Chapter 11

The _Sea Tern_ had need to be a fast ship, and she lived up to requirements. The easterly wind sent her lightly before it, cutting sheer and quick through the roughened sea. With his arm in a sling of white linen, my father sat motionless, apparently passive and regardless of the flight of time. It was only when we veered in the wind and orders were shouted from forward that he looked about him.

"Your arm, Brutus," he said.

On deck the crew was at work about the long boat, and over the port rail, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, I could see our house, with a light burning in the window, flickering through the waving branches of the elms that half hid it. Nearer lay our wharf, a black, silent shadow. My father watched without a word. The anchor chain growled out a sharp complaint, and the anchor splashed into the tide.

"Mr. Aiken," said my father, "give orders to get under way in half an hour. When we land, the men will wait at the wharf, and be ready to enter the house when you call them. You shall come with me, my son. I can still show you something amusing and instructive."

"And I?" Mademoiselle demanded. "Shall you leave me here?"

He seemed to hesitate for a moment.

"Earlier in the evening, Mademoiselle," he replied, "I had given orders for my sloop to carry you to New Orleans. Your boxes will be taken from the house, and you will be taken on board from here. May you have a pleasant journey, and may your friends be well when you arrive."

"You mean it is good-by?" she asked, and her voice had a sound that reminded me of tears. "You mean we shall not meet again?"

He bowed low over her hand.

"Mademoiselle will be relieved to know we shall not," said my father gravely. "Let me hope you may always have more pleasant company."

She seemed about to speak again, but she did not. Instead, she turned silently away and left him, and a second later I saw her disappear in the shadow of the main-mast.

"Ah," said my father, "there is a woman for you. My son, in the side pocket of my coat you will find a snuff box. Would you kindly open it for me and permit me to take a pinch? And you, perhaps? No? It is a pleasant sedative."

He took a step nearer the rail, and the men about the long boat stiffened to attention.

"Get them into the boat, Mr. Aiken," he said, "You and I will sit in the stern, my son. Your arm, Brutus, so."

"Stand by to lower away," directed Mr. Aiken in a harsh undertone; and the blocks creaked and we were in the river.

The oars had been muffled, so that we moved to the wharf in silence.

"Land the men, and tell them to wait," said my father. "You shall come with us, Mr. Aiken, and you, my son, and you, Brutus."

We walked silently up the path, with Brutus and my father in the lead. Once he paused and listened, and then proceeded forward.

"I believe," said my father, "he is quite alone. Ha!"

He had stopped dead, and Brutus had leapt forward, crashing into a dense thicket of overgrown bushes.

"Put up your pistol, Ned," said my father. "Brutus has him."

There was a moment's silence, followed by a faint cry.

"Bring him here, Brutus," said my father. The bushes cracked again, and Brutus was back.

"Now who the devil may you be?" inquired my father, striding towards the figure that Brutus was holding, and then he paused, and in the dark I fancied he was reaching for his coat lapel.

"Lunacy, thy name is woman," said my father softly. "Will they never stay where they are placed?"

It was Mademoiselle whom Brutus had thrust before him.

"I came in the boat," she stammered brokenly. "I--"

"You wanted to see the end, my lady?" my father inquired. "Surely you should have known better, but it is too late now. You are going to be present at a harrowing scene, which I hoped to save you. Mr. Aiken, help the lady over the path."

And we proceeded to the house together. A minute later we made our way over the rough, unkempt grass which once marked our brick terrace. Brutus opened the door and we were in the dark hall, lighted by a square of candle light from the morning room. He paused again and listened, and then strode across the threshold. A blaze was burning high in the morning fireplace, and six candles were lighted on the center table, and seated before it, examining my father's papers, were my Uncle Jason and Mr. Lawton.

"Ha!" cried Mr. Lawton, springing to his feet and eyeing my father intently. "So you are here, Shelton, and every card in the deck."

He paused to nod and rub his hands.

"Yes, b'gad! There's the girl and there's the boy and there's the nigger. It was Sims' idea your getting on the boat. He's bright as a trap, Jason. I told you he was."

My father sighed a little sadly.

"He was indeed," he admitted.

