Part 12

Daniel walked slowly at first. He did not want people to think that he was slinking home because his brother was in the station-house, charged with murder. The main street of the town was quiet enough at that hour, but it was evident that there was suppressed excitement. Little groups were gathered here and there along his way from the station-house, and men stopped talking to observe him covertly as he passed.

The story of Fanchon and Corwin had been magnified by this time until it bore no resemblance to its original form. Scandal is an ugly thing, fed usually by falsehood and growing like a dirty snowball rolled up in a coal-yard. Daniel perceived the curious faces, and was aware of the hush as he approached. Here and there a man took pains to speak to him in sign of open sympathy, but not often.

The long, pleasant street was rather dim under the arching trees, except where a lance of light shot across it from a street-lantern, or the headlight of a passing motor illuminated it broadly for a moment. The inn opposite his father’s office was still brilliant for some belated diners, and he was aware that two or three of the waiters came to the door to stare at him as he went by. In the room over their heads Corwin had been shot to death by his brother--only a few hours before. But he noticed that a Victrola was grinding out a rag-time record in the dining-room in spite of it.

He was glad that the next turn took him through the church lane into the old street that led to his father’s house. Here only an occasional light shone in the houses, standing far apart and surrounded by their old-fashioned gardens, and there were few passers-by.

Daniel slackened his pace, partly because his lameness always troubled him when he was weary, and partly because he wanted to order his thoughts. He found it hard, for he was visited by a vision of Virginia standing in the open door of her home, holding his hand, her eyes full of sympathy--for Leigh!

At his own gate Daniel paused and looked up at the sky. The moon was just rising with an extraordinary beauty. The upper sky looked like a silver sea, pierced here and there by a brilliant star, and against it the dark hills rose in sharpened outlines, silhouetted against the ineffable sky. It had been so yesterday; it would be so to-morrow.

The unchangeable forces of nature seemed to reach Daniel with a new and bitter truth. Things would continue in spite of their little tragedy, even life would go on just the same--except for the coarse man lying dead with Leigh’s bullet in his heart!

He was a long time finding his latch-key, he felt so reluctant to open the door. But, as the lock clicked, his mother appeared at the threshold of the drawing-room, and he saw that she was shaking all over.

“Oh, Danny!” In emotion she always reverted to the baby names of her children. “Oh, Danny, didn’t you bring him home. Where is he?”

“I couldn’t bring him to-night, mother.” Daniel laid his hand kindly on her arm. “He’s all right--I’ve just been with him.”

She looked at him in horror, tears welling up in her eyes.

“He--he isn’t in jail?” she whispered in a faint voice, clutching at Daniel’s sleeve.

He put his arm around her.

“No, mother--he’s in the station-house, that’s all.”

She uttered a cry, burying her face on his shoulder. Emily appeared behind her, in a state of dishevelment, her nose and eyes hopelessly red.

“Hush!” she warned them. “William hasn’t stopped tramping up and down the back piazza. I think he’s going crazy, and it’s got into his legs first. Honest, I do, Dan!”

Daniel made no reply to this, partly because his father had just emerged from the library. Mr. Carter had been busy all the afternoon trying to get his son out on bail. He was worn out, and looked it. His iron-gray hair was standing up in a frill on the top of his head, and his cheeks looked flabby. He had taken off his coat and his boots, and stood there in his shirt-sleeves and stockinged feet.

“Did they take bail?” he asked grimly, looking at Dan over the top of the reading-glasses, which he had forgotten to take off.

Daniel shook his head, and, without another word, Mr. Carter turned and went back into the library.

“She’s up there--locked in her room,” Mrs. Carter whispered between sobs on her son’s shoulder. “She won’t even see William, and she’s had her supper sent up. I don’t see how she could eat it, after what she’s done!” And she wept again, clinging to Daniel.

“She hasn’t,” said Emily, sniffing hard. “The tray’s outside in the hall. She never unlocked her door.”

“I wish it would choke her!” said Mrs. Carter, shaken with wrath. Then she drew back from her son’s arm, wiping her eyes. “Oh, Dan, what’s the good of your being a lawyer if you can’t get that boy right out?”

Daniel sighed.

“Give us a little time, mother,” he said gently. “You take her up to bed, Emily. She’s worn out, and she’ll only be ill.”

“I don’t care if I am ill!”

