He began to walk—then to stumble—then to run. He leaped the little hillocks and sprouting tufts of nettles. He went like the wind and puffed the air as if to drive great argosies before him. He rushed upon the town in an ecstasy of hunger. Through street after street he pounded, toward the busy sounds of horses and harness and grumbling wheels and men’s cheerful voices and the maddening, all-pervading smell of mutton and onions that the fat boy dreaded might be in his mind alone.
“Hungry—hungry!” he grunted. “Must eat—”
“And why not?” murmured a voice that seemed to come from the night itself. “And why not, my young friend?”
He stopped, falling almost to his knees. A figure was standing in his path—a sturdy, squarish man with a large, black clubfoot. “Sorley!” moaned the fat boy, by way of explanation for everything—his circumstance, his tragic appetite and his right to pity. “I’m Sorley—”
“Sorley?” The voice contained a thrill of excitement.
“Hungry—food—for the love of God—please!”
“What are you doing here?”
“Mister Brett—always after me—no rest—don’t know why—help me—help me—must eat!” The boy was almost incoherent with his unnatural hunger and exhaustion. Lights danced in the air and among them were the stranger’s eyes. He swayed as if he would fall.
“My poor boy, poor boy!” whispered the inquiry agent, putting out a hand to support him. “I never thought—I never guessed he would act so soon! Come—come!”
He led him through the front parlor of the inn and up the front stairs, thus avoiding the more popular back. Mr. Raven was trembling uncontrollably at this terrific turn his adversary had taken, and at how fate had directed his steps to intercept it.
Once in his room, he ordered a plate of mutton and onions for Sorley and laid him on the narrow bed to rest until his supper came. Then he sat and watched him, while working away to accommodate him more precisely in the close-woven design.
At last there came a knock on the door to announce the mutton was outside.
“Here, my poor friend—eat,” murmured the inquiry agent.
Once or twice, almost timidly, Mr. Raven asked him questions, skillfully innocent questions of nothing in particular—and of Mr. Brett. But it was of no use. Mr. Parrish’s powder had so multiplied Sorley’s appetite that the boy could do nothing but eat rapidly, fiercely and to the total exclusion of the world. So the inquiry agent held his peace till Sorley was done. Then he asked him with great gentleness if he had anything to say, to confess. The word “confess” was very important to Mr. Raven, as he’d always found its very softness tended to unlock the most obdurate lips.
Sorley stared at the stranger from the night who had taken him in and fed him. He peered about the little room and heard the faint jingle of harness from below. All seemed dreamlike, and most of all the stranger himself with the great black boot that put a period to his short left leg. Perhaps there was something nightmarish about him, but Sorley could not think ill of anyone who gave him food.
Confess . . . confess. The word ran around his brain like oil. Then the dreadful memory of his flight to the Downs rose up within him and he remembered his multitude of guilt. It pressed against his chest like a banquet of sin. Confess . . . confess . . .
The stranger, sitting quietly by the window, outlined against the dark sky, seemed like a graven image. Such of his face as Sorley could make out seemed gentle and innocent, so Sorley confessed.
At first he was hesitant, bleating only of little pilferings at home. Then he grew bolder and gave up larger misdeeds. They seemed to keep each other company, his sins, for they ventured forth quite easily when together. They lost their shyness and came tumbling out. Sins of the day, sins of the night—everything, everything!
Sorley panted with excitement as he rid himself of all his burdens. The sense of lightness and perfect freedom was intoxicating, and had he been able, he would have invented fresh crimes for the joy of confessing them. At last he came to the end. There was nothing more left. A great tiredness came over him, and at the the same time, a vaguely nagging sense of shame. Uneasily he peered toward the still figure of the stranger in the window. To his relief and joy there was no revulsion on his face, no anger, even. There was only a small, sad smile. So Sorley sighed and went to sleep.
The inquiry agent stood up and crossed, very quietly, to the bed. He looked down on Sorley. This young human being had emptied out the contents of his darkest heart without restraint. Mr. Raven shook his head in bewilderment. Was it all so little, so trifling? Was there nothing blacker than this mere blush of gray? Was there no—etcetera?