My uncle surveyed him with his broadest smile, and his eyes twinkled with a malign amusement, that was not wholly pleasant.

"So here you are, George," he cried in a voice that seemed to shake with excitement. "God help you, but I won't or your son either, no, or the lady."

"Indeed?" inquired my father. "Pray go on, Jason. I had forgotten you were diverting, or is it one of your latest virtues."

A slight crease appeared between my uncle's eyes, and his face became a trifle redder.

"So you still are jovial," he said. "I admire you for it, George. Yes, I admire you, because of course you know what is going to happen to you, George, and to your son also. Perhaps you will wipe away that smirk of yours when a French firing squad backs you against a wall."

My father adjusted the bandage on his arm, and smiled, but his eyes had become bright and glassy.

"So you have quite decided to send me to France, Jason?" he inquired pleasantly. "Of course, I suspected it from the first. I knew you hated me, and naturally my son. I knew you never felt the same after our little falling out, when I found you forging--what am I saying?--reading the letter I sent to Mr. Aiken. Gad! but your face was pasty then, you sly dog--"

He paused and took a step toward him. He was a different man when he continued. It seemed as though some resistance in him was breaking down, as though the years of repression were falling away. A hot, dull red had come into his cheeks, and burned there like a fever. His whole body trembled, shaken by some emotion which I could not fathom. His voice grew sharp and discordant, his words hot and triumphant.

"Almost as pasty as when you challenged me to produce those damned bales of fur. Do you remember, Jason? The party here at this house--the music, the flowers? Oh, they were all there! And of course I had put the shavings on my boat. You could prove it, and you could too, Lawton, do you remember? And you could swear to it, and you could swear I had cheated you before, that I had stolen your card money. Oh, you caught me. You brought the wolf to bay and drew the sword of justice!"

Mr. Lawton half started from his seat.

"Be still, Shelton," he snapped, "or I'll have them gag you."

My father clenched his fist, drew a deep breath, and his voice lost its strident note.

"Ah, Lawton, Lawton," he said. "Will you always be impetuous? Will you never be subtle, but always crude, always the true rough diamond with the keen edge? No, you won't gag me, Lawton.

"And so you will send me to France, Jason, and my son too, criminals to justice. It is thoughtful of you to think of justice, but tell me, Jason. Is it I you hate, or my wife's money that you love? Tell me, Jason, I have often wondered."

My uncle's face also became a flaming red; the veins stood out on his temples. He tried to speak, but his words choked him.

"Sims," shouted Mr. Lawton. "Sims! Take him out! Take him away!"

My father raised his eyes to the ceiling and sighed.

"Ah Lawton," he said. "Is it possible that you did not know it? Can it be that you do not understand? Poor Sims is dead, Lawton, a brave man, but not of good physique. The evening was quite too much for him. Do not take it so hard, man! We all must die, you among the rest. You should have known me better, Lawton. You should have known I would not allow myself to be taken prisoner."

"What!" shouted Mr. Lawton. "What the devil are you then?"

The scene appeared to move my father, for he sighed again, and paused, the better to enjoy it.

"Only a poor man," he said, "only a poor chattel of the Lord's, a poor frail jug that has gone too often to the well. A poor man of a blackened reputation, who has been set upon by spies of France, and threatened in his own house, but who has managed to escape--" and his voice became sharp and hard.

"Take Mr. Lawton's pistol, Ned."

There fell a moment's silence in the room while my father, a little in advance of the rest of us, stared fixedly into my uncle's eyes.

"Set upon by spies," he said, "persecuted and driven. It has set me thinking, Jason. As I walked back here tonight, I still was thinking, and can you imagine what was on my mind? It was you, Jason, you and Lawton. And as I thought of you, my mind fell, as it naturally would, on holy things, and a piece of the Scripture came back to me. Think of it, Jason, a piece of the Holy Writ. Would you care to hear it?"

My father paused to adjust a wrinkle in his coat, and then his voice became solemn and sonorous, and he spoke the words with metrical precision.

"'To everything'," said my father, "there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. A time to be born and a time to die'."

He paused long enough to nod from one to the other.

"'A time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted'."

