by A. A. Milne
The idea that McVay was going to give him a present had never crossed Geoffrey's mind, and now it struck him as so characteristic, so perfectly in keeping with McVay's consuming desire to triumph in minor matters, that he was able to smile pleasantly and receive it appropriately. He exchanged a glance of real appreciation with the donor, and received a grave bow in return.
Cecilia smiled, too, "I don't know exactly why you should think Mr. Holland wants your picture, Billy," she said.
"It may be of the greatest service to him," said McVay.
The girl turned to Geoffrey. "I can't make a speech like Billy's," she said, "but I have a small present for you which I hope you won't despise because it is not new. I mean I have worn it myself for some time, and I hope you will now, in remembrance of the time when you sheltered the houseless." She held out on her pink palm a flat gold pencil with a single topaz set in the top.
The thing was of some value and Geoffrey, looking up, caught McVay's eye in which danced such a delicious merriment that Geoffrey's half-formed question was answered. McVay was undergoing such paroxysms of delight at the idea that Geoffrey was about to become a receiver of stolen goods that he could not well conceal it. And instinctively Geoffrey drew back his hand. The next moment he realised that he must at once accept the gift with decent gratitude, whatever he might choose to do with it afterward, but unfortunately the girl had noticed his hesitation.
She said nothing whatsoever, but she closed her hand on the pencil, rose from the table, and left them to dispose of the remains of the feast as best they could.
McVay, as if he had observed nothing, threw himself at once into the part of a waiter, tucked a napkin round his waist, flung another over his arm and began to clear the table.
"Wait a moment," said Geoffrey, who had not followed his example; "I have something to say to you. I see you are in possession of my sentiments in regard to your sister… . I think her a wonder,—that's all it is necessary for you to know."
"Quite naturally, Holland. She is, she is."
"I won't discuss that with you. The point is that you seem to be under the impression that this will do you some good. Well, it won't. You stand just where you did before. You go to jail when the snow melts. Then I settle my affairs."
McVay's face fell. "Really, Holland," he said, "I don't see how, if you are fond of a woman you can want … "
"… to spare her such a brother as you. Think it over."
"There are worse brothers than I," replied McVay, "how many men would have sacrificed what I have sacrificed in order to keep her comfortably."
"Not many, I hope."
"She is extraordinarily fond of me."
"Perhaps. You see she has not any one else to be fond of."
"We can scarcely say that now," returned McVay encouragingly.
"I won't discuss it with you."
"You can't mean to tell me that you are in love with my sister and mean to send me to state's prison?"
"I mean exactly that."
"Why, she'd never forgive you."
Geoffrey thought this so probable that he had no answer to give and presently McVay, who had been grumbling over the matter to himself, asked: "Are you serious, Holland?"
"What do you suppose I am?" Geoffrey roared, and McVay, shaking his head went on with the work of clearing the table. He was very silent and abstracted and for the first time seemed to realise his position. When they had put away the last plate, Geoffrey said:
"Now come to the library. I am going to give you a pipe, confound you."
"A pipe! Why?"
"Because I want to give your sister something, and I think she would be more apt to take it."
"I'm afraid she is rather offended by the way you treated her little gift. As a matter of fact I was the person to be offended, for I had given her the pencil. A pretty little thing, singularly like one which you may have seen Mrs.—"
"Don't tell me where you took it from. I don't want to know. Come and get your pipe and mind you are grateful."
"A pipe," observed McVay thoughtfully. "I think I'll take that large meerschaum on the mantelpiece."
Geoffrey laughed. "I think you won't," he answered. "The best pipe I own! No, indeed, you'll take a horrid little one that won't draw. It will be just the thing for you."
"No," said McVay, "no. You must give me the big one. Otherwise I shall make it appear that you promised the other to me, and turned mean at the last moment. And I can do it, Holland." His little eyes gleamed at the thought. "I shall say, 'My dear fellow, I'm glad you changed your mind about the meerschaum; it was as you say, too handsome for a man in my position.' That will make her mad if anything will. You know she is not quite satisfied with the way you treat me, as it is."
This was quite true, and Geoffrey, remembering that the object of the gift was to please the girl, reluctantly agreed to part with his favourite pipe. The affair went off well. McVay affected to hesitate over accepting so handsome an offering, and Geoffrey pressed it upon him with a good grace.
As far as his present to the girl was concerned, he found himself less and less willing to make it in McVay's presence, and more and more unable to think of any way of getting rid of him except murder or the cedar-closet. His anxiety was rendered more acute by the fact that once or twice he could not help suspecting that Cecilia, in spite of her anger, would have been glad of a few words alone with him, also.
Before very long she suggested that McVay should take her hat and coat upstairs for her.
"Certainly I will," cried Billy, springing up with alacrity, and was at the door before Holland's warning shout "McVay" stopped him.
"Let me take it up for your sister," he said warningly.
"Oh, not at all. Let me," replied McVay courteously.
"Couldn't hear of it," returned Geoffrey.
By this time they were both outside of the door, and Geoffrey closed it with a snap.
