by Rex Beach
II
The physical comfort of his club was most agreeable after his recentordeal, but he enjoyed it only a few days, then began to look about fora suitable place in which to end his grim comedy. He selected the spotwith little delay--a sharp turn in a hillside road that wound down fromthe heights near Spuyten Duyvil--he had often passed it in summer andknew the danger well. If his automobile went over the edge, now that theroads were icy, who could say it was not accidental?
He did not advise Muriel of his return, fearing to trust himself eitherto write or to telephone, but spent much time in front of the moroccocase with its three photographs, longing desperately to see her and thechildren.
When he felt that an auspicious time had arrived, he 'phoned his friend,Dr. Herkimer, and invited himself to dinner. Herkimer was delighted, anda few evenings later the clubman motored out toward Yonkers, where hewas made welcome and spent an agreeable evening.
"Where's your chauffeur?" the doctor inquired as his guest drew on hisfur coat and driving-gloves, preparatory to leaving.
"I let him go to-night. I thought I'd enjoy running the machine, for achange."
"The roads are bad; be careful you don't skid on the hills. I nearlywent over to-day."
Murray promised to heed the warning, and a few moments later was glidingtoward the city.
The beauty of this cold, sharp night was inspiriting; the moon wasbrilliant; the air was charged with life and vigor. It gave him a thrillto realize that he was sweeping to probable death; that nothing nowcould intervene to thwart him, and while, of course, there was theunpleasant possibility that a plunge over the declivity might do no morethan maim him, he had studied the place carefully and intended to reducethat chance to a minimum by driving his car down the hill withsufficient velocity to hurl it far out over the edge. There wererailroad tracks beneath; anything short of instant death would bemiraculous.
As he came out upon the heights at last it occurred to him that he wasbehaving very well for a man about to die. His hand was steady, hisheart was not greatly quickened, he was absolutely sane and healthy andfull of the desire to live. A short distance from the crest he stoppedhis machine, then sat motionless for a few moments drinking in thebeauty of the night and taking his farewell of Muriel. When he hadarrived at peace with himself he fixed his wife's image in his mind,then, thrusting down the accelerator, let in the clutch. There was ajar, a jerk, a spasmodic shudder of the machinery; the motor went dead.
This unexpected interruption affected Murray oddly, until he realizedthat after stopping the car he had neglected to shift his gears toneutral. With an imprecation at his stupidity he clambered out andcranked the motor. When it failed to start he primed his carbureter andcranked again. It was an expensive, foreign-built machine, and one turnshould have served to set it going, but, strangely enough, there was noexplosion. For fifteen minutes he did everything his limited knowledgepermitted, but the car remained stationary upon the crest of the hill, astubborn, lifeless mass of metal.
Evidently that jerk had wrought havoc with some delicate adjustment, hereasoned, perhaps the wiring, but it was too dark to diagnose just wherethe trouble lay. It was cold, also, and his numb fingers refused to beof much assistance. He gave over his efforts finally, and stared aboutwith a troubled look in his eyes. This was childish, utterly idiotic. Hewanted to laugh, but instead he cursed, then cranked the motor viciouslyuntil the sweat stood out upon his forehead.
An hour later he was towed into town behind a rescue-car summoned bytelephone from the nearest garage. As he left his machine to board aSubway train, the mechanic announced:
"Maybe it was a good thing you broke down before you hit that hill,boss. There was a bad accident at the turn, to-day; the police are goingto close the street till spring."
Murray was not superstitious, but, recalling his many failures atGoldfield, he decided he would make no further attempt to do away withhimself by means of his motor-car. Now that this particular road wasclosed to traffic, he knew of no other place so favorable to hisproject, and, inasmuch as the time was growing short, to be onlypartially successful in his attempt would mean utter ruin. With nolittle regret, therefore, he made up his mind to fall back upon poison,which at least was certain, even though possessed of obvious drawbacks.
His experience with DeVoe had rendered him a bit cynical regarding thevalue of friendship, hence it was with no fear of a checkmate that hetelephoned to Dr. Herkimer and made an appointment for that afternoon.When the doctor arrived at the club, Murray laid the matter before himin a concise, cold-blooded manner, and was relieved to hear him voiceexactly the words DeVoe had used.
"What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to call here for me to-morrow morning. You will find me deadin my bed. I want you to examine me and call it heart failure orwhatever you think best. Your word will be sufficient; there will be nosuspicion, no further examination, at least, until the poison I intendto use will have had time to disappear or change its form."
