CHAPTER XXXII
OF HARMONY AND DISCORD
Mr. Brimberly, comfortably ensconced in Young R.’s favourite armchair, nodded ponderously and beat time to the twang of Mr. Jenkins’s banjo, whereto Mr. Stevens sang in a high-pitched and rather shaky tenor the latest musical success yclept “Sammy.” Thus, Mr. Jenkins strummed, Mr. Stevens trilled, and Mr. Brimberly alternately beat the tempo with a plump white finger and sipped his master’s champagne until, having emptied his glass, he turned to the bottle on the table beside him, found that empty also, crossed to the two bottles on the mantel, found them likewise void and had tried the two upon the piano with no better success, when, the song being ended, Mr. Jenkins struck in with:
“All dead men, Brim! Six of ‘em between us—not bad going, what?”
“And very good fizz too, on the whole!” added Mr. Stevens. “I always sing better on champagne. But come, Brim my boy, I’ve obliged with everything I know, and Jenk, ‘e ‘s played everything ‘e knows, and I must say with great delicacy an’ feelin’—now it’s your turn—somethin’.”
“Well,” answered Mr. Brimberly, squinting at an empty bottle, “I used to know a very good song once, called ‘Let’s drownd all our sorrers and cares.’ But good ‘eavens! we can’t drownd ‘em in empty bottles, can we?”
“Oh, very good!” chuckled Mr. Jenkins, “oh, very prime! If I might suggest, there’s nothin’ like port—port’s excellent tipple for drowndin’ sorrer and downing care—what?”
“Port, sir?” repeated Mr. Brimberly, “we ‘ave enough port in our cellars to drownd every sorrer an’ care in Noo York City. I’m proud of our port, sir, and I’m reckoned a bit of a connysoor—”
“Ah, it takes a eddicated palate to appreciate good port!” nodded Mr. Jenkins loftily, “a eddicated palate—what?”
“Cert’nly!” added Mr. Stevens, “an’ here’s two palates waitin’, waitin’ an’ ready to appreciate till daylight doth appear.”
“There’s nothin’ like port!” sighed Mr. Brimberly, setting aside the empty champagne bottle, “nothin’ like port, and there’s Young Har ‘ardly can tell it from sherry—oh, the Goth! the Vandyle! All this good stuff would be layin’ idle if it wasn’t for me! Young Har ain’t got no right to be a millionaire; ‘is money’s wasted on ‘im—he neglects ‘is opportoonities shameful—eh, shameful! What I say is—what’s the use of bein’ a millionaire if you don’t air your millions?”
Hereupon Mr. Jenkins rocked himself to and fro over his banjo in a polite ecstasy of mirth.
“Oh, by Jove!” he gasped, “if that ain’t infernal clever, I’ll be shot! Oh, doocid clever I call it—what!”
“Er—by the way, Brim,” said Mr. Stevens, his glance roving toward the open window, “where does he happen to be to-night?”
“Where?” repeated Mr. Brimberly, fingering a slightly agitated whisker, “where is Young Har, sir? Lord, Mr. Stevens, if you ask me that, I throws up my ‘ands, and I answers you—’eavens knows! Young Har is a unknown quantity, sir—a will o’ the wisp, or as you might say, a ignus fattus. At this precise moment ‘e may be in Jerusalem or Jericho or—a-sittin’ outside on the lawn—which Gawd forbid! But there, don’t let’s talk of it. Come on down into the cellars, and we’ll bring up enough port to drownd sorrer an’ care all night.”
“With all my heart!” said Mr. Jenkins, laying aside his banjo.
“Ditto, indeed!” nodded Mr. Stevens, slipping a hand in his host’s arm, and thus linked together they made their way out of the room.
Scarcely had their hilarious voices died away when a muscular brown hand parted the hangings of an open window, and Geoffrey Ravenslee climbed into the room. His rough clothes and shabby hat were powdered with dust, and he looked very much out of place amid his luxurious surroundings as he paused to glance swiftly from the bottles that decorated the carved mantel to those on table and piano. Then, light-treading, he crossed the room, and as the hilarious three were heard approaching, vanished in his turn.
“‘Ere we are, Jubilee Port!” exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, setting down two cobwebbed bottles with elaborate care, “obleege me with the corkscrew, somebody.”
“Won’t forget as you promised us a song, Brim!” said Mr. Jenkins, passing the necessary implement.
