Angus’ face changed. He put the papers into his brief-case, fastened the straps. He thought of his little daughter, Gerda, who was just beginning to walk. His heart did not warm. The child possessed her mother’s rough flaxen hair and big shallow blue eyes. She was her grandparents’ child, not his. He knew that she did not even like him, or tolerate him. As for Gretchen, six months dead, he felt no emotion at all. She had ostensibly died of “lung fever,” when her daughter was three months old, but Angus knew, as did her physician, that she had died of overeating. It had been an odious death.
Joshua watched his young friend’s frozen and immobile face intently. He said, with false sympathy: “How are your headaches, my boy?”
Angus smiled bleakly. “They bother me. I ought to wear my spectacles. But I always forget them. However, I can say that they are somewhat improved. Mother uses herb compresses on my head at night, and they assuage the pain considerably. I have hopes that time will cure them.”
He looked steadily at Joshua. Joshua was an ancient man. But he was potent. And he had been very kind. Moreover, he was a pious and devout “Christian.” Angus felt enormous respect for him. He smiled. “I must thank you again, sir, for everything. Without you, I could not have realized my lifelong hopes and desires.”
Joshua extended his claw of a hand. “My boy, I was never mistaken in a man in all my life. I knew what you were from the very beginning. We’ll go far together, I vow.”
They shook hands with restrained regard. Angus picked up his hat and coat. “You will dine with me as usual, on Friday evening?” asked Joshua. “I look forward to those occasions.”
“Certainly. It will be a great pleasure.” Angus bowed ceremoniously.
He turned to the door. But it burst open suddenly, and revealed the face of a frightened clerk. The clerk was swept away by a vigorous hand, and on the threshold stood Stuart and the Sheriff.
Joshua uttered a faint cry, and grasped the arms of his chair as if to rise. His face became contorted, screwed into a monkey-like expression of ancient hatred and fear. Angus stepped back from the threshold, flushing.
For Stuart’s face, for all its wild smile, was terrible. It was black with hatred, with triumph, with maniacal joy and exultation. He advanced into the room and pointed to Joshua. He cried, loudly, to the Sheriff: “There is your murderer, sir, at last! There is your prisoner! Take him at once!”
Joshua fell back in his chair. He shrank, he withered, to a heap of trembling bones. But his eyes were coals of fire. He looked at Stuart, and not at the Sheriff. The Sheriff’s face was stern. He held a writ in his hand.
The Sheriff said: “Mr. Joshua Allstairs, I have here a warrant for your arrest for complicity in the murder of one Samuel Berkowitz. You will please to come with me at once.”
There was a loud and rasping gasp in the room, but no one heard it. Angus had fallen back against a wall. He stood there, clutching his brief-case to his chest. He looked at Joshua in his chair, saw the horrible evil and terror on the old man’s craven face.
“What are you saying?” whispered Joshua. Then he croaked: “What are you saying, sir? Are you mad?”
But the Sheriff stared at him remorselessly. “I am not mad, Mr. Allstairs. This morning we took a prisoner, one Will Dobson. He was pursued in the railroad yards as he was about to board a freight train in order to leave the city. He fell under a wheel. He is terribly mangled. Fearing he was about to die, and wishing to make his peace, he called for me, and confessed that on the night of September 12, 1863, he was hired, with one Fred Engels, to assault Mr. Berkowitz. He was hired, with Engels, by you, Joshua Allstairs. He told us where Engels could be found, and he, also, is in custody, and will throw himself on the mercy of the State. He has confessed his part in this murder, though he states that murder was not entirely the object. He declared that for this heinous crime he and his companion criminal were paid the sum of five thousand dollars, in cash, by yourself.”
Joshua started in his chair. His face was frightful. He raised his hand and pointed it violently at Stuart, but looked at the Sheriff. He cried: “It is a lie, a most abominable lie, sir! I had nothing whatsoever to do with this! If there is a murderer in this room, there is your man, not I! Have you forgotten that it was he who found the Jew, his friend, and he, alone, and that he owed this fine friend fourteen thousand dollars? Sir, I demand that his fellow conspirators in this appalling plot be forced to confess who is the real murderer!”