Mrs. Carter was desperate; she had eaten nothing, and her head ached from weeping. “I don’t care for anything but my boy--my Leigh! To think of it--while I was making him a cherry pie, too!” she climaxed with more tears.

Emily caught hold of her, sobbing, too. She had eaten most of the pie, and it touched her to the quick to think of Leigh, pieless and in jail.

“Oh, mama, come up-stairs; it’s going on eleven o’clock!”

Between them, Daniel and Emily got the weeping woman up-stairs. Daniel closed the door on the scene as Emily made her sit down on the side of the bed and snuff lavender salts.

“Your nose is awfully red, mama,” she said feelingly. “It’ll make your head ache worse. Mine aches dreadfully!”

Daniel went softly down to the library, aware of William’s ceaseless march on the back porch. He found his father sitting quietly in the oldest cane-bottom chair, his stockinged feet thrust out in front of him and his hands in his pockets. He had never known his father to sit upright in a hard chair before.

Daniel went wearily over to his mother’s rocker and sank into it, passing his hand over his eyes. He rather dreaded a long talk, now that the tension had snapped; but his father was not inclined to talk, and only asked a question.

“Think they’ll take bail to-morrow?”

Daniel shook his head.

“I’m not sure. Judge Jessup thinks not. Corwin was unarmed and half tipsy. I’ve got to make the coroner see Leigh’s part of it. Leigh has just told me. He didn’t mean to shoot; he meant to make the man retract his slander of Fanchon.”

Mr. Carter made an inarticulate sound under his breath, and Daniel went on.

“Then it seems that Corwin treated him like a kid--laughed at him, naturally enough. It wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t been that the brute was drunk and slapped Leigh’s face. Then the boy snatched out his pistol and fired. He was amazed when he found he had killed the man--that’s all. It’s plain enough. Manslaughter in the second degree, it ought to be, but I’ve got to prove it. You can’t tell which way the coroner’s jury will go. It depends on the witnesses to Corwin’s state and--and character.”

Mr. Carter wagged his head slowly and thoughtfully; his face was haggard and his eyes dim. There was a painful pause, and the clock chimed eleven.

“Mama’s all broken up,” he remarked at last, rising. “I reckon I’d better go up and quiet her.” He moved slowly toward the door, carrying his boots. At the door he paused and looked back. “I haven’t said anything to William,” he remarked grimly; “not a word; but I reckon he’ll have it out now with that--that little hussy up-stairs!”

Daniel made no reply to this, and Mr. Carter padded softly away. Presently a door shut heavily, and then Daniel heard Emily going to her room. She was crying audibly. It seemed to the listener that she sobbed loudest just outside Fanchon’s door.

Daniel sat quite still. A great weariness had come over him. He had eaten nothing since breakfast, and the fast and the nervous strain had told. He sank back in his chair and almost ceased thinking, his eyes closed.

He was falling asleep from sheer exhaustion when he was startled by a new arrival. The door from the kitchen opened, and Miranda appeared, bearing a tray laden with viands and a smoking cup of tea. She set it down on the corner of the table.

“Yo’ ain’t had noffin’, Mist’ Dan,” she said tearfully. “I knows! Plato, he been down heah to ask fo’ you-all, an’ he tole me yo’ left without yo’ dinner.”

Daniel looked up into the sympathetic dark face and smiled.

“You’re very kind, Miranda. I am hungry; I believe that’s why I nearly fell asleep.”

“Yessuh, I allus eats when I feels bad. Ain’t noffin’ like it, Mist’ Dan. When my pa died I ate piece ob bacon an’ two cabbages, I sho’ did. I reckon dat’s all dat kep’ me from dyin’ of grief. I sho’ did feel po’erful bad!”

Daniel drew up a chair.

“I’ll take your prescription, Miranda,” he said gratefully.

Miranda beamed tearfully.

“Dat’s right, Mist’ Dan! Dere ain’t any cabbage dere, but dere’s sparrowgrass--an’ dat’s mos’ as good!”

XIX

DANIEL was up the next morning at six o’clock and had breakfasted before the other members of the distracted family appeared. The only one he saw was his brother. William had stopped his weary tramp on the piazza at daybreak, and, coming into the library, had thrown himself on the lounge. He lay there when Daniel came down, sleeping the heavy sleep of physical exhaustion. One arm trailed limply toward the floor, the other was thrown across his haggard face, hiding it from view.