He raised his eyes to the ceiling again, and placed the tips of his fingers together.

"And 'a time to kill'," he concluded gently. His words died softly away in the quiet room.

"I have often thought of that passage," he continued. "Many and many a night I have repeated it to myself, under stars and under roof, and sometimes I have prayed, Jason. Oh yes, we all pray sometimes. Sometimes I have prayed for the time to come."

The red had gone out of my uncle's face, and Mr. Lawton was sitting rigid in his chair, his eyes glued on the slender figure before him.

"And now," said my father, in a tone that was as near to the pious as I ever heard him utter, "now it is here, and I thank thee, Lord."

"Good God!" gasped Mr. Lawton, in a voice that rose only a little above a whisper. "Do you mean to murder us?"

My father still stood motionless, but when he spoke again his voice had relapsed to its old genial courtesy.

"What a word for gentlemen to use!" he exclaimed in polite rebuke. "Murder you? Of course not, Lawton. I am simply about to propose a game. That is all, an exciting little game. Only one of us will die. Clear the large table of the papers, Ned. Toss them on the floor."

XVII

Of all the people in the room, my father alone retained his self-possession. My uncle's cheeks had sagged, and perspiration made them moist and shiny, and Mr. Lawton seemed bent and as wrinkled as though he had aged a dozen years.

"Brutus," said my father, "place the pistols on the table, the ones I gave you as we came on shore. Side by side, Brutus. The silver mountings look well against the dark mahogany. Do they not cheer you, Jason? And now, Brutus, a pack of cards from the bookshelves. It will be a pretty game, Lawton, as pretty a game as you have ever played."

"Good God! What are you going to do, Shelton?" stammered Mr. Lawton, and he raised a trembling hand to his forehead.

"You grow interested?" my father inquired. "I thought you would, Lawton, and now stand up and listen! And you too, Jason. Stand up, you dog! Stand up! The world is still rolling. Are you ill?"

And indeed, my uncle seemed incapable of moving.

"Perhaps you would prefer to sit," said my father politely. "I have known people who find it steadies them to fire across the table while seated in a chair. Your attention, then, and I will tell you the game. On the table are three pistols. One of them is loaded. The question is--which? They are all made by the same smith. And yet one is different. We shall find out which it is in a few minutes. Shuffle the cards, Lawton. You and Jason shall draw. The low number selects the first pistol, and is first to fire, and then the next. I shall take the last pistol, and we shall stand across the table, you and Jason where you are, while I stand over here. Brutus, give the cards to Mr. Lawton."

My father smiled and bowed. From his manner it might have been some treat he was proposing, some pleasant bit of sport that all knew ended in hilarity. Still smiling, he glanced from one to the other, and then towards Mademoiselle and me, as though seeking our approbation. Even with his bandaged arm and weather stained clothes, he carried himself with a gaiety and grace.

"Always trust in chance, my son," he said.

My uncle leaned forward, and drew his hand across his lips, his eyes blank and staring.

"And if you get the pistol?" he demanded hoarsely.

"In that case," replied my father, "Your troubles will be over, Jason. Pray rest assured--I shall attend to that. And then, when that is finished Brutus shall bring two other pistols, and Lawton and I shall draw again."

Mr. Lawton grasped the cards uncertainly.

"You give us the first two choices?" he demanded.

"The host naturally is last," said my father. "One must always be polite."

"Then you're mad," said Mr. Lawton bluntly. "Come, Shelton, step outside, and we'll finish it on the lawn."

"And I should undoubtedly kill you," said my father. "Pray do not tempt me, Lawton."

"I tell you, you're mad," said Mr. Lawton.

"I have been told that once before today," said my father. "And still I am not sure. I have often pictured this little scene, Lawton. We have only one thing to add to it. Now tell me if I'm mad."

My father had reached up to his throat, and was fumbling at his collar. When he drew away his hand, something glittered between his fingers. Silently he placed his closed fist on the table, opened it, and there was the gold locket which I had perceived in the morning. He pressed the spring, and the lid flew free. Mr. Lawton leaned forward, glanced at the picture inside, and then drew back very straight and pale.

