Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  Sherry produced his pocket-knife, and Consuelo began to rip Wahl’s clothes off, jerking out orders to Sherry, and muttering to herself as she saw how serious the burns and bruises were. For fifteen or twenty minutes she kept Sherry occupied, and there was nothing for Jacqueline to do but make the strips of the torn sheet into rolls, and to look on. She was looking at Wahl’s face when he opened his eyes at last, stared straight at her, and closed them again. She thought he had recognized her, but she did not care.

  She was surprised to discover how little she feared Wahl, now that he was under the same roof with her. It never once entered her head that, without Consuelo caring for him, he would not recover from his injuries. He was still Wahl — the devil’s own. But somehow he had lost all terror for her. She was much more afraid of Sherry, because Sherry, she knew, would claim her presently and she would have to steel her heart against him. It was going to be the most difficult thing she had ever done. She kept on looking at Wahl because that made it easier to avoid meeting Sherry’s eyes.

  Wahl recovered consciousness again and stared straight at her about a minute. She met his gaze steadily, not feeling even a desire to flinch. His eyes were cavernous, and horrible with pain. She found that she even pitied him. When he sat up suddenly and pointed at her with a bandaged arm, she stood her ground — although her frown was dancing over startled eyes. She tried to force herself to smile, so as to make him feel at ease as much as possible. Surely his burns and bruises were discomfort enough.

  “Think you’ve scored, don’t you!” he said, misinterpreting the smile and the frown. He grinned back hatefully, and glanced at Sherry. “Hello, young Mansfield! You are a bright one! Tribune’s only son and heir, eh? God! You’d have a paper on the rocks in a week! How did I get here? You bring me! Well, there’s that in your favor. Bring me that phone, quick! Bring it here — the cord’s long enough. Call the Tribune, and hold the instrument so I can speak into it.”

  Sherry did not answer, but laid both hands on Wahl’s shoulders and pressed him down until his head was on the pillow.

  “Treason!” Wahl yelled at him. “Treason! I’ve identified her! Bring me that phone, young Mansfield, or—”

  “Shut up!” Sherry ordered.

  “Me? You can’t do it, youngster!” Wahl laughed like a ghoul and struggled to sit up again. Sherry held him down. “You can’t stop Clinton Wahl — can’t shut him up! Can’t kill him! Get that? You can’t kill him! I’m Wahl, youngster! Special — that’s me! Bring me that phone! I’ll spill ’em a hot one over the wire! Jacqueline Lanier and Sherry Mansfield—” He began to say awful things about them both, sliding off into delirium and raving of indecencies the Chinaman had only hinted at. Consuelo shook Sherry by the arm.

  “Take her outside while I quiet him!”

  She did not know who Sherry was, nor how she should quiet Wahl, but anything was better than that Jacqueline should hear that raving. Sherry acted almost before the words were spoken — threw Jacqueline’s cape over her shoulders and led her outside, shutting the door behind them. But he could still hear Wahl’s voice through the door, so he coaxed her down the steps to the wide gap in the wall that answered for a gate. She shuddered, and he put an arm around her, folding her cape closer with his other hand.

  The cabin was above the fog now. The blanket had drifted lower and lay shrouding the valley, creating a weird effect of isolation. Not even a glow was visible above the distant city. They seemed all alone with the moon and stars, above the clouds.

  Jacqueline did not speak, and Sherry studied her anxiously. The moonlight seemed to emphasize her beauty, but there was a new paleness in it that worried him; it was almost as if something within her had burned out; as if she had gone as far emotionally as she could go, and was waiting for the inevitable end.

  “I was on my way to stop Wahl from reaching you when I found him by the roadside under his car,” he began.

  She turned a little toward him, but showed no emotion. Her eyes were listless, and the color of utterly still pools.

  “I was afraid it was you who had hurt him,” she said. “I’m so glad you didn’t. It doesn’t matter about Wahl. He would have found me sooner or later. If not he, some one else like him, and they’ve already done their worst to me. That is what I was foolish not to know.”

  The note of despair was in her voice that always struck such terror into Consuelo, and Sherry felt panic race through him.