“Why—” began Stuart, advancing to his ancient enemy, with clenched fists. But the Sheriff caught his arm, and said, with odd gentleness: “Easy, Stuart. Quiet, there. Patience, Stuart.” He turned to Joshua. “It is no use, sir. The men have confessed. We have their written confessions. They have supplied all details. You will have to come with me at once.”
Joshua’s dry toothless mouth opened on a ghastly screech. He screamed, over and over. He beat the arms of his chair with his knotted hands. He cursed. He frothed. He went into a convulsion of terror and hatred and madness. The Sheriff waited. Stuart waited, looking at his old enemy. But he was horrified, in spite of himself. He closed his eyes, suddenly. He could not look at that face, the face of a demon.
The Sheriff, composed, though pale, waited until Joshua was still, shuddering, whimpering, weeping, in his chair, wringing his hands. The old man was gray; his staring eyes were bloodshot, starting. He was looking about him now, as a hunted rat stares, looking for a corner, a hole for escape.
Then the Sheriff said: “There is a lesser crime attributed to you also, Mr. Allstairs. The burning of the Church of Our Lady of Hope. The men have confessed this, as well as the more terrible crime. I need not have told you this, except to convince you that there is no possibility of your escaping justice this time.”
Joshua was whispering again, and the whisper was like the sliding of a snake through dry grasses: “I demand my lawyer. I must see my lawyer. I will have justice.”
“You shall have justice,” said the Sheriff, grimly. “Before a jury of your peers. And now, sir, you are wasting my time. Call your carriage at once.”
There was a sudden and awful silence in the room, except for Joshua’s incoherent whispering, which had an element of dementia in it. He crouched in his chair, wringing his hands. His fiery eyes blazed about him, unseeingly. His lips moved endlessly, over and over. He whispered of strange things, and all were heavy with hatred and insanity and fury.
Finally, the focus of his eyes fastened on Stuart. He started. The two men regarded each other in the dreadful quiet. Then Stuart said, and his voice trembled: “You have lived a long life of evil and abomination. You have stolen, destroyed, ruined. You have killed. But you are an old man. I am sorry for you. I pity you, from my heart.”
At this, Joshua uttered a monstrous cry, a shrill, howling and inhuman cry. Stuart fell back. He turned away. “Curse you, curse you to hell!” screamed Joshua. “May all the pangs of hell tear you and devour you! May you rot and die in agony! May all the foul fiends rend you forever!”
Stuart said: “God have pity upon you. You are an old man.”
It was then that Joshua uttered appalling oaths and blasphemies. He beat his hands on his knees in a frenzy; he stamped his feet on the floor with a drumming sound. He went out of his mind. He howled, again and again.
“God!” said the Sheriff. “I can’t stand this. I shall have to have help, Stuart. Do you go for the police.”
And then, as suddenly as he had gone road, Joshua was silent. He stared before him, at the floor. He began to smile. He chuckled. Convulsions of mirth rippled over his wizened body. He sank far back into his chair. He was completely still. There was the grimace of a devil on his gray, webbed face. The grimace widened. The silence in the room was complete.
Stuart bent forward to scrutinize him. And then he exclaimed: “My God! I—I think he has died! He has escaped!”
CHAPTER 73
Stuart was admitted to Angus’ bedroom. He entered awkwardly, reluctantly, and with muc
h uneasiness. When Angus had sent for him, he had been incredulous, then apprehensive. Well, well, it did not matter. If the poor petrified fool believed that he had worse calamities to heap upon him, Stuart, then he would be disappointed. There was nothing more anyone could do to him, he believed. He had ceased to fear calamity. He was annoyed that Angus might be plotting fresh assaults upon his kinsman. It was a waste of time, so far as Stuart was concerned. He was immune to further devastations.
Nevertheless, though he smiled drearily to himself on entering Angus’ bedroom, he also braced himself. There was a limit, he thought vaguely, to what a man could endure.
Angus was raised high on his pillows. His nurse hovered over him in the stark dim gloom. He was very quiet, his hands lying on the silk coverlet. So dusky was the room that Stuart could not, at first, see the other man’s face except for the two dark holes which were his eyes.
