Part 11

“Your brother’s wife, eh?” he sneered. “Look here, child, you go home and eat your supper. Don’t you get worked up over Fanchon. I’ve known the lady quite a spell. If I whistled”--Mr. Corwin threw his head back and walked across the room toward Leigh, flushed with liquor, truculent, intolerable--“if I whistled, she’d run off with me to-morrow. I don’t because”--he came closer to Leigh now, laughing and sneering, insult in every line of his coarse, flushed face--“because I don’t want her!”

Leigh swung around and faced him, shaking with rage.

“You lie!” he cried hoarsely.

Corwin only laughed boisterously.

“You fool kid, you don’t know the lady. She----”

He leaned over, thrust his face close to Leigh’s and whispered. The boy sprang back.

“Stop!” he almost shrieked. “I’ll fight you! I’m a Carter, and I challenge you to fight a duel!”

The man laughed loudly again.

“A duel with you? You kid!”

“Yes, with me!” Leigh trembled with passion. “You’ve got to fight--I’ll send my seconds. You’re a coward, sir, and a liar!”

Corwin caught him suddenly by the shoulder.

“See here, you Carter boy!” said he. “You’ve called me a liar twice to-day. I’m not a liar--I’ll show you! Fight duels for that woman? Bah! I don’t fight kids--I box their ears!”

He sneered and slapped Leigh’s face. The boy, with a cry of passion and shame, wrenched himself free, snatched the pistol from his pocket, and fired pointblank.

The noise of the report rang in his own ears with a deafening crash, and there was a little whiff of smoke. Leigh reeled back, his horrified eyes fixed on the floor.

Corwin had crumpled up like a sack of meal and lay there in a heap, stone dead.

XVII

PLATO was removing the tray from the wicker table in the garden. The colonel, sitting under his horse-chestnut, observed the operation thoughtfully, smoking one of his big cigars.

“Yessuh, if yo’ wants to buy a horse yo’ can hab it cheap--dat’s what Job Wills says. He was down to Miz Carter’s dis mornin’ talkin’ to dat yaller girl, Mirandy. She done tole me. It am a good horse, col’nel, only got dat habit ob rollin’ in de water.”

“Pretty bad habit, Plato,” observed the colonel. “Don’t know as I’d like to have Miss Jinny rolled into the water.”

“Dat’s what happened to Miz Wilyum Carter, suh. She got rolled in de creek, an’ she didn’t get home till round one o’clock in de mornin’. Mirandy, she say Mist’ Carter, he mos’ throw a fit. Dat’s de reason de livery-stable done wanter sell dat horse. Job Wills, he say he’s good horse, but he’s de rollin’est horse he ever see--in a stream.”

The colonel looked thoughtfully at the end of his cigar.

“Suppose I bought him, Plato? How about the rolling habit?”

“Ain’t noffin’ ter dat, suh, but to keep him out’n de water. I ’members ole Col’nel Colfax, suh, he done had dat horse, Pole Star, son ob de ole Black Star, suh, dat won all dem races. Mighty fine horse! De col’nel couldn’t ride dat horse ’less dere was a drought. Sho! He sen’ him down to de races every year. I reckon dat horse wins more races den any odder horse in dis country, yessuh! Yo’ ’member old Judge Berrien?” Plato began to shake with reminiscent laughter. “Yessuh, dat ole man mighty mean to Col’nel Colfax. Yessuh, he comes up to dinner one night, an’ he wants to ride home. He was allus borrowin’ horses, an’ he mighty slow ’bout returnin’ ’em. Didn’t never own no horse, but he was allus ridin’. De col’nel, he fuss ’bout a bit, den he calls out loud: ‘Heah, yo’, August!’ August was de col’nel’s groom. ‘Yo’, August, bring ’round Pole Star!’ It had been rainin’ in de mornin’ an’ de creek was all up to de bridge. De judge, he mighty pleased to ride Pole Star. He ain’t been gone long befo’ de col’nel, he say: ‘August, yo’ go down to de creek. I reckon de judge wants to return dat horse.’ August, he went,” Plato chuckled. “Pole Star, he was rollin’ in dat creek, suh. August, he say he look ’round, don’ see noffin’, den he see de judge. Fo’ de Lawd, suh, August, he declar’ he done thought it was one ob dese yere doodle-bugs jus’ up outen de groun’ wid its legs all mud. De judge, he got in de water an’ den he got in de mud. He say: ‘Yo’ take dat damned horse back to Col’nel Colfax, an’ yo’ tell him I ain’t ridin’ no porpuses!’”