"And why should I do this?" The doctor looked his friend over oddly.
"Here is one reason which I hope is sufficient." Murray held out apromissory note for the same amount as the one he had executed forDeVoe.
Herkimer took it, then, as he read the figures, his face paled. Crushingit in his palm, he rose, and in a voice harsh with fury unloosed astream of profanity that surprised his hearer.
"You contemptible, short-bred loafer!" he concluded. "What do you takeme for? What makes you think I'd do such a rotten thing as that?"
Murray smiled. "You'll _have_ to, old man. It isn't pleasant, of course,but you won't allow Muriel and the children to lose that money. I likeyour spirit, but I shall kill myself just the same, and it's up to youto see that they are not ruined."
Again Herkimer became incoherent.
"Oh, swear as much as you please, I'm going to do it, nevertheless. I'vemade a wretched failure of everything else, but I intend to right one ofmy wrongs while there is time."
"Right! Wrong!" bellowed the physician. "Damn it, man! You're asking meto help you steal a million dollars. Does that occur to you?"
"The end justifies the means in this case. You're not rich. Thattwenty-five thousand--"
Herkimer flung the paper at the speaker.
"Well, if you won't take my money, you'll have to help me, outof friendship. At nine o'clock to-morrow morning I shall be dead.Knowing the truth and all it means, you'll _have_ to come.You--_can't--stay--away_."
"Oh, is that so?" the doctor mocked, furiously. "I'll show you whether Ican or not." He jerked his watch from his pocket and consulted it."There's a train for Boston in twenty minutes and I'm going to take it.I couldn't get back here in time even if I wanted to. Now, kill yourselfand be damned to you." He seized his hat and rushed out of the room,slamming the door behind him.
A moment later Murray heard a taxi-cab whir noisily away from theclub-house door.
Manifestly, there were more difficulties in the way of this enterprisethan he had counted upon. Without the co-operation of some reliablephysician the clubman dared not do away with himself in New York;coroners are curious, medical attention is too prompt, he was too wellknown, the very existence of that tremendous amount of life insurancewould lead to investigation. He decided to go hunting, and he knew justthe right place to go, too, he thought.
Several years before he had joined a gunning club which owned a vastexpanse of rice-fields and marsh lands in North Carolina, and, knowingthe place thoroughly, he concluded that it offered perfect facilitiesfor such an action as he contemplated. Accordingly, he packed his guns,wired for a guide, and boarded a train for the South that very night. Inhis pocket he carried a vial containing twenty-five grains of powderedcocaine.
The club launch met him at Boonville, the nearest station, and duringthe twenty-mile trip down the Sound he learned all he wished to know.The shooting was well-nigh over; there were no other members at theclub-house; he would have the place all to himself.
For s
everal days he hunted diligently, taking pains to write numerousletters to his friends, and among others to Muriel. It was his firstletter since their parting, and the strain of holding his pen withinformal bounds was almost too much for him. It was a pity she would neverunderstand his motives in doing this thing, he reflected. It was a pityhe had never understood his own feelings before it was too late.Manlike, he had thrown away the only precious thing of his life whilesearching for counterfeit joys, and, man-like, he regretted his follynow that he had lost her.
That evening he informed his guide that he intended to hunt by himselfon the following morning, and in answer to the old negro's warningassured him that he knew the channels well and was amply able to handlea canoe.
He rose early, forced himself to eat a substantial breakfast, for thesake of appearances, then set out in his Peterboro. The morning waschilly and he had purposely donned a heavy sweater, shell vest, leathercoat, and hip-boots. He paddled down the river for a mile or more, thenlet his craft drift with the current. Far away on one horizon was adark, low-lying fringe of pines marking the mainland; two miles toseaward sounded the slow rumble of the restless Atlantic; on every handwere acres upon acres, miles upon miles of waving marsh-grass interlacedwith creeks and channels; nowhere was there a sign of human life.
He took the little bottle from his pocket, reached over the side andfilled it with water. He replaced the cork and shook the vial until thewhite powder it contained was thoroughly dissolved. There weretwenty-five grains of it, eight fatal doses, and he had seen that it wasfresh. This time there could be no question of failure, he reasoned. Norwas there much chance of discovery, for after that drug had remained inhis body for a few hours it would be exceedingly difficult ofidentification, even at the hands of an expert toxicologist. But therewere no experts in this country, no doctors at all, in fact, this sideof Boonville, twenty miles away.