  “Look here, Jacqueline!” he said, trying to speak sternly. “You’re not to talk that way! You get me? You’re not to think those kind of thoughts! You’ve done too much of it already. I’m with you now, and nothing—”

  She held up her hand to stop him. “Please, Sherry! You only make it harder for me. You only make it hurt all the more. Please go. Consuelo and I are going away—”

  He caught hold of her and turned her toward him, unconscious of his roughness.

  “I’m not going, and you’re not going away. Or if you do go, I’ll go with you!” he answered. “Your fight is my fight. Get me? They can’t do or say a thing to you without doing or saying it to me. You’re mine, and I’m yours. They can’t undo that, and neither can we.”

  It was a pathetic little laugh that answered him, but it held vestiges of life.

  “It makes me happy, Sherry, to hear you say that. But Jacqueline — your Jacqueline, that is — is dead and can’t ever come back to life, because nobody believes her. I learned that tonight.”

  “Good lord! But I believe you!” he retorted.

  “Do you, Sherry? I’m so grateful. But you must go away, because I bring only unhappiness to every one who loves me, and I don’t want to make you unhappy. Desmio — Jack Calhoun — Consuelo — now you. It’s too much, Sherry! And Wahl — Wahl nearly dies trying to reach me. I bring misfortune to every one.”

  Sherry stared at her, utterly, absolutely sure of his own mind, but wondering what to say. She recognized the consternation in his face, knew she hurt him, and was much more sorry for him than for herself. Tears suddenly blinded her eyes and ran down her face unheeded.

  “Sherry dear, do go! Will you please go? Your father will not forgive you if you love me. If I hurt you any more than I have done already I couldn’t bear it. I love you. See — I tell you, dear, I love you. And if you love me, you will let me go away—”

  Sherry’s answer died still-born. There came from close at hand the roar and stutter of a big car being driven uphill. Headlights blazed around the bend.

  “Who now? That’s not my dad’s car,” Sherry muttered. “Maybe it’s reporters from one of the other papers,” he said, throwing his arm around Jacqueline.

  “Come on, sweetheart — back to the cabin! I won’t let ’em in.”

  He almost carried her up the steps. But the car came roaring in through the gap, and he had hardly locked the door when a man’s fist struck on it and he heard his father’s voice:

  “Come on now, Sherry — open the door!”

  He turned the key again, then turned his back and walked to mid-room, beside Jacqueline, where he swung himself around and stood to face his father with his jaw set tight and both fists clenched. Consuelo was sitting on a chair beside Wahl, but rose to her feet when Mansfield entered, closely followed by Dad Lawrence and John Miro. Miro bowed to Jacqueline, undid his overcoat, and walked to the corner of the fireplace, where he stood erect, like a man in armor. Mansfield stood silent, with his back to the door, glancing from Sherry to Wahl and again from Wahl to Sherry. No one spoke for thirty seconds.

  It was Wahl who broke the silence. “Chief!” he yelled. “I’ve got her! Get to the phone — quick! O.K. that story! Then spill ’em a follow-up — have ’em put a live man on the other end! Here she is! Caught in your cabin with your son! Didn’t I tell you she’d vamp Sherry? Watch her, or she’ll—”

  Sherry put his clenched fist close to Wahl’s nose. “Shut up!” he commanded, “or I’ll finish you, you beast!”

  Wahl began to swear excitedly at
Sherry, but Dad Lawrence picked up a towel, gagged Wahl with it, and held his head down on the pillow. Sherry turned again to face his father:

  “Long live the Tribune!” he said grimly; and Miro, over by the fireplace, chuckled.

  “Did you do that to Wahl?” demanded Mansfield. “Did he hurt you? Did he attack you?”

  “No. I wish he had. Then I’d have killed him!”

  “Why?”

  “Because he should be killed! He’s all but killed her,” Sherry answered, with a jerk of the head toward Jacqueline but meeting his father’s gaze steadily.

  “May I ask what possible concern that is of yours?” Mansfield tried to keep the sneer out of his voice, but failed, and Sherry’s eyes blazed at him.

  “Sure!” he answered. “And I’ll tell you! She’s the girl I love, that’s all. So now you know where I come in.”

  “Sherry, my boy—” Mansfield was trying hard to master his emotion— “we’ll have to talk that over later. When a young girl has a reputation—”

  “Stop!” Sherry held his hand up. “None of that, dad! Wahl made her reputation. Wahl is a liar!”