“Oh, I won’t disappoint ye,” answered Mr. Brimberly, drawing the cork with a practised hand; “my father were a regular songster, a fair carollin’ bird ‘e were, sir.”
“‘Ow about ‘Knocked ‘em in the Old Kent Road’?” Mr. Stevens suggested.
“Sir!” exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, pausing in the act of filling the glasses, “that’s rather a—a low song, ain’t it? What do you think, Mr. Jenkins?”
“Low?” answered Mr. Jenkins, “it’s as low as—as mud, sir. I might say it’s infernal vulgar—what?”
“Why, I don’t care for it myself,” Mr. Stevens admitted rather humbly, “it was merely a suggestion.”
“With your good favour,” said Mr. Brimberly, after a tentative sip at his glass, “I’ll sing you a old song as was a rare favourite of my father’s.”
“Why, then,” said Mr. Jenkins, taking up his banjo, “oblige us with the key.”
“The key, sir?” answered Mr. Brimberly, pulling down his waistcoat, “what key might you mean?”
“The key of the note dominant, Brim.”
Mr. Brimberly stared and felt for his whisker.
“Note dominant,” he murmured; “I don’t think my song has anything of that sort—”
“Oh, well, just whistle a couple o’ bars.”
“Bars,” said Mr. Brimberly, shaking his head, “bars, sir, is things wherewith I do not ‘old; bars are the ‘aunt of the ‘umble ‘erd, sir—”
“No, no, Brim,” explained Mr. Stevens, “Jenk merely means you to ‘um the air.”
“Ah, to be sure, now I appre’end! I’ll ‘um you the hair with pleasure.”
Mr. Brimberly cleared his throat vigorously and thereafter emitted certain rumbling noises, whereat Mr. Jenkins cocked a knowing head.
“C sharp, I think?” he announced.
“Not much, Jenk!” said Mr. Stevens decidedly, “it was D flat—as flat a D as ever I heard!”
“It was C!” Mr. Jenkins said, “I appeal to Brim.”
“Well,” said Mr. Brimberly ponderously, “I’m reether inclined to think I made it a D—if it wasn’t D it was F nat’ral. But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll accompany myself at the piano-forty.”
“What,” exclaimed Mr. Stevens, emptying and refilling his glass, seeing which Mr. Jenkins did the same, “what—do you play, Brim?”
“By hear, sir—only by hear,” said Mr. Brimberly modestly, as, having placed bottle and glass upon the piano within convenient reach, he seated himself upon the stool, struck three or four stumbling chords and then, vamping an accompaniment a trifle monotonous as to bass, burst forth into song:
“It was a rich merchant that in London did dwell, He had but one daughter, a beautiful gell, Which her name it was Dinah, scarce sixteen years old, She’d a very large fortune in silver and gold.”
Chorus:
“Ri tooral ri tooral ri tooral i-day, Ri tooral ri tooral ri tooral i-day.”
It was now that Mr. Ravenslee, his rough clothes replaced by immaculate attire, entered unostentatiously, and, wholly unobserved by the company, seated himself and lounged there while Mr. Brimberly sang blithely on:
“As Dinah was a-walking in her garden one day, Her father came to her and thus he did say: ‘Come wed yourself, Dinah, to your nearest of kin, Or you shan’t have the benefit of one single pin!’”
“Ri tooral ri too—”
Here Mr. Jenkins, chancing to catch sight of that unobtrusive figure, let fall his banjo with a clatter, whereupon Mr. Brimberly glancing around, stopped short in the middle of a note, and sat open-mouthed, staring at his master.
“Enjoying a musical evening, Brimberly?”
Mr. Brimberly blundered to his feet, choked,
gasped, groped for his whiskers, and finally spoke:
“Why, sir, I—I’m afraid I—we are—”
“I didn’t know you were such an accomplished musician, Brimberly.”
“Mu-musician, sir?” Brimberly stammered, his eyes goggling; “‘ardly that, sir, oh, ‘ardly that, I—I venture to—to tinkle a bit now an’ then, sir—no offence I ‘ope, sir?”
“Friends musical too, it seems.”
“Y-yes, sir, music do affect ‘em, sir—uncommonly, sir.”
“Yes, makes them thirsty, doesn’t it?”
“Why, Mr. Ravenslee, sir, I—that is, we did so far venture to—er—I mean—oh, Lord!” and mopping perspiring brow, Mr. Brimberly groaned and goggled helplessly from Mr. Jenkins who stood fumbling with his banjo to Mr. Stevens who gaped fishlike.