Daniel stopped a moment and stood looking at him, touched with pity. He remembered him as he had brought his bride up from the station-gates that first night, so confident in his happiness. It seemed so long ago! The brothers had been very sympathetic as boys, though Daniel’s accident and his subsequent illness, delaying his college course and putting everything out of joint, had rather separated them.

He felt drawn toward the sufferer now. If William had sinned against the finer ethics of society, if he had slighted a noble girl to marry a showy flirt, he was paying the price; and Daniel felt it. He turned away from the stricken figure on the lounge with a poignant feeling of commiseration. Things like this could never be forgotten. No patching-up would hide the scar in William’s heart, or make him regard his wife in the same light again.

Daniel did not rouse him. He went out silently, bent on doing his utmost for Leigh. Leigh was Fanchon’s victim as surely as William had been.

And Corwin? Daniel, who had scarcely seen the man until he saw him lying dead at the coroner’s, wondered in what measure Fanchon was responsible for his death, too. There were women like that, he reflected, and there were others like--Virginia!

The very thought of her brought him a feeling of happiness, of reassurance. The world could not be such a bad place, after all, when there were women like Virginia in it. Even in the darkness of his present perplexity, Daniel smiled tenderly. No matter what else happened, Virginia would not fail him. He felt the touch of her hand on his and heard her voice again, her sympathy for Leigh. And she had said nothing against Fanchon. Not by a word or a glance had she accused Fanchon.

But he heard it elsewhere. Judge Jessup could not control himself, and Mr. Payson, coming into Jessup’s office to express sympathy for Leigh and the Carters, did not restrain himself at all. He thought that William should have made his wife behave before this. This, in his opinion, was the natural sequence to that shocking fandango at the church musicale.

Daniel, meanwhile, labored for Leigh. In spite of his best efforts, his brother was held for the grand jury without bail. The fact that Leigh had gone to Corwin’s room, carrying a pistol with him, and had there shot an unarmed man, went against him, despite his youth and his family connections. Daniel had only a few moments’ talk with him before he was removed to the county jail.

Judge Jessup, coming out from the inquest, and mopping his head, used strong language.

“Can’t be for anything but manslaughter, anyway,” he growled fiercely.

Seeing Mr. Carter sitting in a crumpled heap in the corner of his office, the judge got a flat, black bottle from under his desk, poured something into a glass, and made Johnson Carter swallow it.

“That’ll get you on your feet, Johnson,” he said gruffly. “We give it to racehorses down in Kentucky. You can call it arnica, if you’re afraid of taking to drink.”

Then, while Mr. Carter tried to rally his scattered forces, he moved over to Daniel, who was standing by the window observing the motor that was carrying Leigh down to the jail.

“Dan,” said he, lowering his deep bass, “where’s that woman?”

Daniel started.

“Up at the house, I reckon,” he said. “She was locked in her room this morning.”

“Who’s going to get her story out of her?” asked the judge. “William?”

Daniel stared out of the window in silence.

“That indictment has got to be either murder or manslaughter. It depends on the story. Who’s going to get it? I reckon William can.”

“I’ll see,” said Daniel quietly. “I’m going up home now. Can you”--he hesitated--“can you keep father here?”

The judge nodded. They both glanced at the man sitting in the judge’s big swivel chair. Mr. Carter was leaning back dejectedly, with both hands clenched on the arms of the chair, and his head bent forward. He was staring fixedly at the blotting-paper on the judge’s desk, his mouth hanging open. Daniel picked up his hat and quietly left the room.

He did not walk home. He was worn out and he hailed a taxi. He had already telephoned the verdict of the coroner’s jury to his mother, and he knew they were, in a measure, prepared for the worst; but his heart sank as he ascended the familiar old steps. Even the rose-bush beside the door seemed to bewail the thought of the youngest boy, the mother’s pet, being in jail.

Emily opened the door for him. Her nose was still red, and she was trying vainly to wink back her tears.

“Mama’s gone to bed,” she announced chokingly. “She’s cried herself sick. And William’s gone out--I don’t know where he’s gone. Mama’s afraid he’ll--he’ll drown himself!”

“He came down to Judge Jessup’s office to hear about Leigh, and he’s gone over to the Payson Building,” said Daniel dryly. “You go and tell mother he’s all right. And--listen, Emily--I’ve got to see Fanchon. Will you please ask her to come down-stairs?”