"You would, would you?" he said angrily.
"Now, Holland," said McVay as one who intends to introduce reason into an irrational confusion, "this is exactly a case in point. I am by nature a gallant man. I forgot all about your instructions."
"I wonder?" said Geoffrey.
"It was instinctive to do my sister the little favour she asked. Yes, and I doubt if I should have acted differently if your pistol had been at my head. She asked me. That was enough."
"I've warned you once."
"Holland, I think,—you'll excuse my telling you,—that you have a very unfortunate manner at times."
They went upstairs together and were descending when Geoffrey stopped, with his eyes on the grand piano which stood in the hall below them.
"Can you play?" he said.
McVay brightened at once. He had been looking a little glum since his last speech. "Yes," he answered, "I can. Well, I'm not a professional, you understand, but for an amateur I am supposed to have as much technique and a good deal more sentiment than most."
"I don't care how you play," said Holland. "There is a piano. Sit down and play, and don't stop."
"No, Holland, no," said the other with unusual firmness; "that I will not do. No artist would. Ask any one. It is impossible to play in public without practice. I have not touched the instrument for over a year."
"You can do all the practising you like here and now. You can play finger exercises for all I care. All I insist is that you should make a noise so that I'll know you are there."
"Well," said McVay yielding, "you must remember to make allowances. Not the best musician could sit down after a year … however, I dare say it will come back to me quicker than to most people. You must make allowances for my lack of practice."
"There is only one thing I won't make allowances for, and that is your moving from that music stool."
He opened the piano, and McVay sat down waving his fingers to loosen the joints. He sat with his head on one side, as if waiting to discover which of the great composers was about to inspire him. Then he dropped lightl
y upon the notes, lifting his chin, as if surprised to find that an air of Schubert's was growing under his fingers. Geoffrey was astonished to find that he really was, as he said, something of an artist. He waited until he was fairly started and then returned to the library.
"Is that Billy?" said the girl. "It must be a great pleasure to him to have a piano again. He is so fond of music."
"He was not as eager to play as I to have him," said Geoffrey.
He came back quietly, and stood looking down at her for a moment. Then he said, stretching out his hand:
"I want my Christmas present."
"I have none to give you."
"You had."
"I've changed my mind."
"Why?"
For the first time she looked at him. "Mr. Holland," she said, "you must think me singularly unobservant. Do you suppose I don't see that you dislike my brother. You refused the pencil—you did refuse it plainly enough—because Billy had given it to me. I will not offer it to you again. I know that Billy sometimes does rub people up the wrong way, but I should think any one of any discernment could see that his faults are only faults of manner."
She said this almost appealingly, and Geoffrey unable to agree, turned with something like a groan, and resting his elbows on the mantelpiece, covered his face with his hands.
"Do you suppose that he does not see how you feel toward him? Are you by any chance assuming that he bears with your manner on account of his own comfort? You might at least be generous or acute enough to see that it is only for my sake that he exercises so much self-control. He does not want to make my position here more unendurable by quarrelling with you. It makes me furious to see what you force him to put up with, the way you speak to him, and look at him, as if he were your slave, or a disobedient dog. His self-control is wonderful. I admire him more than I can say."
"And is my self-control nothing?" he asked, without moving his hands from his face.
"Yours? I don't see any exercise of yours. Circumstances have put us at your mercy, you are rich and fortunate, and as insolent as you choose to be. Self-control? I don't see any evidence of it."
"No?" he said, and turning, looked at her with a violence that might have set her on the right track. Under his eyes she looked down and probably in the instant forgot all that she had been saying and feeling, for when he added: "I love you," her hands moved toward his, and she made no resistance when he took her in his arms.
Chapter 7
McVay was left so long at the piano that he finally resorted to a series of discords in order to recall himself to Holland's mind. His existence, if he had only realised the fact, was so completely forgotten that he might have made his escape with a good half hour to spare before either of the others appreciated that the music had ceased. Not knowing this, however, he did not dare stop his playing for an instant, until sheer physical fatigue interfered. It was at this point that the discords began, and brought Geoffrey into the hall.
The disposal of McVay for the night was a question to which Geoffrey had given a great deal of thought. The cedar closet presented itself as a safe prison, but in the face of McVay's repeated assertions that the air had barely sufficed to support him during his former occupancy, it looked like murder to insist. Geoffrey finally, when bed-time came, locked him in a dressing-room off his own room. The window—the room was on the third floor—gave on empty space, and against the only door he placed his own bed, so that escape seemed tolerably difficult.
And to all other precautions, Geoffrey added his own wakefulness, although toward morning weariness triumphed over excitement and he fell asleep.
He was waked by an insistent knocking at his door, and he heard his name called by Cecilia. He sprang up and found her standing in the hall. She was wrapped in her sable coat, but shivering from cold or fear.
"There is some one getting into the house. I heard a window open and steps on the piazza, below my room. What can it be?"