  “But it’s public property,” said Mansfield.

  “Yes, and whose fault’s that? But I’m not going to argue with you. I don’t give a damn what all the papers in Christendom have printed about her, or will print. She’s the girl I love. She has my absolute O.K. I’m going to marry her.”

  “You’re not!” said Mansfield; and once more John Miro chuckled, striking a match on the chimney-stones to light a cigarette.

  It was almost as if the match had set a light to Jacqueline! The spirit returned to her eyes. Before Sherry could prevent her she stepped forward toward Mansfield, and the tragedy written on her face made even him look at her with a changed expression. Dad Lawrence, with his hand on the towel over Wahl’s mouth, was almost crying. John Miro burned his fingers with the match.

  “Sherry is not going to marry me, Mr. Mansfield — because I am not going to let him. I have been telling him that, but he will not listen.”

  Her voice sounded very tired, and Consuelo made a move toward her. Mansfield glanced at Sherry.

  “That seems final, doesn’t it?” he said abruptly.

  Sherry stepped in front of Jacqueline and faced his father more angrily than ever. Jacqueline felt Consuelo’s arms behind her and almost collapsed into them. Dad Lawrence left off holding Wahl and came to the rescue with a chair on which Jacqueline collapsed entirely, laying her head back against Consuelo’s bosom and closing her eyes.

  “Final?” exploded Sherry. “This is final — what you’re hearing from me now. You, and the other newspapers, have pretty nearly killed her. If you don’t do every damn thing you can to put her right again before the world, then I’m through with you, not her! That’s final! I’m on her side forever. Watch me, if you don’t believe it!”

  He turned toward Jacqueline — tried to thrust Consuelo aside and take her place — failed, might as well have tried to shove a battle-ship — laid a hand on Jacqueline’s shoulder — and once more faced his father.

  Mansfield snorted. “How come that you think you know so much about her?” he asked, making no effort this time to disguise the sneer. Sherry glared back at him.

  “Good God! Look at her! Dad, are you crazy? Use your eyes! Here she is! This is the girl you’ve been flaying alive — this one — here! This is Jacqueline Lanier!”

  “Aye, there she is!” Wahl broke in, trying to struggle off the couch. “Go to it, Chief! Grab the phone, man—” Dad Lawrence jumped for the towel again, Wahl’s yell died down to smothered murmurs, and then ceased.

  Mansfield conceded Sherry’s point to the extent of scowling at Jacqueline again, his brows meeting over his eyes and his expression like that of a scientist studying a vicious insect.

  “I will listen to her if she has anything she’d care to say,” he volunteered ungraciously. “I’ve heard her once,” he added.

  “When?” demanded Sherry, but did not wait for an answer. “Jacqueline dear,” he said, leaning over her, “tell dad what you told me — will you? Tell him all that happened — please — for my sake! Dad, for God’s sake listen to her! And look while you listen! Does she look as if she could lie, even if she would? Jacqueline dear — tell him — won’t you!”

  Jacqueline looked up at Sherry and sighed, feeling she would rather die than drag that awful past before a man who listened almost against his will. She had thought her pride was dead, but it was not. Pride urged her to refuse. But she would have cut off her right hand for Sherry, even as she had cut out her heart for him. Mansfield was staring at her, and that made it worse. She could not think connectedly. Where should she begin?

  “Please, dear, won’t you tell him?” Sherry urged. She glanced up at Sherry again, and began playing with the heavy locket on the gold chain.

  “Desmio—”

  Her voice broke into a sob and she faltered — stopped. Not even for Sherry’s sake could she force herself to drag Desmio’s name through the mud to oblige a stranger. She was not crying. There were no tears. She simply leaned back against Sherry’s arm and could not go on — had reached the limit of emotion and endurance.

  “Who is Desmio?” demanded Mansfield, and John Miro threw his cigarette into the fire. He stepped forward, as if to join in the discussion, but said nothing. Consuelo gave him no time.

  Wrath — boiling, royal, fearless wrath took hold of Consuelo then, and even Mansfield (terrible himself in wrath) flinched in front of her.

