Kitabı oku: «The Dust of Conflict», sayfa 3
III – TONY CANNOT DECIDE
THE beat of hoofs died away, and Tony shivered as he strove to collect his scattered wits. He wanted to think, but mental effort had always been distasteful to his easy-going nature, and now the faculty of concentration had deserted him. It was also very cold out on the terrace, for the raw wind was driving a thin drizzle before it, and Tony was fond of warmth and light, so with a little shake of his shoulders he went back into the house, and sought inspiration in a stiff brandy-and-soda. After that he felt a little more cheerful, and decided that in the meanwhile there was nothing to be done but refrain from unnecessary worry and wait events, which was the usual course with him. There was, it seemed, nothing to be gained by involving himself before suspicion was cast upon his friend.
He, however, spent an unpleasant five minutes with his uncle, who asked a few general questions respecting the affair, in the library, and then went down to dinner, where Violet Wayne did not find him a very entertaining companion. She, however, noticed that he allowed his glass to be filled more frequently than usual, for Tony was an abstemious man, and during a lull in the conversation turned to him.
“I have spoken to you at least three times without getting an answer, Tony,” she said. “One could almost fancy that you had something on your mind to-night.”
Tony did not meet the questioning gaze of the big grave eyes, though there was a sympathetic gleam in them. “I have a headache. Gun headache, you know,” he said. “I got a warm corner, and fired every cartridge I had. I had them specially loaded with an extra quarter-ounce, too.”
Violet Wayne appeared thoughtful, for she had heard the other men grumbling at the scarcity of pheasants that afternoon; but she was a wise young woman, and did not tell Tony so.
“What has become of Mr. Appleby?” she asked.
“Gone away,” said Tony. “He left just after we came in.”
Again Violet Wayne glanced at him with grave quietness, but Tony was looking at his plate just then.
“His train does not leave for an hour yet,” she said.
Violet Wayne did not often speak without reflection, but she blundered then. Tony Palliser was not the man to boldly choose his path, but rather addicted to follow the one events seemed to force him into, and she who might have proved his good angel helped to start him down hill.
“He was going to Liverpool,” he said, and a moment later regretted it.
“To Liverpool! What has taken him there? He told me he was going back to his office.”
Tony looked round in search of inspiration, and did not find it. It was also a somewhat fateful moment for him, because he had as yet been guilty of nothing more than a passing indiscretion, which the woman would have forgiven him. Had he decided to take her into his confidence she would have believed his story, and she had sufficient strength of character to carry him with clean hands through the difficulty. As it happened, however, he was not looking at her, and saw only the glitter of light on glass and silver and the faces of his friends. Tony was as fond of pleasant company as he was of luxury, and what he saw reminded him that he had a good deal to lose. That put him on his guard, and he took the first fateful step in haste, without realizing where it would lead him.
“I don’t quite know,” he said; “Bernard isn’t communicative. He asked me for the dog-cart, and I didn’t worry him.”
Violet Wayne deferred her questions, though she was not satisfied. She had her duty to her hostess, and because news of what had happened had got about felt it incumbent on her to do what she could to lessen the vague constraint, especially as Tony, who wanted to think and could not, did nothing whatever. He was glad when the meal was over, but afterwards appeared to even less advantage in the billiard room, where one of the men commented on his play.
“You are showing remarkably bad form, Tony,” he said. “What is the matter with you? In your case it can’t be worry, because there is nothing a man could wish for you apparently haven’t got.”
Tony did worse at the next stroke, and put down his cue. “It’s a fact that I can’t play to-night,” he said. “You were not with us at the bridge, and it wasn’t a nice thing we had to do. As to the other remark, I suppose I’ve got my worries like the rest of you; but since you will get on just as well without me I think I’ll go to bed.”
He went out, and the man who had spoken laughed. “That is just the one thing that is wrong with Tony – he gives up too easily and doesn’t play the game out when it seems to be going against him,” he said. “He had Bernard Appleby to help him through at school, but I have a notion that Miss Wayne would do as much for him now if he would let her, and if he’s wise he will. Men like Tony generally find somebody to stand behind them, but that slackness is the only fault anybody could find in him. Tony never did a crooked thing.”
“No,” said another man dryly. “Still, it is comparatively easy to go straight when you are never called upon to stand up under a deflecting pressure.”
“If Tony hasn’t had to do that yet, he will most certainly have to sooner or later, and Miss Wayne is the woman to help him,” said his companion. “Will you take his cue and finish the fifty for him, Lonsdale? It is, you see, quite the usual thing.”
