The Indian Drum

by William MacHarg and Edwin Balmer

  CHAPTER IV

  "ARRIVED SAFE; WELL"

  As the door closed behind Sherrill, Alan went over to the dresser andpicked up the key which Sherrill had left. It was, he saw, a flat keyof a sort common twenty years before, not of the more recent corrugatedshape. As he looked at it and then away from it, thoughtfully turningit over and over in his fingers, it brought no sense of possession tohim. Sherrill had said the house was his, had been given him by hisfather; but that fact could not actually make it his in hisrealization. He could not imagine himself owning such a house or whathe would do with it if it were his. He put the key, after a moment, onthe ring with two or three other keys he had, and dropped them into hispocket; then he crossed to a chair and sat down.

  He found, as he tried now to disentangle the events of the afternoon,that from them, and especially from his last interview with Sherrill,two facts stood out most clearly. The first of these related moredirectly to his father--to Benjamin Corvet. When such a man asBenjamin Corvet must have been, disappears--when, without warning andwithout leaving any account of himself he vanishes from among those whoknew him--the persons most closely interested pass through three stagesof anxiety. They doubt first whether the disappearance is real andwhether inquiry on their part will not be resented; they waken next torealization that the man is actually gone, and that something must bedone; the third stage is open and public inquiry. Whatever might bethe nature of the information Sherrill was withholding from him, Alansaw that its effect on Sherrill had been to shorten very greatlySherrill's time of doubt as to Corvet's actual disappearance. TheSherrills--particularly Sherrill himself--had been in the second stageof anxiety when Alan came; they had been awaiting Alan's arrival in thebelief that Alan could give them information which would show them whatmust be "done" about Corvet. Alan had not been able to give them thisinformation; but his coming, and his interview with Sherrill, hadstrongly influenced Sherrill's attitude. Sherrill had shrunk, stillmore definitely and consciously, after that, from prying into theaffairs of his friend; he had now, strangely, almost withdrawn himselffrom the inquiry, and had given it over to Alan.

  Sherrill had spoken of the possibility that something might have"happened" to Covert; but it was plain he did not believe he had metwith actual violence. He had left it to Alan to examine Corvet'shouse; but he had not urged Alan to examine it at once; he had left thetime of the examination to be determined by Alan. This showed clearlythat Sherrill believed--perhaps had sufficient reason forbelieving--that Corvet had simply "gone away." The second of Alan'stwo facts related even more closely and personally to Alan himself.Corvet, Sherrill had said, had married in 1889. But Sherrill in longknowledge of his friend, had shown firm conviction that there had beenno mere vulgar liaison in Corvet's life. Did this mean that theremight have been some previous marriage of Alan's father--some marriagewhich had strangely overlapped and nullified his public marriage? Inthat case, Alan could be, not only in fact but legally, Corvet's son;and such things as this, Alan knew, had sometimes happened, and hadhappened by a strange combination of events, innocently for allparties. Corvet's public separation from his wife, Sherrill had said,had taken place in 1897, but the actual separation between them might,possibly, have taken place long before that.

  Alan resolved to hold these questions in abeyance; he would not acceptor grant the stigma which his relationship to Corvet seemed to attachto himself until it had been proved to him. He had come to Chicagoexpecting, not to find that there had never been anything wrong, but tofind that the wrong had been righted in some way at last. But what wasmost plain of all to him, from what Sherrill had told him, was that thewrong--whatever it might be--had not been righted; it existed still.

  The afternoon had changed swiftly into night; dusk had been gatheringduring his last talk with Sherrill, so that he hardly had been able tosee Sherrill's face, and just after Sherrill had left him, full darkhad come. Alan did not know how long he had been sitting in thedarkness thinking out these things; but now a little clock which hadbeen ticking steadily in the blackness tinkled six. Alan heard a knockat his door, and when it was repeated, he called, "Come in."