  “Be quiet now, honey-lamb!” she said with one swift turn of tenderness, for Jacqueline had felt rather than seen the coming storm and made the beginning of a move to protest. “I’ll tell him!” With one shove not much less violent than a blow Consuelo thrust Sherry away. Then she stood behind the chair, leaning forward over it, fixing her eyes on Mansfield’s.

  “Look!” she commanded. “She was born into my arms. I’ve been with her almost every hour since then, except when she was in the convent. She’s as innocent and sweet and good now, as she was that day I first set eyes on her. You and your newspapers! I’ve read your lies! Look! See what your lies have done to her!”

  Jacqueline tried to protest again, but Consuelo threw both arms around her, kissed her, glared around the room and back at Mansfield.

  “You ask who’s Desmio,” she snorted. “A better man than ever you’ll be! It was her name for Don Andres Miro. He’s the gentleman who raised her in his home — and was that proud of her — and loved and worshiped her so well that, when he knew he was dying, he asked her to marry him. He knew her! He understood her! Since she was three years old she’d been better than a daughter to him. He couldn’t make her his heir any other way, so he took that means to provide a proper mistress for his great estates, and to make sure she would never lack for anything!”

  Wahl stuck his head up over the end of the couch, tried to struggle to his feet, and shouted:

  “How about the handsome lover Jack Calhoun?”

  Dad Lawrence used the towel again, although Mansfield made a gesture of disapproval.

  “Yes — what of Calhoun?” asked Mansfield.

  “That cockerel! That jackanapes!” Consuelo almost screamed her answer at him. “He was like the rest of you! He hunted her! He saw a flower and craved to pluck it! He was a beast like you! A monster! A young spendthrift! I know twenty girls he’s ruined! He’d liked to have married this lamb, and he’d have ruined her life as you’ve done, only she’d have nothing to do with him, and I saw to it that he never once — not once! — saw her alone, until her wedding day, when he sneaked in. My back was turned. I’d seen him in the garden. I was looking for gentlemen who’d throw him in the horse-pond. That was how he sneaked into her bedroom. Don Andres must have seen him go in there. And when Don Andres went to protect Miss Jacqueline, Calhoun shot him.”

  Consuelo paused for breath, gulped once or twice, and went on:

  “But he was better than you are. He had s
hame! He shot himself! You stand there proud of your dirty work! That beast — that Clinton Wahl — was sneaking like a thief about the house, and he was into the bedroom ahead of me. There the poor darling stood — with the gentleman who should have been her husband in the next five minutes, shot dead at her feet — and Calhoun with his brains on the bed-spread — and that beast Wahl hanging on to her wrist, snarling at her, trying to make her talk to him! Wanted her to tickle his ear with information! I gave him some! He followed us to my room, where I put the poor darling to bed, and threatened us through the keyhole, until one of the nigger footmen knocked him down.

  Then he tried to get in through the bedroom window, until a gardener chased him! Then he wrote those lies; and a paper in New Orleans printed them — and she — what else could she do but run away? Think of it, you — you — devil! Can you think? Have you any heart in you? Do you know what it means to be brought up by a gentleman amid refinement — sheltered, and looked up to by the folk of half a dozen counties — and then to see that filth printed about you in a newspaper that goes into people’s homes? Maybe you wouldn’t hide yourself; you haven’t the pride or decency! You don’t know what innocence means! She ran away. And I went with her, to look after her — for I’d cut off both hands and put my eyes out any minute, if that ‘ud do her one bit of good. And at that, I don’t love her more than all the rest of ’em who knew her!”

  It was Consuelo’s hour; the climax of seventeen years devotion. Never before had she addressed an audience, never before had she been quite bereft of meekness. She faced that tribunal, and scorned it as unreservedly as she hoped someday to stand and be judged at the world’s end.

  She told all the story of the flight to San Francisco, of Jacqueline’s bravery, of the debt to Ramon and Jacqueline’s insistence on dancing with Ramon, in order to pay the debt; and then of Wahl’s invasion of the stage in the effort to uncover her identity.

  “The beast would like to strip her naked!” she screamed. “And you’d like to print pictures of it! You dogs! You’ve crucified her! And all the while that poor frightened honey-lamb was struggling to pay her debt and hide from your dirty lies, you were printing more lies about her, for the mob to read and gloat over, and to pay you nickels!”