Tony in the meanwhile sat staring at the grate in his room. No definite course had yet occurred to him, but he was conscious of a vague relief. Davidson, at least, could not come back to trouble him, and Tony knew that his daughter, whom he had done no wrong, did not possess her father’s pertinacity. He fancied she could be easily dealt with, and rising with a little shake of his shoulders he went to bed, and, as it happened, slept almost as well as usual. Next day, however, events commenced to happen, for during the morning Godfrey Palliser received a visit from a sergeant of police. Soon afterwards he sent for Tony, and it was with distinct uneasiness the latter entered the library.
Godfrey Palliser sat, gray-haired and somewhat grim of face, beside the fire; and he was a punctilious English gentleman with a respect for conventional traditions and no great penetration, to whom Tony owed his present status and all he hoped for in the future. He had led a simple, wholesome life, and though it was perhaps not unwarranted, placed an undue value upon the respect his tenants and neighbors accorded him.
“This is an especially unfortunate affair,” he said. “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”
“Yes, sir,” said Tony, wondering what was coming.
Godfrey Palliser drummed on the chair arm with his fingers. “There will be an inquest, and as I am, most unfortunately in this case, a magistrate, Sergeant Stitt thought it fit to consult with me. He has suspicions that there has been foul play.”
“Stitt is a meddlesome idiot,” said Tony. “It seemed quite evident to me that Davidson struck his head when he fell off the bridge.”
The elder man made a gesture of negation. “Unfortunately he left his gun behind him. There was a dent on one barrel, and Stitt fancied that the grass round the spot where he found it had been trampled. That, and the condition of Davidson’s clothing, points to a scuffle.”
Tony gasped, for he had not expected this. “There is not a man in the neighborhood who would have injured Davidson,” he said.
Godfrey Palliser flashed a quick glance at him. “Do you know when Bernard left the hall the night before it happened?”
Tony braced himself with an effort. “I don’t quite remember, sir.”
“Then I can tell you. It was a few minutes after eleven, and he took the path to the footbridge. When he came back his clothes were muddy.”
Tony sat still a moment, horribly conscious that Godfrey Palliser was watching him. Then he broke out: “It’s wholly impossible, sir, unutterably absurd! Nobody would kill a man without the least motive.”
Godfrey Palliser’s face grew a trifle grimmer. “There may have been a motive. Lucy Davidson was pretty, and, I understand, vain and flighty, while she disappeared, I think, a little too suddenly. You will remember when Bernard was last here.”
Tony stood up, with a dampness on his face and his hands trembling. “Good Lord, sir, you can’t believe that!” he said. “Bernard never had any failings of the kind. It must” – and Tony gasped and stared round the room – “have been poachers. You will remember Evans said Davidson had gone out to look for somebody who had been laying snares.”
To his vast relief he saw that Palliser clutched at the suggestion. It would perhaps not have appeared very conclusive to another man, but Palliser was anxious as well as willing to be convinced, which makes a difference.
“Yes,” he said. “That is the most sensible thing you have said for a long while, and I sincerely hope events will prove you right. I am getting an old man, and if a connection of the family and a guest in my house had been guilty of such an intrigue and crime, I think I could scarcely have held up my head again. No breath of scandal has touched our name, and I could not forgive the man who brought a shadow of ill-repute upon it.”
The speech had its effect, for Tony was aware that he had nothing to expect if he forfeited Godfrey Palliser’s good opinion. He also quite realized the fact that he was singularly devoid of the qualities essential to the man who finds it necessary to make his own way in the world, and very much in love with Violet Wayne. These considerations made for silence. Tony, however, did not discover until later that the next person Palliser sent for was the girl. It was with reluctance he did so, and he stood up leaning against the mantel when he had drawn her out a chair.
“I understand that you saw Bernard Appleby immediately before he left the house the night before last,” he said.
The girl appeared perplexed. “I do not know how you came to hear of it, but as a matter of fact I did,” she said.
“Then “ – and Palliser made a little deprecatory gesture – “I feel sure, when I tell you that they are necessary, you will excuse me asking you a question or two. You met him in the corridor, I think with intent. What had he to say to you?”
A little flush crept into the girl’s face. “He asked me to give him ten pounds. This will no doubt astonish you!”
It certainly did, and had Godfrey Palliser been a little less punctilious he might have betrayed it. As it was, he said in a perfectly level voice, “May I ask you for what purpose?”