The colonel laughed.

“Plato,” he said, “I don’t think I’ll buy Job Wills’s horse for Miss Jinny--not after that!”

Plato wagged his head.

“I done tole Mirandy dat I was sho’ yo’ won’t buy no sech horse, suh.” Then, as he finally took up the tray, he added: “Miss Jinny say to tell yo’-all she done ask Mist’ Dan’l Carter to dinner, suh.”

The colonel looked at his watch.

“I didn’t know it was so late, Plato. Where’s Miss Virginia?”

“She an’ Mist’ Dan’l in de parlor, suh. Miss Jinny, she been playin’ fo’ him. She step out an’ tell me to tell yo’ she ask him to dinner.”

“You get out a bottle of the old Burgundy, Plato,” said the colonel, and then added hastily: “Oh, no, I forgot--he doesn’t drink anything but water. But, all the same, I like Mr. Daniel.”

“Yessuh,” said Plato. “Mighty good lawyer. I done heah Judge Jessup say he wouldn’t wonder if Mist’ Dan’l git to be Pres’dent United States hisself!”

The colonel laughed. Then he rose slowly to his full height, ran his fingers through his white hair, and started for the house. He was going in to see Daniel. He liked to talk to him. But, as he entered the wide, old hall, he heard the soft strains of Virginia’s music. He stopped involuntarily to listen. She was playing an old tune, a love-song that the colonel loved. Virginia’s grandmother had played it to him.

The old man stood listening, his eyes dreaming. Music is the most poignant of all reminders. The old hall was the same into which he had led his bride so many years ago. There was Grandfather Denbigh’s clock in the corner, with the sun and the moon and the stars inlaid on its dial. There was the high chair in which one Governor Denbigh had sat. Things were shabby, the rug under his feet was frayed, but the dear familiarity of it all moved his heart.

He felt a lump in his throat, and tried in vain to swallow it. Without disturbing Virginia’s playing, he moved to the door of the drawing-room and looked in.

It was nearly six o’clock in the evening, and the western sun shone warmly in the wide window behind the piano. It warmed and mellowed every object in the quaint, old-fashioned room. It touched on the dull gold frame of General Denbigh’s portrait painted by Peale; it showed the tall harpsichord by the chimney-place, and the quaint, spindle-legged chairs with their shabby damask seats. The walls, mellowed by time, had the ruddy tints that form a background for old pictures and dull furniture.

The sunshine caught a corner of the mahogany table and glinted on a cabinet that held Captain Denbigh’s corals, collected long ago in the South Seas; but it did more than that. It touched the golden hair on Virginia’s head and illuminated the delicate beauty of her unconscious profile, her simple white dress, her slender wrists, and her white hands.

The colonel looked at her fondly. He thought her the loveliest girl in the State. He was on the point of entering softly, to draw up a chair and listen, when his eyes lighted on Daniel Carter.

Daniel, the lame brother of William, Daniel the unobtrusive, had not heard Colonel Denbigh. He sat with his profile also turned toward the door, leaning a little forward, one elbow on the lame knee, the other hand resting on the arm of his chair, and his pale face turned toward Virginia. Unconsciously she played, unconscious of an observer, and Daniel watched her. His dark eyes followed her movements as her delicate fingers swept the keys, and his own hand tightened on the arm of his chair until the knuckles whitened.

The colonel, watching him, had no longer any doubt that Daniel shared his admiration of Virginia. Something in the tense young face made the colonel turn quietly away, and walk soberly out on the front piazza.

“I reckon I’ll smoke another cigar before dinner,” he said to himself. “Poor boy, it’s a pity he’s lame. And, Jinny? Well, Jinny liked his brother.”

The colonel lit his cigar and tramped rather heavily up and down the piazza.

Meanwhile, Virginia played on to the end of the piece; then she turned and looked over her shoulder. Meeting Daniel’s eyes, she felt again that sudden shyness that she had felt before the church, and she laughed tremulously.

“Do you remember what old Dr. Samuel Johnson said about music, Dan?” she asked lightly. “I was thinking of it just now. He said that it excited no new ideas in his mind, and prevented him from contemplating his own.”

“Very like him,” said Daniel. “He never saw anything but his own ideas. I’ll admit that it stops me from contemplating mine--I contemplate you instead.”

Virginia laughed gaily this time.

“I shall play for you no more, then. Your ideas are worth too much. Lucas told me this morning, as we drove out from town, that Judge Jessup expects you to be ‘Pres’dent United States, yessuh.’”