For some minutes he stood looking down. Then he covered Sorley with a blanket and settled himself down in the uncomfortable chair to pass away the night. In a little while he too was asleep and their snores mingled harmoniously. So too did their dreams in which they danced as light as thistledown together—the boy with the monstrous belly and the man with the monstrous boot.
Fourteen
MRS. BUNNION HAD taken it on herself to write to Sir Walter that his son had run away. She had seen that her husband’s sense of discretion had so gone to his head that even when the boy failed to return that night, he still hoped to avoid a scandal by keeping the affair within the confines of the school. So early next morning, she quietly sent a servant to hire a horse and ride over to Cuckfield with her letter. This done, she settled back with the cool satisfaction of a wife who has done her husband’s duty for him. She adopted an air of unshakable calm and in that way became a tower of strength to the headmaster.
“I don’t know what I would have done without you,” Dr. Bunnion was moved to say on more than one occasion. “If not for your support, my dear, the news of this tragedy would be all over the town by now—perhaps even in Cuckfield.”
Mrs. Bunnion patted her husband’s arm and smiled. If nothing else, the calamity of Sorley’s disappearance had served to draw the headmaster and his wife closer together than they’d been in years.
But the effect on the other husband and wife in the school had not been so happy. Major Alexander had become very agitated and irritable, and the continuing sight of his wife calmly sewing while the world went up in flames, enraged him.
“And what the devil are you making now, madam?” he muttered, as Mrs. Alexander shook out the shapeless yardage of white linen she was stitching at. “A shroud for your husband on Saturday?”
“Bitte?” said Mrs. Alexander, firmly retreating into her native tongue.
Baffled, he turned away and stared at himself in the long glass that Mrs. Alexander used for studying the effects of her dressmaking. In it he saw a face seamed and shadowed with fear and distress. The mine he had so cunningly laid was in terrible danger of exploding beneath him. The cursed duel loomed ahead and there seemed to be nothing that would now avert it.
Honor—honor! What quagmires and pitfalls it led him into! Because of honor he could not withdraw his challenge unless Dr. Bunnion met his condition and got rid of Brett. Now the vanishing of Sorley had put an end to that. Brett, furtive and under-handed as usual, had made himself indispensable. Because he’d been hanging about Sorley these last days, Dr. Bunnion clung to him as to a brother. Plainly he imagined that Brett had some special knowledge of Sorley’s habits that would lead to his return. So long as the baronet’s son was missing, there was no chance at all that Dr. Bunnion would dismiss Brett.
The man in the mirror was trapped, and bleakly the Major recognized himself as this luckless victim of honor. Even supposing there were other conditions he’d settle for—and in his present state, the Major could have thought of hundreds—his own impetuous nature had rendered them out of the question. He had already written to his son. Tomorrow night, most likely, Adam would be presenting himself, loud with the news of Mr. Brett’s dismissal—which would not have taken place—and louder still in his expectation of being employed in his stead. He knew there would be no keeping Adam quiet; not even
the abbot at Basingstoke had been able to do that.
The Major bowed his head and Mrs. Alexander, taking advantage of the space, held up her stitching to the mirror to study the way it fell. Thus when the Major looked again, it seemed for a moment there was a ghost over his shoulder—the ghost of himself.
“For God’s sake, keep that thing out of my sight!”
“Bitte?” said Mrs. Alexander.
Brokenly the Major realized his only hope lay in pressing on vigorously with the duel until the headmaster came to his senses and cried a halt.
At the first opportunity he took Mr. Brett on one side, and reminding him earnestly of his duties as a second and a friend, instructed him to inform Ralph Bunnion’s second that the duel would take place at eight o’clock on Saturday morning on the seashore opposite the Old Ship Inn. He chose this somewhat public place in the melancholy hope that Dr. Bunnion, when he heard of it, would be so alarmed at the prospect of the entire town’s turning out to watch that he’d accede to anything to prevent it. The more the Major thought about it, the more optimistic he became. He felt sure that in this way honor could at last be satisfied and he could live with himself on terms of mutual satisfaction and respect.
