can never hide, lay clearbefore me. A high surf was running, and beyond it I could see threelights, blinking fitfully in the black and nearer on the white sand wasthe shadow of a fishing boat, pulled just above the tide mark. A minutelater Brutus came running toward us.
My father was evidently used to such small matters. Indeed, the wholeaffair seemed such a part of his daily life as to demand nothing unusual.He glanced casually at the waves and the boat, tossed off his cloak onthe sand, carefully wrapped his pistols inside it, and placed the bundlecarefully beneath a thwart.
"The rocket, Brutus," said my father. "If you will get in, Mademoiselle,we will contrive to push you through the breakers. Best take your coatoff, my son, and place it over the pistols."
The Unspeakable Gentleman Page 14