Daniel reddened.

“I wish the judge wouldn’t make me appear such a fool. He’s always talking; he’s like your old Samuel Johnson.”

“I think he knows what he’s talking about, Dan,” she replied gently, her serious eyes on his thin face. “You’re working too hard; ambition’s eating you up. Why, Dan, how thin you’ve grown!”

He smiled.

“I know it. The judge asked me, not long ago, if I had the pip.”

They both laughed this time.

“Daniel,” said Virginia irrelevantly, “I heard you were going into politics. Mr. Payson told me that you were standing for nomination for the Legislature.”

He nodded, regarding her thoughtfully.

“It seems strange, Dan,” she observed after a moment. “I never thought you cared for that sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing, Virginia?”

“Politics.” She paused and smiled at him a little, her color rising. “I thought you were a kind of poet.”

“You’re thinking of Leigh; he’s our infant genius. I’m only a stodgy lawyer.”

Daniel leaned back in his chair, thinking. His eyes, traveling over Virginia’s bright head, rested suddenly on a little portrait of a baby boy that hung above her piano in an oval frame. He recognized it with a grim tightening of the lips. It was an old picture of William at the tender age of three. His mother had given it to Virginia when she thought Virginia was to be William’s wife. Doubtless it was an awkward thing to give back, and perhaps--Daniel did not finish the thought.

“I’m going into politics if I can,” he said dryly. “I’ve got to have some interest, Virginia. A cripple can’t sit still and think about being a cripple.”

“I wish you wouldn’t dwell so much on that,” she rejoined quickly. “You think too much of it.”

“But I don’t speak of it often,” he replied bitterly. “I try to hold my tongue.”

“You scarcely ever speak of it, Daniel,” she assured him gently. “I’m glad you spoke of it to me, though. I take it as a compliment.”

“Why?”

He spoke sharply, his brows down. Virginia gave him a clear, sweet look that made him wince with misery--though she did not know it.

“Because I’m sure you wouldn’t speak of it at all if you didn’t believe that I felt for you; that I was your friend.”

He drew a quick breath, pressing his lips together. There was a moment of silence; then he laughed discordantly.

“Oh, I know you! I remember how you took that maimed dog home when you were a child. All the others wanted it killed. I can see your eyes blaze now. How you fought for him! He had a right to live, you said. You always felt for the halt and the blind.”

“That dog was a comfort,” returned Virginia stoutly. “It wasn’t any merit to be good to him. He was the best watch-dog we ever had.”

“No one but you would have nursed that ugly, old, lame dog. It’s your pity, Virginia--that’s what I’m trading on--when I talk of my lameness.”

Virginia rose suddenly from the piano and came over to his side. Before he knew what she was going to do, she had laid one of her firm young hands on his shoulder.

“Hush!” she said sternly. “You’re getting embittered; you’re losing the proportion of things, Daniel. If you talk like that I shall not pity you; I shall not even be your friend. Remember the gifts you’ve got, the brains God has given you. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Daniel Carter?”

He did not answer for a moment. He sat quite still, looking up into her face soberly, aware of her hand on his shoulder.

“What am I to do if I can’t help feeling that way, Virginia?” he asked at last in a low voice.

“You mustn’t; I forbid you!” she said quickly, but she faltered.

She had come to him with the impulse of a sister; she had felt herself a sister to Daniel so long. There was no coquetry in it, only her sympathy for him. She knew how he had suffered. But now, suddenly, meeting his uplifted eyes, Virginia became self-conscious. She blushed, and her hand fell from his shoulder. With almost a feeling of panic she retraced her steps and sank back upon the piano-stool.

Daniel, leaning back in his chair as she had left him, passed his hand over his eyes. He was breathing with difficulty, like a man in pain, although he never suffered now from his injury. The physical pain was long past, and only the lameness remained; but for a moment he breathed like a man in anguish. Then, as his hand fell heavily on the arm of his chair, he raised his head and looked at her with haggard eyes.

“Don’t do that again, Virginia,” he said in a low voice. “I can’t bear it!”

That was all he said, but Virginia, meeting his eyes, turned pale. She seemed to see suddenly, as if she looked into a mirror, all those days when she and William had been so happy and so foolish together, and Daniel--suffering from his hurt then--had looked on.

She knew now what he had suffered; and she had never once thought of him! It filled her with generous shame. What could she do? What could she say to him?

Then she heard his voice.

“Virginia, please play that last tune over again. I love it. It’s so tranquil,” he said gently.