“Ask Fanchon to come down-stairs? Me?” Emily crumpled. “I guess I won’t!”

“I’ve got to see her,” repeated Daniel. He drew a pad from his pocket, wrote a line on it, and folded it. “You take that up, Emmy.”

Emily backed.

“No!”

“Don’t you want to save Leigh?” asked Daniel sharply. “Yes? Then you take that up and stick it under her door and knock. She’ll read it.”

“She won’t. She hasn’t eaten anything. I think she’s going to starve herself to death.”

“Nonsense! You do as I say.”

Emily still backed. Then, catching his eye, she wavered, took the paper, and ran, sobbing, up-stairs.

Daniel waited impatiently, walking up and down the hall. He had never been able to form a clear idea of Fanchon. He could not even conjecture what she would do. He had never believed in her, he did not believe in her now, and he felt the deepest resentment toward her for having brought his young brother to this.

He was still walking up and down the hall when Emily called to him from the staircase in a watery stage whisper:

“She says, come up to her room.”

Reluctantly Daniel went up-stairs. Emily was hanging over the banisters at the top.

“She’s in the little front room over the door,” she whispered, sniffing. “I think she’s going away; I saw her trunks open.”

Daniel nodded and made his way to the small room over the front door, which his mother had hastily converted into a boudoir for the bride. He remembered the night when Leigh had helped her put a fresh polish on the floor before they laid the new rug. These little things seemed to crowd into his mind, bringing back Leigh’s boyish face in the dim cell, his terror of the dead Corwin.

He knocked gently at the closed door.

“Come in,” said Fanchon’s voice.

Daniel entered and stood still.

The little room, finished in pink and white, was in wild disorder. A small hat-box trunk stood open, a traveling-bag gaped, half-packed, and innumerable articles, large and small, were scattered on the chairs and on the floor. Stretched on a lounge, in front of the window, lay Fanchon. Her head was on her arms, and her soft hair, falling loose over her shoulders, hid her face. She wore some loose black robe which made her small figure look even smaller and more childish than usual. There was something in her very attitude broken and forlorn, and Daniel felt his first touch of actual pity for her as she rose on her elbow and lifted her haggard face from her arm. Her eyes were hollow, and even her lips were white. No touch of rouge concealed the havoc of a sleepless night and a day of anguish.

Her expression so amazed Daniel that he stood still, just inside the door, looking at her. Fanchon straightened up, dropping her feet to the floor, and holding herself erect in her place by gripping the edge of the lounge with nervous, shaking fingers.

“Is--is Leigh in jail?” she asked faintly, her dark eyes fixed on Daniel’s face.

He nodded.

“Held for the grand jury. Haven’t they told you?”

“No one tells me anything; no one speaks to me! I’m going away; I’m packing up. But Leigh? _Mon Dieu!_ I’m human, I want to know about Leigh!”

“I came here to ask you to help me save Leigh,” said Daniel quietly. “It’s got to be either murder or manslaughter. It depends on you, Fanchon.”

“On me?” She drew a long breath, her eyes darkening with emotion. “_Que voulez vous?_ What can I do?”

“Tell us the whole story, Fanchon. Tell us about Corwin. I’ve no doubt at all that he deserved to be shot--but not by Leigh.”

Fanchon drew in her breath, setting her small, white teeth hard on her under lip. She did not look toward Daniel, but away into a corner of the room, as if she saw things unseen and terrible. A deep blush mounted suddenly and painfully to her forehead. Daniel waited patiently, leaning against the door. At last she turned and raised her eyes pitifully to his.

“Why must I tell?” she asked brokenly, twisting her handkerchief about with feverish fingers, tears coming suddenly and running down her cheeks.

“Leigh shot an unarmed man in his own room,” replied Daniel dryly. “We’ve got to show cause why the man should have been shot. Corwin has blackened you--yes, but that was William’s business, and there’s nothing--forgive me, Fanchon, but there’s nothing to show that Corwin didn’t speak the truth, except what you yourself can tell us.”

“William believes what he said, then!” she cried hoarsely. “That’s why he hasn’t spoken to me or looked at me since--since Corwin was shot! He believes it--you all believe it!”

Daniel’s face hardened. He saw a storm coming and he despised the way she ranted.

“I’m asking you to tell us the truth.”

She half rose, panting.