  The light which came in from the hall, as the door was opened, showed aman servant. The man, after a respectful inquiry, switched on thelight. He crossed into the adjoining room--a bedroom; the room whereAlan was, he thought, must be a dressing room, and there was a bathbetween. Presently the man reappeared, and moved softly about theroom, unpacking Alan's suitcase. He hung Alan's other suit in thecloset on hangers; he put the linen, except for one shirt, in thedresser drawers, and he put Alan's few toilet things with theivory-backed brushes and comb and other articles on the dressing stand.

  Alan watched him queerly; no one except himself ever had unpackedAlan's suitcase before; the first time he had gone away to college--itwas a brand new suitcase then--"mother" had packed it; after that firsttime, Alan had packed and unpacked it. It gave him an odd feeling nowto see some one else unpacking his things. The man, having finishedand taken everything out, continued to look in the suitcase forsomething else.

  "I beg pardon, sir," he said finally, "but I cannot find your buttons."

  "I've got them on," Alan said. He took them out and gave them to thevalet with a smile; it was good to have something to smile at, if itwas only the realization that he never had thought before of any one'shaving more than one set of buttons for ordinary shirts. Alanwondered, with a sort of trepidation, whether the man would expect tostay and help him dress; but he only put the buttons in the clean shirtand reopened the dresser drawers and laid out a change of things.

  "Is there anything else, sir?" he asked.

  "Nothing, thank you," Alan said.

  "I was to tell you, sir, Mr. Sherrill is sorry he cannot be at home todinner to-night. Mrs. Sherrill and Miss Sherrill will be here. Dinneris at seven, sir."

  Alan dressed slowly, after the man had gone; and at one minute beforeseven he went down-stairs.

  There was no one in the lower hall and, after an instant ofirresolution and a glance into the empty drawing-room, he turned intothe small room at the opposite side of the hall. A handsome, stately,rather large woman, whom he found there, introduced herself to himformally as Mrs. Sherrill.

  He knew from Sherrill's mention of the year of their marriage that Mrs.Sherrill's age must be about forty-five, but if he had not known this,he would have thought her ten years younger. In her dark eyes and hercarefully dressed, coal-black hair, and in the contour of her youthfullooking, handsome face, he could not find any such pronouncedresemblance to her daughter as he had seen in Lawrence Sherrill. Herreserved, yet almost too casual acceptance of Alan's presence, told himthat she knew all the particulars about himself which Sherrill had beenable to give; and as Constance came down the stairs and joined themhalf a minute later, Alan was certain that she also knew.

  Yet there was in her manner toward Alan a difference from that of hermother--a difference which seemed almost opposition. Not that Mrs.Sherrill's was unfriendly or critical; rather, it was kind with thesort of reserved kindness which told Alan, almost as plainly as words,that she had not been able to hold so charitable a conviction in regardto Corvet's relationship with Alan as her husband held, but that shewould be only the more considerate to Alan for that. It was thiskindness which Constance set herself to oppose, and which she opposedas reservedly and as subtly as it was expressed. It gave Alan astrange, exhilarating sensation to realize that, as the three talkedtogether, this girl was defending him.

  Not him alone, of course, or him chiefly. It was Benjamin Corvet, herfriend, whom she was defending primarily; yet it was Alan too; and allwent on without a word about Benjamin Corvet or his affairs beingspoken.

  Dinner was announced, and they went into the great dining-room, wherethe table with its linen, silver, and china gleamed under shadedlights. The oldest and most dignified of the three men servants whowaited upon them in the dining-room Alan thought must be a butler--aspecies of c
reature of whom Alan had heard but never had seen; theother servants, at least, received and handed things through him, andtook their orders from him. As the silent-footed servants moved about,and Alan kept up a somewhat strained conversation with Mrs. Sherrill--aconversation in which no reference to his own affairs was yet made--hewondered whether Constance and her mother always dressed for dinner infull evening dress as now, or whether they were going out. A word fromConstance to her mother told him this latter was the case, and while itdid not give complete answer to his internal query, it showed him hisfirst glimpse of social engagements as a part of the business of life.In spite of the fact that Benjamin Corvet, Sherrill's close friend, haddisappeared--or perhaps because he had disappeared and, as yet, it wasnot publicly known--their and Sherrill's engagements had to befulfilled.