She lifted her eyes to his in gratitude. He had known what to do, how to make it easy for her. He had not misjudged her; had not thought her a mere flirt.

She turned to the piano with an effort, winking back her tears; but she began to play, softly at first, with one little discord, then firmly, with a sure touch, as her heart grew more calm and she seemed to feel the reassurance of his friendship and understanding.

She was still playing when the telephone-bell rang sharply, its strident alarm shattering the last sweet cadences. Startled in spite of herself, Virginia rose hastily and went to the cabinet where the instrument stood.

“It’s some one inquiring if you are here, Dan,” she said in surprise. “Some one--your father, I think it is--wants to speak to you.”

Daniel rose slowly--with unusual effort, she thought--and took the receiver from her hand. Virginia returned to the piano, busying herself there, turning over the leaves of her music, and trying not to listen; but she heard him ask a quick question. Then he uttered a sharp exclamation, and involuntarily she looked up.

Daniel hung up the receiver and turned.

“Oh, Dan, what is it? What has happened?” she cried.

His white lips moved soundlessly at first.

“It’s my young brother,” he said at last. “Leigh has shot and killed that man--Corwin, Caraffi’s manager.”

XVIII

IT was after dark, and the lights at the station-house were shining across a street still crowded with the curious and the idle, when Daniel finally reached the little cell where Leigh had been lodged since the shooting. He found the boy lying face downward on the bare cot in the corner, his head on his arms. Daniel had to touch his shoulder before he roused himself and looked up. His white, drawn face and his disheveled hair shocked his brother. He looked as if he had aged two years in five hours.

“I’ve come to help you, Leigh,” said Daniel simply.

Leigh raised himself to a sitting posture, dropping his feet heavily to the floor. Daniel saw the traces of tears on his blurred face, but he pulled himself together, though his lips shook.

“Are they going to keep me here all night?” he asked sullenly.

Daniel sat down beside him on the cot.

“I’m afraid so, Leigh. Father offered bail, and so did Judge Jessup, but I don’t think you’ll get out to-night.” He laid his hand kindly on his brother’s shoulder. “Tell me about it.”

Leigh’s face worked convulsively, and he set his teeth hard on his lower lip. Daniel waited, his hand still on the boy’s shoulder, his eyes immeasurably kind. He did not blame Leigh, and he was shocked at the change in him. It was a subtle thing, but it was there--that shot had killed Leigh’s boyhood. Daniel saw it.

It seemed a long time before Leigh could speak.

“I--I never saw any one die before, Dan!” he said at last, swallowing hard.

“It’s a mighty tragic thing, Leigh,” agreed Daniel. “I never saw any one die like that myself.”

“Oh, Lord--he looked so terrible!” cried Leigh, covering his face with his slender, shaking, boyish hands. “I’ll--I’ll never forget it!”

He fell to shuddering, in a state of collapse. Daniel patted his shoulder kindly and waited. The boy would have to tell it his own way. It seemed a long time, though, and the dim light in the cell flared up and down.

Daniel looked about the narrow chamber; it was barren and dirty and exceedingly oppressive. He thought of his mother. This was her baby, her darling boy, the one she believed to be the coming genius of the family. It moved Daniel with infinite compassion and indignation.

Leigh lifted his haggard face from his hands and looked at his brother.

“Will they hang me, Dan?” he asked hoarsely.

“Not while I can lift a voice in your defense, Leigh; not while there’s any power on earth that your brother can move to save you!” cried Daniel his own voice deepening with emotion. “I’m your lawyer now, dear boy. Tell me about it. I’ve got to know. They say you went up to Corwin’s room; that he was half drunk and unarmed, and you shot him in cold blood.”

“I didn’t know he was unarmed!” cried Leigh passionately. “You know I didn’t, Dan. I had to shoot him. He was belying Fanchon; he dared to talk ill of Fanchon----”

“Leave Fanchon out!” cried Daniel. “Forget her for five minutes. Think of yourself, Leigh, of your own defense. Tell me about that shot.”

“I tell you I had to shoot him!” Leigh’s young face was distorted; a man’s fury looked out of his young eyes. “I’d shoot him again this minute if he stood there”--he pointed a shaking finger at the wall opposite--“and said such things of Fanchon!”

“For Heaven’s sake, leave Fanchon out! How did you do it, Leigh! I’m going to save you, I will save you, but you must tell me. Forget that I’m your brother, remember that I’m your lawyer. Tell me the whole story, Leigh.”

Leigh, still choking with wrath, tried to command himself.