Soon after Mr. Brett had gone on his errand, which was about an hour before dinner, the Major seized the opportunity of remarking to Mrs. Bunnion that it seemed a shade negligent and even casual of Mr. Brett to leave the school when everyone was so concerned. Mrs. Bunnion nodded and said that she had every confidence that soon Mr. Brett would be leaving the school for good. Whereupon the Major reflected that honor, if pursued with sufficient industry, might still bring its own rewards.
Mr. Brett hastened through the town to get his unwelcome errand done with. A strong wind was blowing off the sea. The gulls were flying inland and it was possible to see a great distance over water. Plainly the fine weather was breaking up and Mr. Brett felt a sharp uneasiness for Sorley if he should be out in it. Indeed his concern for the fat boarder almost drove everything else out of his mind. Though he himself had suggested that the boy might have gone home, in his heart of hearts he didn’t really believe it. He had once met Sorley’s father.
The thought of fathers reminded him bitterly of the errand he was upon. So it was to be at eight o’clock on the seashore, with all the world looking on, that James Brett was to be revealed as the furtive scoundrel who had been acting for both the opposing parties in an affair of honor. No doubt there would be many who would imagine he had egged them on. Dully he wondered if Ralph Bunnion or the fiery Major would shoot him for his duplicity, or merely be content with kicking him out of the town. He thought of the bright contempt in Tizzy’s eyes, and that was worst of all.
“Oh God!” he whispered. “Let the sun fall down from the sky before those eyes of hers turn as hard as stone! But what can I do? If there’s a god in heaven—Zeus, Jupiter or Jehovah, I don’t care which!—tell me what I can do?”
He paused, and the sea wind seemed to blow fiercely right through his head as if to clear it of rubbish and weeds for some new seeding . . .
He entered the back parlor of the Old Ship at about a quarter after seven. It was uncommonly noisy and he recognized the matron of the poorhouse exchanging loud unpleasantries with everyone present. In particular she seemed very angry with a man with a clubfoot whom Mr. Brett had seen several times before. She kept accusing him of trying to take advantage of her and he looked horribly embarrassed. The rest of the parlor, being temporarily spared, were clearly enjoying his plight and Mr. Brett felt quite sorry for him as he was no match for the lady in her high mood. He wondered why the man didn’t leave, but it turned out he was waiting for a plate of mutton the landlord was perhaps deliberately taking his time about, for he kept winking with pleasure at each of the lady’s verbal thrusts. Then the man with the clubfoot happened to catch Mr. Brett’s sympathetic eye. Inexplicably he paled and muttered, “Pity from you, of all people!” Mr. Brett shrugged his shoulders and concluded that the man was weak in the head. Then he saw Frederick sitting in a corner and nursing his mahogany pistol case. He began to make toward him.
“Two-faced!” shouted Mrs. Bonney suddenly, and Mr. Brett stopped in his tracks as the chance remark struck home.
“Not fit to be in company with decent Christians!”
The man with the clubfoot gave a sickly smile and attempted to murmur something to the landlord, who grinned and nodded but did nothing more.
“There ’e goes!” warned Mrs. Bonney. “Watch ’im! Says one thing to your face and another be’ind your back! A Christian gentlewoman don’t know where she is with ’im. Oo’s drunk me brandy? Bleeding thieves! Oh Gawd, where am I?” She sat down heavily and peered about her. “Where are you, Mister Bonney? I can’t wait ’ere all night!”
Then she became quiet, but continued to gaze about her with some anxiety, as if she was worried she was waiting in the wrong place.
Mr. Brett stared at her; an idea was stirring in his mind. It was an idea of some desperation, but then desperate situations demanded desperate measures.
Desperate situations demand desperate measures. Sorley was starving again. His extraordinary benefactor seemed to have been gone for hours. All day he’d remained in the little room, waited on hand and foot by the curious Mr. Raven. Whenever he’d asked to go out, Mr. Raven had warned and begged him to remain where he was as he was in great danger. Mr. Raven never said what this danger was, but his manner put the fear of God into Sorley. He had known all about the visit of Dr. Harris to the school, and when Sorley had told him about the powder he had been given, Mr. Raven had looked very troubled and grave.