"Come, Lawton," said my father gravely. "Which is it now--madness or an appeal for justice and retribution? With her picture on the table, Lawton, I have wondered--I have often wondered, Lawton--who will be the lucky man to draw the loaded pistol? Let us leave it there, where we can watch it before we fire. I have often thought that she would like it so. And now--" he nodded again and smiled,--"surely you will oblige me. Shuffle the cards, Lawton, and let the game go on."

Mr. Lawton bit his lower lip, fingered the cards uncertainly, and then tossed them in the fire.

"Come, come, Lawton," said my father sharply. "Where are your manners? Surely you are not afraid, not afraid of a picture, Lawton?"

"No," said Mr. Lawton, "I am not afraid."

"Ah," said my father, "I thought I knew you better. Another pack of cards for Mr. Lawton, Brutus. Let us trust, Lawton, that these will suit you better."

"You misunderstand me," said Mr. Lawton simply. "I am not going to play."

"Not going to play?" exclaimed my father, raising his eyebrows.

Slowly Mr. Lawton shook his head.

"You are far too generous, Shelton," he said. "If you shot me where I stand, you would only be giving me my fair deserts. If I had been in your place and you in mine, both you and Jason would have been dead ten seconds after I had entered the door."

"Don't be a fool, Lawton," cried my father, raising his hand. "Think what you are saying!"

"I have thought," he replied sharply. "The game is over, Shelton, and I know when I am beaten. We have not got the paper, Jason, and you remember what I said. If you failed to get it, I should tell the whole story, and now, by heaven, I will. Every man in town will know it tomorrow morning. I told you I would be shut out of this business, and I mean it, Jason."

On my father's face came something closer to blank astonishment than I had ever seen there. Something in the situation was puzzling him, and for the moment he seemed unable to cope with it.

"Lawton," he said slowly, "shuffle those cards, or I'll shoot you where you stand."

Mr. Lawton placed the cards on the table, and adjusted them thoughtfully.

"No, you won't," he replied. "I know you better than that. You would never draw a weapon on any man unless he had an equal chance, and I haven't, Shelton."

I had stepped forward beside him. Was there someone else at the bottom of the whole wretched business? Was it possible that my father had no hand in it? A glance at Mr. Lawton answered a half a hundred questions which were darting through my mind.

And my father was still staring in a baffled way, eyeing Mr. Lawton in silent wonder.

"So," he said, "you think I'll forgive you? Is it possible you are relying on my Christian spirit?"

"No," said Mr. Lawton, "I do not ask you to forgive me. I am saying I have stopped. That is all--stopped, do you understand me? I should nave stopped when Jason commissioned me to kill your son. I should have, if this affair with France was not beginning. Even then the business sickened me. What did I care about the money he stole from her? I did not want her money. What did I care if the boy suspected you had not stolen it, but that Jason had it all the time? I couldn't have killed him, because he had some slight glimmerings of sense."

A dozen dim suspicions clashed suddenly together into fact. I looked sharply at my father. He was nodding, with some faint suspicion of amusement.

"And so you did not," he said gently. "Your scruples do you credit, after all."

"It was just as well," said Mr. Lawton. "I thought the news your son was attacked would fetch you over. Jason did his best to hush it up, but I knew you would suspect. And you know what it would have meant to me if I could have sent you back to France."

And yet, for some reason, my father was strangely ill at ease. Like someone detected in a falsehood, he looked restlessly about him. For the moment his adroitness seemed to have left him. He made a helpless little gesture of annoyance.

"You say you have stopped?" inquired my father. "Then why not do so, Lawton, and stop talking. Do you think what you say interests me? Do you think I do not know the whole damnable business, without your raking it up again? Why should Jason have wished to be rid of me except for her money? Why should you have helped him, except--At least it was not for money, Lawton."

But Mr. Lawton did not heed my father's voice. His glance had come to rest again upon the locket on the table, and the hard lines about his mouth had vanished.

"And she never spoke to me, never looked at me again," he said.

My father started and looked at him quickly.

"Lawton," groaned my uncle, "are you out of your mind?"

Mr. Lawton turned sharp around and faced him with a scowl.

"I told you," he said harshly. "I told you to get me the paper, and I told you what would happen if you did not, and it is happening already, Jason. I am going to tell the story."