  What Sherrill had told Alan of his father had been iterating itselfagain and again in Alan's thoughts; now he recalled that Sherrill hadsaid that his daughter believed that Corvet's disappearance had hadsomething to do with her. Alan had wondered at the moment how thatcould be; and as he watched her across the table and now and thenexchanged a comment with her, it puzzled him still more. He hadopportunity to ask her when she waited with him in the library, afterdinner was finished and her mother had gone up-stairs; but he did notsee then how to go about it.

  "I'm sorry," she said to him, "that we can't be home to-night; butperhaps you would rather be alone?"

  He did not answer that.

  "Have you a picture here, Miss Sherrill, of--my father?" he asked.

  "Uncle Benny had had very few pictures taken; but there is one here."

  She went into the study, and came back with a book open at a half-tonepicture of Benjamin Corvet. Alan took it from her and carried itquickly closer to the light. The face that looked up to him from theheavily glazed page was regular of feature, handsome in a way, andforceful. There were imagination and vigor of thought in the broad,smooth forehead; the eyes were strangely moody and brooding; the mouthwas gentle, rather kindly; it was a queerly impelling, haunting face.This was his father! But, as Alan held the picture, gazing down uponit, the only emotion which came to him was realization that he feltnone. He had not expected to know his father from strangers on thestreet; but he had expected, when told that his father was before him,to feel through and through him the call of a common blood. Now,except for consternation at his own lack of feeling, he had no emotionof any sort; he could not attach to this man, because he bore the namewhich some one had told him was his father's, the passions which, whendreaming of his father, he had felt.

  As he looked up from the picture to the girl who had given it to him,startled at himself and believing she must think his lack of feelingstrange and unnatural, he surprised her gazing at him with wetness inher eyes. He fancied at first it must be for his father, and that thepicture had brought back poignantly her fears. But she was not lookingat the picture, but at him; and when his eyes met hers, she quicklyturned away.

  His own eyes filled, and he choked. He wanted to thank her for hermanner to him in the afternoon, for defending his father and him, asshe had at the dinner table, and now for this unplanned, impulsivesympathy when she saw how he had not been able to feel for this man whowas his father and how he was dismayed by it. But he could not put hisgratitude in words.

  A servant's voice came from the door, startling him.

  "Mrs. Sherrill wishes you told she is waiting, Miss Sherrill."

  "I'll be there at once." Constance, also, seemed startled andconfused; but she delayed and looked back to Alan.

  "If--if we fail to find your father," she said, "I want to tell youwhat a man he was."

  "Will you?" Alan asked. "Will you?"

  She left him swiftly, and he heard her mother's voice in the hall. Amotor door closed sharply, after a minute or so; then the house doorclosed. Alan stood still a moment longer, then, remembering the bookwhich he held, he drew a chair up to the light, and read the short, drybiography of his father printed on the page opposite the portrait. Itsummarized in a few hundred words his father's life. He turned to thecover of the book and read its title, "Year Book of the Great Lakes,"and a date of five years before; then he looked through it. Itconsisted in large part, he saw, merely of lists of ships, their kind,their size, the date when they were built, and their owners. Underthis last head he saw some score of times the name "Corvet, Sherrilland Spearman." There was a separate list of engines and boilers, andwhen they had been built and by whom. There was a chronological tableof events during the year upon the lakes. Then he came to a partheaded "Disasters of the Year," and he read some of them; they wereshort accounts, drily and unfeelingly put, but his blood thrilled tothese stories of drowning, freezing, blinded men struggling againststorm and ice and water, and conquering or being conquered by them.Then he came to his father's picture and biography once more and, withit, to pictures of other lakemen and their biographies. He turned tothe index and looked for Sherrill's name, and then Spearman's; findingthey were not in the book, he read some of the other ones.