Geoffrey flung himself past her. The instinct of the hunter joined to the obstinacy of his nature maddened him at the notion of McVay's escape. On the opposite side of the house there was a piazza and on the roof of this a neighbouring window opened. He threw it back and climbed out.
The snow had stopped, and the moon was shining, paling a little before the approaching dawn. Geoffrey could see a figure stealing quickly across the snow. There was no question of its identity. His revolver, which he had snatched from under his pillow and brought with him, he at once levelled on the vanishing form; his finger was on the trigger, when he felt a hand on his arm.
Leaning out of the window behind him the girl caught his arm. "Don't fire," she said. "Don't you see it is Billy?"
There was a pause—the fraction of a second, but momentous, for Geoffrey realised that all his threats to McVay had been idle, that with that touch on his arm he could not shoot.
Nevertheless he raised his voice and shouted thunderously: "McVay!"
The figure turned, hesitated, saw, perhaps, the gleam of the moon on steel and began to retrace his steps.
Steadily with the revolver still upon him he moved back to the house. Under the piazza he stopped and waved his hand.
"I'm afraid they got away from us, Holland. I did my best."
"There was a burglar then!" said the girl in the little whisper of recent fright.
"By Heaven, he shall not trouble you," returned Holland with more earnestness than seemed to be required. Then he left her and went down to meet McVay.
"You were just about half a second ahead of a bullet," he remarked, ushering him into the hall. To be caught and brought back is so ignominious a position that Geoffrey looked to see even McVay at a disadvantage, but looked in vain. The aspect worn was a particularly self-satisfied one.
"I was aware I took a risk," he answered; "I took it gladly for my sister's sake."
"For your sister's sake?"
"Yes, and yours. Be honest, Holland, what could be so great a relief to you as to find I had disappeared. You are too narrow-minded, too honourable, you would say, to connive at it, but you would be delighted to know that you need not prosecute me."
"If I shot you, I should be saved the trouble of prosecuting."
"But at what a cost! I refer to my sister's regard. No, no, the thing, if you had only been quick enough to see it, was for me to escape. It was a risk, of course, but a risk I gladly took for my sister's sake. I would take longer ones for her."
"Do you mean that?"
"Of course."
"Then take this revolver and go out and shoot yourself."
McVay looked very thoughtful. Then, he said gravely, "No, no, Holland. To take a risk is one thing,—to kill myself quite another. I have always had a strong prejudice against suicide. I think it a cowardly action. And it would be no help to you. She would not believe that I had committed suicide. She knows my views on the subject, and could imagine no motive. No, that would not do at all. I'm surprised at the suggestion. It is against my principles."
"Your principles!" Geoffrey sneered. Nevertheless, he was not a little altered in opinion. It had been something of a shock to him to find that he could not shoot at the critical instant. It had shaken his faith in himself. He began to doubt if he would be capable of sending the man to state's prison when Cecilia besought his pity. His own limitations faced him. He was not the relentless judge he had supposed himself. Yet on the other hand, the remembrance of Vaughan and the other men he was representing held him to his idea of justice. "Sit down," he said suddenly turning to McVay, "and write me out a list of everything you have stolen in this neighbourhood and where it is and how it may be obtained. Yes, I know it is difficult, but you had better try to do it for on the completeness of your list depends your only chance of avoiding the law. If I can return all properly, perhaps—I have a mine in Mexico, a hell on earth, where you can go if you prefer it to penal servitude. There won't be much difference, except for the publicity of a trial. I've a man there who, when I give him his orders
, would infinitely rather shoot you than take any risk of your getting away. Which will you have?"
"Can you ask, Holland? Which will be easier for my sister?"
"Sit down and write your list, then."
"An interesting occupation, mining," observed McVay as he opened the portfolio. After this for a long time nothing was heard but the soft noise of the pencil and an occasional comment from the writer:
"A rare piece that. I parted with it absurdly low, but the dealer was a connoisseur—appealed to my artistic side."
Things had gone on thus for perhaps an hour when a step sounded outside and the door bell rang. Both men jumped to their feet.
"My God, Holland," said McVay, "if that is the police, keep your wits about you or we are lost."
It was a revelation to Geoffrey to find how completely, as his alarm showed, he had cast in his interests with McVay's. He stepped forward in silence and opened the door.
Not the police, but a man in plain clothes was standing there.
"I'm glad to see you safe, Mr. Holland," he said. "There has been great anxiety felt for your safety. I am a detective working on the Vaughan and Marheim cases. I got word to come and look you up as you did not get back to the gardener's cottage the night before last."
"The snow detained me," said Geoffrey slowly.
"Come in, come in, friend," said McVay briskly. "You must be cold."
It speaks well for the professional eye that the detective, after studying McVay for an instant, asked:
"I did not catch this gentleman's name. Who is he?"
There was a barely perceptible pause. Then Geoffrey answered coolly: "That is the man you are after."
"Are you crazy, Holland?" shouted McVay.
"What, the Vaughan burglar? You caught him without assistance?" Envy and admiration struggled on the detective's countenance. "I must congratulate you, sir."