He marveled at his coolness as he flung the cork into the stream andraised the bottle to his lips. His pulse was even, his mind wasuntroubled. He drank the contents, filled the bottle and let it sink;then rose to his feet, and, bearing his weight upon the gunwale of hiscanoe, swamped it.
Burdened as he was with shells and hunting-gear he sank, but the coldwater sent him fighting and gasping to the surface again. The blindinstinct of self-preservation mastered him and, being a powerfulswimmer, he struck out. He had planned too well, however. His bootsfilled, his clothing became wet and he went down for a second time. Thencommenced a senseless, terrible struggle, the more terrible because theman fought against his own determination. He rose slowly to the surface,but the shore was far away, the canoe, bottom up, was out of reach. Hegasped wildly for breath as his face emerged, but instead of air heinhaled water into his lungs. He choked, horrible convulsions seizedhim, his limbs threshed, his ears roared, his chest was bursting. Herose and sank, rose and sank, enduring the agony of suffocation, all thetime fighting with a strong man's desperation. After a time he seemed tohear shouting; something tugged and hauled at him; he discovered hecould breathe again. His senses wavered, left him, returned; he sawfaces bending above him. A moment later he heard his name spoken, thenfound himself awash in the bottom of a gamekeeper's batteau.
As in a dream he heard his rescuers explain that they had been out insearch of poachers and had rounded the bend below in time to behold himstruggling for his life. They were hurrying him back to the club-housenow as fast as arms and oars could propel them, and after he had gainedsufficient strength he sat up.
He strove to answer their excited questions, but could not speak. Astrange paralysis numbed his vocal cords; he could not swallow; histongue was thick and unmanageable. This silence alarmed the wardens, butMurray knew it to be nothing more than a local anaesthesia due to thecontact of the cocaine. He became conscious of feeling very wretched.
They helped him up to the club-house, and on the way he caught glimpsesof horrified black faces. He saw the superintendent preparing to send toBoonville for a doctor, but, knowing that the launch had already left,calculated the time it would take for a canoe to make the trip, and wasvaguely amused to realize that all this excitement was useless. Heexperienced a feeling of triumph at the knowledge that he had succeededin spite of all.
A short time later he was in bed, packed in warm blankets and hot-waterbags, but through it all he maintained that distressing dumbness.Despite the artificial heat his hands and feet tingled, as if asleep,then became entirely numb, and he reasoned that the cocaine had begun toaffect his circulation. He noted how the chill crept upward slowly,showing that the drug was working. On the mantel opposite he saw Murielsmiling at him from the morocco case and realized that she was verybeautiful. After a time her outlines became less distinct, which toldhim that his optic nerve was becoming affected. Next the contents of theroom grew hazy. That was quite as it should be.
He was much interested to note his heart action, which by now had becomevery erratic. Every pulsation that ran through him sounded as plainly inhis ears as a drum-beat. He noticed that they were regular for a time,then gradually increased in speed until his heart raced like a runawaymotor, then ceased suddenly, began again slowly, faintly, grew slowerand fainter, until with every flutter he thought, "This is the end!"
When this phenomenon had been repeated time after time the sick manendeavored to assist the poison's effect. At each feeble recovery of hisheart he held his breath and strained with all his might, striving byevery force of will to stop the systolic action.
As he had often heard that men live again their evil deeds in the hourof dissolution, and while he had perhaps more than the average number ofsins upon his soul, he determined to die thinking only of pleasantthings, if possible. He recalled his wedding-day, and pictured Muriel asshe had appeared that morning. How sweet and gentle she had been, what awonderful time it had proved for him. They had sailed for theMediterranean on the following morning, landing at Naples, where theyhad spent a week. From there they had gone to Rome for three dreamlikemonths and then to Nice and to Cairo, all the time in a lovers'paradise. From Egypt they had turned back to Morocco. Yes, Morocco, andhow she had loved it there. Thence they had journeyed--where? To Spain,of course. Murray realized that his mind was working more slowly, whichmeant that the circulation to his brain was becoming sluggish. In a fewmoments he would be unable to think at all, it would be over--Murielwould be rich again. She was still young; she might marry some good man.From Spain they had gone by rail to--Paris? No, the Riviera--It was verydifficult to think. In Germany, he remembered, they had taken an oldcastle for the--From Germany they had gone--gone. Yes. Muriel was--gone!