This seemingly supernatural piece of knowledge had alarmed Sorley still further and he obeyed Mr. Raven willingly. Though people might have called him a fool, he certainly wasn’t foolhardy, and anyway, Mr. Raven treated him so well. Sorley had never known such gentleness and even deference before. Toward afternoon he’d begun to gain in confidence and quite put on airs. He found himself rather enjoying lording it in this little kingdom with its view of the sea. It tickled him no end to see Mr. Raven clump about on menial errands so readily.
That was why he began to feel alarmed and desperate when Mr. Raven was gone so long for his supper. It wasn’t like him to keep Sorley waiting.
Sorley scowled and went to the door. The loud, angry voices he’d heard before had now subsided into a murmur. He opened the door. He remembered the way he’d come up. He wouldn’t be so silly as to risk those stairs. He smiled cunningly, and went down the back stairs.
“Sorley!” roared Mr. Brett. “Come here, boy!”
Fifteen
DESPITE THE VIGOR of the gale that rattled the windows and buffeted the doors, the relief and joy on Sorley’s return produced a burst of sunshine in almost every heart, Mrs. Bunnion and Major Alexander alone having slight reservations.
Though she would certainly never have wished Sorley ill, his untimely return presented Mrs. Bunnion with an unpleasant problem. Uncomfortably she watched her husband congratulating himself on the narrowness of his escape from an awkward and painful situation. Unfortunately, though he did not at present know it, he had not quite escaped. The servant who had taken Mrs. Bunnion’s letter to Cuckfield had returned to her with the murmured news that Sir Walter Sorley would be arriving tomorrow. She sighed. She did not care to think how her husband would take what he would surely regard as an unwarranted going behind his back. Like all weak men—and Dr. Bunnion was a weak man—he was apt to be indiscriminate in his anger and not pause to think.
Though considering the matter narrowly, Mrs. Bunnion was willing to admit that she had gone behind her husband’s back, but it was only because, at the time, he’d been facing the wrong way. After all, he should have written the letter himself and not left it to her sense of fitness and duty. Supposing the worst had happened and Sorley had not been found, what then? Where would the headmaster have been if his wife had not written her timely letter? And now, because of the merest chance
on Mr. Brett’s part, Dr. Bunnion would never appreciate what a treasure he had in his wife. Anger would blind and destroy his judgment.
If only Mr. Brett had had the decency to wait another day, even . . . The more she thought of it, the harder she found it not to dislike the interfering way he’d come between husband and wife. Much as she despised Major Alexander, she couldn’t help agreeing with him that the sooner Mr. Brett went the better it would be for the school.
As for the Major himself, he was bitterly disappointed in the lack of resolution shown by Dr. Bunnion, who now showered such esteem and gratitude on Mr. Brett that the Major felt quite sickened by it. Like all sly, furtive, and underhanded men, Mr. Brett had a gift for ingratiating himself at the expense of his betters.
“Very well done, Brett,” said the Major warmly during the evening. “Delighted it should have been you who found him. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer man!”
No matter what he thought privately of a man, the Major always believed in giving praise where it was due—or even where it wasn’t, for that matter, so long as it served a worthwhile purpose.
The Major was fighting desperately to save his honor, and if at times he suspected that his conduct did not appear entirely straightforward, he knew it was because honor was the hardest of taskmasters and demanded the cruelest of sacrifices. As Mr. Brett was the particular sacrifice he still had in mind, he did not spare himself in his efforts to catch him unawares.
Mr. Brett smiled gratefully. He was in that state of mind when all the world was goodness and every man a friend. Had Tizzy Alexander come in his way that evening, he would undoubtedly have swept her up in his arms and put out the lights in her eyes and the fire in her lips with kisses that extinguished only to rekindle. But Dr. Bunnion kept plying him with port and congratulations till gradually he sank beneath both.
The Strange Affair of Adelaide Harris Page 11