“You ask it because--because you believe what he said!”

“I ask it--to save Leigh.”

She sank back, weak and shaken. Then she dashed the tears from her eyes.

“I’ll do anything for Leigh! He’s the only one who believed in me.”

“He believed in you enough to put his life in jeopardy,” Daniel replied grimly. “If you want to help him, you’ll have to tell me the whole story, Fanchon.”

She worked at her handkerchief again, winking back her tears, and he had a chance to see how her face had hollowed and how weak she looked. He remembered that Emily had said she had refused food, and it occurred to him that they were cruel to her; that she resented their cruelty. But, all the while, he saw that boyish face in the dingy light of the cell, and his heart grew hot within him. He wouldn’t spare her.

“You want to know about Corwin?”

Her voice was very low. Daniel assented, and she seemed to struggle with herself.

“_Dieu!_” she cried softly.

“As soon as you can, please,” said Daniel, watching her, wondering if now, under this stress and pain, she would tell the truth. He doubted it.

“Do you remember what I told you in the library that day?” she asked abruptly. “About my father and my mother and the convent?”

“Yes.”

“It was a lie,” said Fanchon. “It was the same lie that I told William.”

Daniel looked at her grimly, unsparingly.

“I hope you’re going to tell me the truth now,” he said sternly.

She dragged some soft pillows toward her and leaned her elbows on them, half hiding her face in her hands, not looking at him at all.

“Sit down,” she said in a low voice. “I’ll tell you the whole story from the beginning. It was true that my father was French, and that he was a vine-grower and wine-maker on a ranch in California, and that my mother, the Irish girl, died there. My father did take me to Paris, but he didn’t put me in a convent school. He left me with his sister, a milliner in one of the little back streets. They were alike, those two, of an ugliness inside and out. For a while he paid for me, and then he didn’t. I think he drank himself to death. My aunt brought me up. She wasn’t a good woman and she was greedy for money. I was pretty, and she had me taught to dance and sing. I was dancing when Aristide Corwin saw me. He was managing a vaudeville company in London then. He took a fancy to me.”

Fanchon stopped a moment, pressing her handkerchief against her lips. Then she went on, speaking rapidly and recklessly.

“You think it was the old story? _Mais non_, it wasn’t! I was only fifteen and I hated him. I hated his good looks and his showy dress and his coarse voice--but I was a beggar and I was a child, _enfant de Bohème_. My aunt told him he could have me for a price. He must marry me--marry in Paris, too. You know French law? And he was to pay her--about three thousand dollars in your money. She sold me. I was her niece, and she made him marry me. She made me his slave good and fast, for she made me his wife!”

“You mean that you were Corwin’s wife, and you never told my brother?” Daniel exclaimed harshly, leaning forward to look at her.

She turned, her white, small face shadowed by her wild hair, her eyes smoldering.

“I didn’t tell your brother? _Non!_ I didn’t tell. Now, listen--I’ll tell you all, and you can tell your brother,” she added bitterly. “I was fifteen, and I was small for my years. Corwin trained me. He saw what I could do, and he trained me like a spaniel. For what? To support him, _mon ami_! I danced and I sang for four years to support a man who never worked. He lived on me. Sometimes I was ill, sometimes I was broken with grief and shame, but it made no difference--he lived on what I made. I was worth more than the money he had paid--a hundred times over! When he was drunk he beat me. I’ve had black welts on my shoulders that I had to hide when I danced. I was sixteen then, and afraid, deadly afraid of him. I was even afraid to run away. Then I grew older, and I tried to get a divorce in Paris, but I couldn’t. I tried in London, and failed again. He saw to that. Then I knew I must wait. I was American; I was born here. I waited. By and by Aristide brought me to New York and put me in a company to tour the Western States. That was luck--great luck--for he was ill. He was strong as an ox, but he had appendicitis, and had to go to a hospital in New York. I went to California. I was just twenty-one. I told William I was eighteen, but I’m twenty-four. In California I got a divorce for cruelty. I got my freedom. From a child I had been in the hands of a brute; suddenly I was free!” She looked up again, pressing her hands against her breast. “_Mon Dieu_, I can’t tell you what I felt!”

She ceased speaking and sank down again on her elbows. This time she tore at the cushions with her restless fingers.

“Go on,” said Daniel ruthlessly. “This doesn’t bring us to Leigh.”