* * * * *
Murray awoke to find a trained nurse at his bedside. He was still in hisroom at the club, and after a time reasoned that the cocaine must beworking very slowly. At the first words the nurse laid a hand upon hislips, saying:
"Don't speak, please. You have been very ill." Stepping to the door, shecalled some one, whereupon a man came quickly. Murray recognized himinstantly as the famous Dr. Stormfield. They had met here three yearsprevious and shot from the same blind.
"Hello, Murray!" the doctor began. "I'm glad you came around finally.You've given us the devil of a fight."
"How long--have I been ill?" whispered the sick man.
"Two days; unconscious all the time. Lucky for you that I ran down for alittle shooting and happened to be on the launch from Boonville themorning you upset. We picked up your messenger on his way to town, and Igot here just in time. Now don't talk. You're not out of danger by anymeans." That evening the physician explained further: "You must havesuffered a terrible shock in that cold water. I never saw a case quitelike it. Your heart puzzled me; it behaved in the most extraordinarymanner."
"You say I'm not out of danger?"
"Far from it. Your heart is nearly done for, and the slightest exertionmight set you off. If you got up, if you raised yourself off the bed,you might--go out like that." Stormfield snapped his fingers.
"Yes." The doctor looked at his patient curiously. "Would you like tohave her come--"
"No, no!" A frightened look leaped into Murray's eyes. "That's notnecessary, you know." After a time he said: "Leave me, please. I'mtired."
When the doctor had closed the door he lifted himself to his elbow,swung his feet out upon the floor and stood up; then, faint as he was,he began to stoop and raise himself, flexing his arms, meanwhile, as ifperforming a calisthenic exercise. He was possessed by the one idea,that he must succeed while there was still time.
The nurse found him face downward upon his bed and sounded a quickalarm. All that night Stormfield sat beside him, his eyes grave, hisbrow furrowed anxiously. At intervals a woman came to the door, then ata sign from the watcher disappeared noiselessly. Thereafter Murray wasnever left alone.
A day or two later he complained of this over-attention, saying that thenurse's constant presence annoyed him, but Stormfield paid no attention.After a time the physician startled him by inquiring, abruptly:
"See here, Murray, what did you take?"
"I don't understand."
"Yes, you do."
"Why--What makes you think I took anything?"
"Come, come! I'm a specialist; I have some intelligence."
There was a pause, then the sick man finally admitted, "I tooktwenty-five grains of cocaine."
"_Twenty-five grains!_ God! It's incredible! Eight grains is the largestdose on record. You're dreaming, or else the drug was stale."
"I was particular to see that it was fresh."
Stormfield paced the room, shaking his head and muttering. "I wouldn'tdare report such a thing; I'd be called a faker, and yet--there are nohard-and-fast laws of medicine." He stopped and stared at his patient."What the devil prompted you to do it--with such a wife?"
"That's just it," the latter cried, miserably. "Oh, you've done for hera great injury by saving me, Doctor. But I won't allow it. I--won't!"
"I see!" The doctor went to the door, where he motioned some one toenter.
A woman rose from her chair in the hall and came swiftly to the bedside.Her face showed the signs of a long and sleepless vigil, but her eyeswere aflame with a hunger that held Butler Murray spellbound and amazed.
"_You!_" he said, weakly. "When did you come?"
"I have been here for days," she answered. "Did you think I could stayaway?"
"My--Muriel." He held up his shaking arms, whereupon she knelt and tookhis tired head to her breast.
"I thought I was doing right," he confided, after he had told hereverything, "but I see now that I was all wrong."
"God will name the day," she declared, simply, "and until He does no mancan say 'I will.'"
"Are you quite sure you have acted wisely in showing me my folly?Remember we are poor. Even yet I might make you rich again, for there istime, and--I'm not worth this great sacrifice."
"Sacrifice? This is the day of our triumph, dear. When we had all thoseother riches we never knew contentment, love, or happiness. Now we canstart again, with nothing but ourselves and our children. We won't havetime to be unhappy. Are you willing to try with me?"
He stroked her soft hair lovingly and smiled up into her eyes. "DeVoewas right, there _is_ a Power. I shall pray God every day to spare me,sweetheart, for now I want to live."
TOLD IN THE STORM