“And now,” said Young R., having viewed them each in turn, “if these—er—very thirsty musicians have had enough of—er—my wine to—er—drink, perhaps you’ll be so obliging as to see them—off the premises?”
“I—I beg parding, sir?”
“Please escort your friends off the premises.”
“Certingly, sir—at once, sir—”
“Unless you think you ought to give them each a handful of my cigars—”
But Mr. Brimberly had already bundled his dazed guests to the door, out of the door, and out of the house, with very little ceremony.
It was a very deferential and officiously eager Brimberly who presently knocked and, bowing very frequently, begged to know how he might be of further service.
“Might I get you a little supper, sir? We ‘ave ‘am, sir, we ‘ave beef, cold, salmon and cucumber likewise cold, a ditto chicken—”
“That sounds rather a quaint bird,” said Ravenslee.
“Yes, sir, very good, sir, chicken an’ a nice slice of ‘am, sir, say, and—”
“Thank you, Brimberly, I dined late.”
“Why then, sir, a sandwich or so, pray permit me, sir, cut nice an’ thin, sir—”
“Thank you—no.”
“Dear, dear! Why then, sir, whisky? Brandy? A lick-your?”
“Nothing.”
“A cigar, sir?”
“Hum! Have we any of the Garcias left?”
“Y-yes, sir. Ho, certingly, sir. Shall I—”
“Don’t bother, I prefer my pipe; only let me know when we get short, Brimberly, and we’ll order more—or perhaps you have a favourite brand?”
“Brand, sir,” murmured Brimberly, “a—er—certingly, sir.”
“Good night, Brimberly.”
“Good night, sir, but first can’t I do—hanything?”
“Oh, yes, you do me, of course. You do me so consistently and well that I really ought to raise your wages. I’ll think about it.”
Mr. Brimberly stared, coughed, and fumbled for his whisker, whence his hand wandered to his brow and hovered there.
“I—I bid you good night, sir!”
“Oh, by the way, bring me the letters.”
“Certingly, sir!” and crossing the room, Mr. Brimberly returned, bearing a salver piled high with letters, which he set at his master’s elbow; this done, he bowed and went from the room, one hand still at his dazed brow.
Left alone, Ravenslee took up the letters one by one. Some he threw aside, some few he opened and glanced at carelessly; among these last was a telegram, and the words he saw were these:
“Meet me to-morrow sunset in the wood all shall be explained Hermy.”
For a while he sat staring at this, then, laying it by, drew out a letter case from which he took another telegram bearing precisely the same message. Having compared them, he thrust them into his pocket, and filling his pipe, sat awhile smoking and lost in thought. At last, his pipe being out, he rose, stretched, and turned toward the door, but in the act of leaving the room, paused to take out and compare the telegrams again and so stood with puckered brow.
“‘Hermy!’” he said softly. “‘Hermione’ is so much prettier. ‘All shall be explained.’ A little trite, perhaps! Oh, well—” So saying, he folded up the telegrams, switched off the lights and went to bed.
CHAPTER XXXIII
OF TRAGEDY
It was close on the hour of sunset when Ravenslee stopped his car before a quiet hotel in Englewood and sprang out.
“Will you be long, sir?” enquired Joe, seating himself at the wheel and preparing to turn into the garage.
“Probably an hour, Joe.”
“Very good, sir.”
But as the big car turned, Ravenslee spoke over his shoulder.
“By the way, if I shouldn’t be back in an hour, come and meet me.” Then, having given Joe full and particular directions as to the little wood, he turned and went upon his way.
It had been a stifling day, and even now, though a soft air was abroad tempering the humid heat, when this light wind languished there was over all things a brooding stillness, foreboding storm. But Ravenslee strode on, unheeding dust and heat, hastening on to that which awaited him, full of strength and life and the zest of life, glad-hearted, and with pulses that throbbed in expectation. Thus, as the sun sank in fiery splendour, he reached the little wood. Evening was falling, and already, among the trees, shadows were deepening to twilight, but in the west was a flaming glory; and, upon the edge of the wood he turned to glance back at this radiance, splashes of gold and pink flushing to an ominous red. For a long moment he stood to stare around about the solitary countryside, joying in life and the glory of it. Then he turned, with a smile on his lips, and stepped into the gloom of the wood. On he went, forcing his way through the under-brush until, reaching the clearing, he halted suddenly and faced about, fancying he had heard a rustle in the leaves hard by. Spike, cowering behind a bush with M’Ginnis’s fingers gripping his arm, shivered and sweated and held his breath until Ravenslee moved on again, and, coming to a fallen tree, seated himself there and sat chin on fist, expectation in every tense line of him.