“Well, well,” said Stuart, with weak bluffness, “we have an invalid here, I see.”
Angus’ head moved slightly on his pillows. He said in a voice strangely strong and composed: “Good afternoon, Stuart. Miss Crump, you may leave the room if you please. I have some private matters to discuss with Mr. Coleman.”
Stuart did not know what to do with his hat and cane, which had not been taken from him downstairs by the sullen maid. He balanced them on his knee. He tried to smile cheerfully at Angus. What the devil! The poor beggar was done in. He felt no animosity towards Angus, only compassion. If the poor fool wished to enjoy his triumphs, to extend them further, and it might give him some satisfaction, let him have them, and be damned to him. It was punishment enough for him to live in this disgusting house with a pair of porkers. If anything could give him joy, he was welcome to it. Old Joshua’s death had apparently been a shock to him. Stuart smiled with sudden darkness.
Angus saw that smile. He said quietly: “You hate me, then, do you not, Stuart?”
“Hate you?” Stuart stared. He shook his head. “No, Angus, I don’t. Why should I? You acted according to your conscience.” He waited. Then he said, with intuitive shrewdness: “You did, didn’t you?”
Angus did not speak. Stuart’s vision was becoming accustomed to the dusk. He saw that a very sick man lay on those pillows, a man utterly undone, broken, exhausted. Yet there was some inhuman and indomitable spirit in him still.
Stuart spoke frankly: “I don’t know why you asked me to come to see you, under all the circumstances. I thought it very peculiar. But I am not one to refuse to visit the sick, and when I heard of your illness, I regretted it. It—it must have been considerable of a shock to have old Allstairs die before you like that.” Again his face changed, became dark and hard. “He had an easy escape, Angus, you know. If he was your friend you ought to be glad of that.”
Angus’ hand lifted, moved, then was motionless again. He said in a low voice: “I understand Marvina has left you. They told me this morning.”
Stuart lifted his cane and intently scrutinized the head. He said musingly: “Yes. It was a condition of her father’s will. She was very pleasant about it, and very reasonable. I saw her point. After all, I could not expect her—under the circumstances—to forego such a fortune for me. We’ve not been man and wife for many years. I’ve gone my way, completely. She has told me she prefers to return to her mother’s old home, in Philadelphia, where she has relatives.”
He frowned. “But, of course, this is none of your affair, Angus. Unless you have more bad news for me?”
Angus said: “You are not sorry, then? What about Mary Rose?”
Stuart looked at him, steadily. “I have consented not to fight any divorce action Marvina brings against me. In return, Mary Rose is to live with me, when her health permits, for as many months in the year as she desires. It is all very amicable.” He paused, then smiled ironically. “If you are distressing yourself over my private affairs, Angus, I am grateful to you. But if you wish to discuss them with me I must decline to do so. I cannot consider them any concern of yours.”
Angus moved his hand again. “Will you marry Laurie, Stuart?”
Stuart stood up. He stood beside the bed for a long time, in silence. Angus felt his hardening, his stiffening. But Stuart’s voice was gentle and firm: “I am sorry you are ill, Angus. But I will not tire you further. I have only this to say: Whatever Laurie, and I, decide, and that must be some time in the future, it is our concern.”
Angus gazed up at him immovably. Was it his illness which gave Angus such a distraught and sunken appearance? Stuart reflected. The planes and angles of his white face seemed less hard and sharp.
“Please sit down, Stuart,” said Angus, in a faintly hoarse voice. “I beg of you.”
Stuart sat down, frowning, perplexed. What did the miserable wretch desire of him? All at once, Stuart’s intuition came vividly alive. There was something else! There was something this frozen stick wished to say, and he had no words with which to say it! Stuart leaned towards him, and said, impulsively: “Why skitter about, Angus? What do you want to say? Can I help you?”
Then Angus said, dimly: “Talk to me. Just talk to me. Tell me anything you wish. Tell me what you think—”
“About what?” said Stuart. And then was silent. His intuition was speaking loudly to him now, but so loudly indeed that he could only hear its loud shouting and not its imperative directions.