My uncle moved convulsively to his feet, and his voice was sharp and malignant.

"Do you suppose anyone will believe you?" he cried. "Do you fancy they will take your word against mine?"

"We will try it," said Mr. Lawton. "There are still people who wonder why Shelton stooped to the thing you accused him of. We certainly will try it."

"And if you do," said my uncle, "I will show it was she who did it--that it was she who urged him on. I'll tell them! D'you hear me? I'll tell them, and they'll take my word for it. They'll take my word!"

"God!" cried Mr. Lawton. "So that's the reason! So that's the trick you played. You dog! If I had only known--"

His face had become blanched with passion, and my uncle staggered back before his upraised hand, but Mr. Lawton did not strike. For a moment he stood rigid, and when he spoke he had regained his self-control.

"You will never tell it, Jason," he said slowly, and then he turned to my father, and inclined his head very gravely, and his voice was no longer harsh and strident.

"I often wondered why you left her so," he said, "and why you did not face it. You feared her name might be dragged in the mire! Because he threatened to bring her into that miserable business, you never raised a hand. I always knew you were a gentleman, but I did not know you were Don Quixote de la Mancha."

For the first time since the two had spoken, my father moved. He leaned across the table, picked up the locket very gently, and placed it in his coat. His eyes rested on Lawton, and returned his bow.

"Rubbish!" said my father. "One liar is bad enough, but why listen to two? We will leave her name out of the conversation. Perhaps I had other reasons for going away. Did they ever occur to you, Lawton? Perhaps, for instance, I was sick of the whole business. Did you ever think I might have found it pleasant to leave so uncongenial an atmosphere, that I was relieved, delighted at the opportunity to leave lying relatives, and friends who turned their backs? Faugh! I have kept the matter quiet for fifteen years, merely because I was too indolent to stand against it. I was too glad to see the cards fall as they did to call for a new deal. There I was, tied up to a family of sniveling hypocrites. Look at Jason, look at him. Who wouldn't have been glad to get away?"

And he bowed to my uncle ironically.

"Positively, I was glad to hear the crash. 'Very well,' I said, 'I am a thief, since it pleases you to think so.' Thieves at least are a more interesting society, and I have found them so, Lawton, not only more interesting, but more honest."

But somehow there was no ring of conviction to his words. His voice seemed unable to assume its old cynicism, and his face had lost its former placidity. It had suddenly become old and careworn. Pain and regret, sharp and poignant, were reflected there. His eyes seemed strained and tired, the corners of his mouth had drooped, and his body too was less erect and resolute. Something had been broken. For a moment, his mask and his mantle had dropped where he could not find them. And then, as he stood looking ahead of him at the shadows, he ended his speech in a way that had no logic and no relation to the rest.

"If she had only said she did not believe them--Why did she not say it?"

And then he squared his shoulders and tried again to smile.

"But what difference does it make now? The road has turned too long ago for us to face about."

"She never spoke to me, never looked at me again!" repeated Mr. Lawton.

My father's fist crashed down on the table, but when he spoke his words were precise and devoid of all emotion.

"And why the devil should she," he answered. "We are not questioning her taste. And you, Jason," he added. "No one will doubt your word, or believe this little romance. Do you wonder why? They will never have the opportunity. Brutus, take them down to the boat."

Brutus stepped forward and laid a hand on my uncle's shoulder. He shrank back.

"George," he cried, "you shall have the money. I swear it, George. I have wronged you, but--"

"Yes," said my father, "I shall have the money, and you too, Jason. I shall have everything. Take them along, Brutus," and they left the room in silence, while my father watched them thoughtfully, and arranged the lapel on his coat.

"Ned," said my father, "the rum decanter is over on the bookshelves. Good God, where is he going?" for Mr. Aiken had darted into the hall, and was running up the staircase.

"Is the man mad? Is--"

My father stopped, and was looking at the table. I followed his glance, and started involuntarily. There had been three pistols lying side by side on the polished mahogany, and now there were only two.

"My son," said my father, "the rum decanter is on the bookshelves. The glasses--"

A shout from the hall interrupted him.