“Now!” whispered M’Ginnis hoarsely, “get him now—before Hermy comes t’ him!” Shuddering, Spike levelled the weapon he held, but at that moment Ravenslee was filling his pipe, and something in this homely action checked the lad, paralysed finger on trigger, and shrinking, he cowered down upon the grass despite the fierce hand that gripped him. “Get him now, Kid—get him now! Aim f’r his chest—y’ can’t miss at this distance—”
“I—I can’t, Bud!” gasped the boy, writhing, “I can’t do it—I can’t!” Dropping the revolver, he hid his face in sweating hands and shivered.
From somewhere near by a woodpecker was tapping busily, but save for this no sound broke the pervading stillness, for the gentle wind had died away. But suddenly the quiet was rent and shivered, and Spike, deafened by the report, glanced up to see Ravenslee rise to his feet, stagger forward blindly, then, with arms outflung, pitch forward upon his face and lie there.
“By God, you—you’ve shot him, Bud!” he whimpered, “you—you’ve killed dear old Geoff—oh, my God!”
“Aw, quit—quit all that!” whispered M’Ginnis breathlessly, “that’s what we came for, ain’t it? What you lookin’ at?”
“It lays so—still! so awful still!” Spike gasped.
“Well, what ye got t’ go starin’ at it that ways for? Come on—let’s beat it; it’s us for th’ quick get-away in case any one heard. Come on, Kid!”
“But you’ve—killed Geoff!”
“I guess he don’t need no more—’n’ say, Kid, you’re in on this job too, don’t forget! Come on, it’s little old N’ York for ours!”
Though M’Ginnis dragged at him, Spike huddled limply on his knees, his glaring eyes always staring in the one direction; whereupon M’Ginnis cursed and left him.
But all at once, finding himself alone, to horror came fear, and stumbling to his feet Spike began to draw away from that awful thing that held his gaze; slowly he retreated, always going backwards, and though he stumbled often against tree and sapling, yet so long as it was in
sight needs must he walk backwards. When at last a kindly bush hid it from his sight, he turned and ran—ran until, panting and wild-eyed, he burst from the wood and was out upon the open road. Even then he paused to stare back into that leafy gloom but saw and heard nothing. Then, uttering a moan, he turned and ran sobbing along the darkening road.
But, within that place of shadows, from amid the leaves of a certain great tree, dropped one who came beside that motionless form, and knelt there awhile. When at last he rose, a ring lay upon his open palm—a ring in the shape of two hands clasping each other; then, with this clenched in a pallid fist, he also turned and left that still and awful thing with its face hidden in last year’s dead and rotting leaves.
CHAPTER XXXIV
OF REMORSE
For three miserable days Spike had remained indoors, eating little, sleeping less, venturing abroad only at dusk to hurry back with the latest paper and, locked within his bedroom, to scan every scare head and column with eyes dilating in dreadful expectation of beholding the awful word—MURDER.
For three interminable days Hermione, going about her many duties slow of foot and listless, had scarcely heeded him, conscious only of her own pain, the agony of longing, the yearning ache that filled her, throbbing in every heart-beat—an ache that would not be satisfied. Thus, lost in her own new sorrow, she spoke seldom, sighed often, and sang not at all; often sitting at her sewing machine with hands strangely idle and gaze abstracted. Spike, watching furtively, had seen her eyes brim over with great, slow-falling tears; more than once he had heard her bitter weeping in the dawn. At such times he had yearned to comfort her, but between them was memory, dividing them like a wall—the memory of a still form with arms wide-tossed and face hidden among dead leaves. And at such times Spike writhed in the grip of horror and groaned under the gnawing fangs of remorse; sometimes he prayed wild, passionate prayers, and sometimes he wetted his pillow with unavailing tears, while in his ears, like a small voice, soft and insistent, repeated over and over again, was the dread word MURDER. By day it haunted him also; it stared up at him from the white cloth of the breakfast table, forbidding him to eat; he read it on floor and walls and ceiling; he saw it in bloody characters that straggled across the very sky; wherever he turned his haggard gaze there he needs must read it.
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