Angus closed his eyes. He whispered: “You were very good to me. I remember how miserable and lonely I was, when I was a child. You took me and Laurie in from the garden. Laurie sat on your knee, and you told her a tale. Then, we dined with you. It was a lovely April night. We were all alone.”
“Yes,” said Stuart, gently. “I remember. I—I was very fond of you, Angus. You were such a wretched little feller. I wish I had had more sensibility, then.”
But Angus was still whispering, and his eyes were closed: “You were very kind. I see now how kind you were. You are always kind. It is very hard to speak. I have no words, Stuart.”
There was a weak shaking in Stuart’s knees. He said: “Tell me, Angus. Tell me anything you wish. I am listening.”
But he could see, as if it were clearly and vividly in the room, the huge heavy stone that lay on the flesh of Angus, crushing down his soul, stifling his words. He saw, as if it were actually before him, the struggle Angus was having with that stone, to shift it from him, to free himself of it—a stone that had grown with all his lifetime—and how it was killing him. He saw so many things, vast, tremendous, heartbreaking, and he was stricken dumb, and was awed, by what he saw.
“Talk, Stuart,” said Angus. “Only talk. About anything. Your friends. Your life.”
“But there is nothing in my life that isn’t sordid or useless or futile,” said Stuart, devoured by pity. “I am not even successful. I can point to nothing but my poor house, as an accomplishment.”
Angus’ weary eyelids opened, and his gray eyes, suffused, stared strangely at Stuart. He said: “I never knew how many friends you had. I never knew how much I am now hated, because of you.”
Stuart was amazed. He said quickly: “Nonsense. Everyone speaks of how clever you are, how competent, how admirable. If I was in your way, then it was my fault. I deserved it. You saved the shops. I am really grateful. Yes, indeed. I wasn’t at first,” he added, ruefully. “There was an hour or two I wished to murder you, and could have done it with pleasure. But not now.” He thought: Oh, the poor bastard!
But Angus said: “Tell me what you think about, Stuart Anything.”
What the devil! thought Stuart. He began to speak, gently, slowly: “I think about many things, Angus, or, at least, I think I think. But they are feeble things. I think how happy it was to have had Sam Berkowitz for a friend, and your brother, Robbie, who is more human than I thought, and old Grundy. I think how proud I am of Laurie, and how I love my child. I think of the years in the shops, and how I built them up. I think of the soft beds I have slept in, and the—the handsome ladies I have known, the music I have heard,
the wines I have drunk, the cards I have played. I think, too, of how much laughter I have had, more than most other men. Damn it,” he added, with sudden embarrassment, “my thoughts, I presume, are the same as any other man’s. Not pertinent or earth-shaking, or of any significance.”
Angus’ head moved on his pillows. He sighed. He murmured: “I think, too, of the walks you took with me, when I was a child. I think of the things you said. I remember them all. Do you remember the first night you took me to Father Houlihan’s?”
Stuart scowled, trying to remember. He said: “Yes, I think so. You had your Testament with you, and you were very shocked at the card-playing.”
He was surprised at the very ghost of a sound from Angus. Surely he had not heard aright! That had not been a laugh! But Angus was smiling, the very ghost of a smile. Stuart could not believe it. He said: “How is your head, Angus?”
But Angus was speaking, and his voice came in weak and hurried gasps: “All my life, my mother impressed upon me that money was everything. That there was nothing but money. It was the power that subdued the world, brought friends and admirers, commanded respect even from kings, surrounded a man with an invulnerable wall, made him honored even before God. If a man was poor, then he was accursed of heaven, and deservedly so.”
Stuart thought the words childish, and he was embarrassed again. He said: “Well, well, there is much to be said about money, of course—”
Angus moved restlessly on his pillows. “There are things I cannot say. I cannot even think them, coherently. They are too enormous for me. There is always such a pain in my head. I do not know what is wrong with me. I never know. There is no one to tell me, no one at all. You cannot, Stuart. You have never had my thoughts.”
Stuart did not speak. But he leaned forward to look at the other man’s deathful face. It was his intuition which made him say: “Angus, I shall send old Grundy to you. Tomorrow. Wait for him, Angus.”
The Wide House Page 68