  There was a strange similarity, he found, in these biographies, amongthemselves as well as to that of his father. These men had had, themost of them, no tradition of seamanship, such as Sherrill had told himhe himself had had. They had been sons of lumbermen, of farmers, ofmill hands, miners, or fishermen. They had been very young for themost part, when they had heard and answered the call of the lakes--theever-swelling, fierce demand of lumber, grain, and ore for outlet; andthey had lived hard; life had been violent, and raw, and brutal tothem. They had sailed ships, and built ships, and owned and lost them;they had fought against nature and against man to keep their ships, andto make them profitable, and to get more of them. In the end a few, avery few comparatively, had survived; by daring, by enterprise, bytaking great chances, they had thrust their heads above those of theirfellows; they had come to own a half dozen, a dozen, perhaps a score ofbottoms, and to have incomes of fifty, of a hundred, of two hundredthousand dollars a year.

  Alan shut the book and sat thoughtful. He felt strongly the immensity,the power, the grandeur of all this; but he felt also its violence andits fierceness. What might there not have been in the life of hisfather who had fought up and made a way for himself through such things?

  The tall clock in the hall struck nine. He got up and went out intothe hall and asked for his hat and coat. When they had been broughthim, he put them on and went out.

  The snow had stopped some time before; a strong and increasing wind hadsprung up, which Alan, with knowledge of the wind across his prairies,recognized as an aftermath of the greater storm that had produced it;for now the wind was from the opposite direction--from the west. Hecould see from the Sherrills' door step, when he looked toward thelighthouse at the harbor mouth winking red, white, red, white, at him,that this offshore wind was causing some new commotion and upheavalamong the ice-floes; they groaned and labored and fought against theopposing pressure of the waves, under its urging.

  He went down the steps and to the corner and turned west to AstorStreet. When he reached the house of his father, he stopped under astreet-lamp, looking up at the big, stern old mansion questioningly.It had taken on a different look for him since he had heard Sherrill'saccount of his father; there was an appeal to him that made his throatgrow tight, in its look of being unoccupied, in the blank stare of itsunlighted windows which contrasted with the lighted windows in thehouses on both sides, and in the slight evidences of disrepair aboutit. He waited many minutes, his hand upon the key in his pocket; yethe could not go in, but instead walked on down the street, his thoughtsand feelings in a turmoil.

  He could not call up any sense that the house was his, any more than hehad been able to when Sherrill had told him of it. He own a house onthat street! Yet was that in itself any more remarkable than that heshould be the guest, the friend of such people as the Sherrills? Noone as yet, since Sherrill had told him he was Corvet's son, had calledhim by name; when they
did, what would they call him? Alan Conradstill? Or Alan Corvet?

  He noticed, up a street to the west, the lighted sign of a drug storeand turned up that way; he had promised, he had recollected now, towrite to ... those in Kansas--he could not call them "father" and"mother" any more--and tell them what he had discovered as soon as hearrived. He could not tell them that, but he could write them at leastthat he had arrived safely and was well. He bought a postcard in thedrug store, and wrote just, "Arrived safely; am well" to John Welton inKansas. There was a little vending machine upon the counter, and hedropped in a penny and got a box of matches and put them in his pocket.

  He mailed the card and turned back to Astor Street; and he walked moreswiftly now, having come to his decision, and only shot one quick lookup at the house as he approached it. With what had his father shuthimself up within that house for twenty years? And was it there still?And was it from that that Benjamin Corvet had fled? He saw no one inthe street, and was certain no one was observing him as, taking the keyfrom his pocket, he ran up the steps and unlocked the outer door.Holding this door open to get the light from the street lamp, he fittedthe key into the inner door; then he closed the outer door. For fullya minute, with fast beating heart and a sense of expectation of he knewnot what, he kept his hand upon the key before he turned it; then heopened the door and stepped into the dark and silent house.