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 gaity 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 have 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."
"I 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 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 or 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 a"
"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.
"B'gad, captain!" Mr. Aiken was roaring. "Damme! Here's another of 'em! You would bite me, would you! Hell's fire if I don't cut your gullet open."
"What an evening we are having, to be sure," said my father, turning to the doorway.
Mr. Aiken was pushing a man before him into the room, and holding a dirk at his throat.
"Ives!" shrieked Mademoiselle.
"She is right," said my father. "It is Ives de Blanzy. I had forgotten you had sent him to the house."
The man Mr. Aiken was holding wrenched himself free, and sprang forward, shaking a fist in my father's face.
"Forgotten!" he shouted. Was it you who sent me here and had me tied in the cellar, and left me chewing at the rope, and set this pirate on me? Mother of God! Captain Shelton! Is this a joke you are playing"
"Only a very regrettable error," said my father. "A mistake of my son's. Pray calm yourself, Ives. It is quite all right. My son, this is Mademoiselle's brother."
"Her brother!" I cried.
"And who the devil did you think I was?" He walked slowly towards me. "Have you" no perceptions?"
He would have continued further, if my father had not laid a hand on his arm.
"Gently, Ives," he said. "You know I would not treat you so. Give him the paper, my son. He is the one who should have it."
I stared at my father in blank astonishment, but before I could speak, he had continued.
"I know what you are thinking. What was the use of all this comedy? Why should I have deceived you? I was only running true to form, my son, which is the only thing left to do when life tastes bitter. Do you not understand? But you do not. Your palate is unused yet to gall and worm-wood. Only wait, my son"
He raised his hand slowly, as though tilting an imaginary glass to his lips.
"Only wait. They will offer you the cup some day, and we were always heavy drinkers. Pray God that you will stand it with a better grace than I—that you will forget the sting and rancor of it, and not carry it with you through the years."
His eyes grew brighter as he spoke, and his features were suddenly mobile and expressive.
"She said she believed it. She threw their lies in my face. She lashed me with them, and my blood was hotter then than now. She would not listen, and I forgot it was a woman's way. How was I to know it was only impulse? I ask you—how was I to know? Was I a man to crawl back, and ask her forgiveness, to offer some miserable excuse she would not credit? And you, brought into manhood to believe I was a thief—was I to stand your flinging back my denial? Was I to pose as the picture of injured innocence, and beg you the favor of believing? I would not have expected it of you, my son. By heaven, it would have stuck in my throat. I had gone my way too long, and the draught still tasted bitter. It burned, burned as I never thought it would again, when I first saw you standing watching me. Indeed it is only now that its taste has wholly gone—only now that I see what I have done, now when the lights are dim, and it is too late to begin again."
He stopped and squared his shoulders and the harshness left his voice.
"You understand, I hope," he added "Give him the paper, Henry." And he nodded towards Ives de Blanzy.
I drew it from my pocket, and handed it to him in silence.
"Now what is the meaning of this?" said Ives de Blanzy harshly. "This is not the paper! The cursed thing is blank inside!"
My father snatched it from his hands.
"Blank!" he muttered. "Blank! Clean as the driven snow! Is it possible I have failed in everything?"
Mademoiselle had moved forward, and touched his arm. He glanced at her quickly, and slowly his frown vanished.
"Naturally it is blank, captain," said Mademoiselle. "I took the real one from you this morning when you left it in your volume of Rabelais. I thought that you might place it there. I am sorry, captain, sorry now that you made me take you seriously."
The paper dropped from his fingers and fluttered to the floor, but strangely enough he did not appear chagrined. His gallantry was back with him again, and with it all his courtesy.
"Ah, Mademoiselle," he said, "I should have known you better. Will there always be a woman where there is trouble?"
"And you have not made me hate you, Captain," Mademoiselle continued.
"But you, my son," said my father, "you understand?"
I felt his glance, but I could not meet it.
"Yes," I said, "I understand."
"Good," said my father. "Here comes Brutus. And now we shall have our rum."
"I understand," I said, and my voice seemed unsteady, "that you are a very brave and upright gentleman."
"The devil!" cried my father.
And then he started and whirled toward the door.
"Ned! Ives!" he called sharply. "What the devil is going on outside?" and the three of them had darted into the hall.
Clear and distinct through the quiet night had come a shriek and the report of a pistol.
I started to follow them, but Mademoiselle had laid a hand on my arm, and was pointing to the table. I lifted first one and then the other of the two pistols that were lying there. Neither was primed. Neither was loaded.
"The third one," she said quietly, "Mr. Lawton took. No, no," she added, as I started toward the door, "Stay here, Monsieur. It is not your affair."