“I was going home this afternoon,” he began hoarsely, “and Bernstein--you know, the movie man--he met me and told me to tell father about this--this man, Corwin.”

Daniel suppressed an exclamation.

“He had no right to tell a boy like you.”

“I had a right to hear, Dan,” Leigh cried with passionate emphasis. “I’m the only one who cares for Fanchon----”

“Nonsense!” said Daniel roughly. “Where’s William? You forget William.”

Leigh set his face hard.

“Not even William! Didn’t he sit and wait for her to come home that night? Do you think I’d do such a thing? Do you think any man would do such a thing if he loved a woman?”

Leigh was aflame now, and Daniel was silent. Like a flash arose the picture of William and Virginia. He had felt sure for a long time that William had repented in dust and ashes. The boy was right; no man who loved a woman would have sat there and waited that night.

“Corwin was insulting my sister-in-law,” Leigh went on. “He was lying about her and blackening her. I wouldn’t stand for it. I didn’t wait to tell father. Father has never been just to her. I went home and got his pistol. I was going to hold it to Corwin’s head and make him write a retraction--that’s what I went there to do!”

Daniel shook his head mournfully. He recognized the familiar methods of the heroes of light fiction and the movies. Leigh had been acting a story, or, rather, he had started to act a story, and had failed. How in the world could he get this side of it--before a jury?

“What did Corwin say? What did he do when you got there, Leigh? What made you shoot an unarmed man?”

Leigh winced. His brother’s tone, and the bald statement of an ugly fact, drove the truth home, but he set his teeth hard, scowling into space for a moment. The change in him moved Daniel again. Leigh had been a boy in the morning; to-night he had killed a man!

“I’ve told you,” he said hoarsely. “I shot him for his lies about Fanchon. I--I had to shoot him, Dan. He wasn’t fit to live!”

As Leigh spoke, he flung his arm out with a gesture of passionate fury. Daniel caught the arm and held it.

“Leigh, tell me the whole of it. I’m your lawyer--do you hear?”

Something in Daniel, his strength and his will, conquered, and the younger brother yielded to it. He drew a quick breath and straightened himself, feeling the clasp of Daniel’s hand on his arm. Then he told his story--told it from the beginning to the end, his voice only breaking a little.

“I suppose he died right away,” he said as he finished. “He didn’t move any more. He deserved it--but, oh Lord, Dan! I don’t want to see another man die because I shot him! Maybe I’m a coward, but I don’t!”

“You’re no coward,” replied Daniel quietly. “It’s a trying thing to see even a brute like that die, I reckon.” He glanced at the boy’s face and hesitated. “We’re going to put up a big fight, Leigh.”

Leigh’s mouth twisted oddly; he was trying to keep his lips from shaking.

“I reckon I can stand for it, Dan. Mother----” He looked at his brother.

“You’ll see her soon. You know how she loves you. We’re all behind you, boy!”

Dan rose as he spoke. He hated to leave Leigh, but it was inevitable. He stood looking down at him, aware that Leigh winked back fresh tears at the thought of his mother. But the prisoner’s thoughts shifted elsewhere. He looked up shyly, reluctantly.

“And Fanchon?”

Daniel’s face hardened.

“She’s locked in her room, Leigh, and won’t see any of us. She treats us like enemies now. She hasn’t even asked where you are.”

Leigh’s face went from red to white.

“She’d see me, though!” he cried with conviction. “You don’t understand--you don’t know her!”

Daniel said nothing to this, and there was a little pause, while his intolerable opinion of Fanchon seemed to thicken the very atmosphere the angry boy was breathing. Leigh’s eyes flashed, and he hit his lip hard, but his elder brother held out his hand.

“I’ve got to go now.”

There was a break in Daniel’s voice. His other arm went around the prisoner’s shoulders. Leigh broke down at the touch, and the brothers clung together.

Then Daniel tore himself away.

“We’ll get you out of this, Leigh--God bless you!”

A moment more and Daniel got out into the corridor, where he stumbled blindly, dashing tears from his eyes.

The turnkey, locking the door of the cell, was startled.

“Anything the matter, sir?”

“Nothing!” said Daniel, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Nothing!”

He made his way hastily out of the station-house.

He did not stop even to confer with Judge Jessup. They had already covered most of the case in their previous talks; the morning would do for Judge Jessup. It was late, and Daniel wanted to reassure Mrs. Carter. He was horribly sorry for his mother. There seemed no way to comfort her. She was fairly stunned by the blow, and she could only keep on crying out that Leigh was a child, nothing but a child!