There was no hesitation about the answer, and as he met Violet Wayne’s eyes the unpleasant thoughts which momentarily obtruded themselves upon the man vanished again, and left him with a faint sense of shame.
“I had asked him to do me a favor which would entail some little expenditure,” she said. “It was, in fact, to do a kindness to somebody I wanted to benefit, and could not have any bearing on your object in making this inquiry. I know you will take my word for that.”
Godfrey Palliser was not gifted with much penetration, but the girl’s composure had its effect on him, and he made her a little respectful inclination. “It would go a long way with me, my dear, even if the testimony of my eyes were against it; and Tony never did a thing that pleased me more than when he told me he had succeeded in inducing you to marry him,” he said. “It is quite evident that you can throw no light on the affair.”
Violet Wayne left him, a little perplexed, but relieved. As he believed what she had told him implicitly, his thoughts fixed themselves upon Tony’s suggestion, and he commenced to sift what he had heard for anything that would confirm the poacher theory. He meant to do his duty as a magistrate, but he had made a fetish of the family honor, and the man who knows exactly what he is looking for has the better chance of finding it. Accordingly he almost convinced himself, and proceeded to another conference with Sergeant Stitt, who was a little more obtuse than superior.
Violet Wayne was, however, not relieved at all. Only one hypothesis suggested itself to her, and that was that the unfortunate keeper had had some hold upon Appleby, but she promptly dismissed it as wholly untenable. She felt convinced that the man who had been Tony’s loyal friend could have done nothing that he need blush for, and the fact that he had been willing to take ten pounds from her was an additional proof of his innocence rather than evidence against it. She felt absolutely convinced that he would never have abused her confidence by asking her for the money had he desired it for his own purposes. This conclusion naturally led to the supposition that he had involved himself on Tony’s behalf, but she would not harbor that thought for a moment; while Appleby, whom she believed implicitly, had told her that Tony had done nothing wrong.
Still, it was evident that Tony was in trouble, and as he did not go shooting with the rest she found him idling in an empty room when dusk was closing down. He was standing by the hearth looking down into the flickering flame; but the fashion in which he started when she gently touched his shoulder was significant.
“You might have something upon your conscience, Tony,” she said, with a little smile. “Sit down and talk to me. I have scarcely seen you to-day.”
She sank into a low chair, and the uncertain firelight forced up her face and gleaming hair against the shadowy background. The pose, wholly unstudied as it was, also suited her, and she smiled as she saw the appreciation in the eyes of her companion. Tony’s regard for her was respectfully deferential, but he was a man, and she did not disdain at times to profit by the advantages nature had endowed her with.
“I never saw you look better than you do just now,” he said, and laughed as he found a place on the stool he placed at her feet.
“Turn your head a little, Tony; I want to see you,” the girl said softly. “Now, what has made you so quiet today?”
Tony looked at her, and the effect was unfortunate. He saw the calm eyes shining with unusual tenderness, and felt the full influence of her beauty, even while he remembered that Appleby had said she would find out the story sooner or later and then it would be bad for him. He also determined, foolishly, that if the revelation must come at all it should, at least, be delayed as long as possible.
“I have my little worries, but they vanish when you appear,” he said.
Violet Wayne shook her head. “That was pretty, but not quite sincere,” she said. “In some respects I am older than you – and you are in trouble, dear. Perhaps if you told me everything I could help you.”
Tony turned his head away, and checked a groan as he stared at the fire. “I have been a little thoughtless, and one must pay for that kind of thing,” he said. “Still, it would be most unfitting to trouble you with my trifling difficulties.” He felt a little constraining touch on his shoulder, and a low voice said, “Is it money? You must not be proud, dear, for I have plenty, and it could buy me no greater pleasure than to see your cares melt away.”
Tony flushed a little. “That is out of the question, Violet, and you exaggerate,” he said. “I haven’t any real cares, you know.”
The girl smiled at him. “Only very good imitations, Tony; but perhaps you are right. I should dearly like to give you whatever you have need of, but it would not please me to see you willing to take it. Still, why did Appleby go out at eleven o’clock that night?”
It was a chance shot, but it told, and had results Violet Wayne could not have anticipated. Tony started a little.
“Why should you ask me?” he said.
Violet Wayne was not as a rule demonstrative. Indeed, her behavior that evening would have astonished those who thought they knew her best, but the touch of her hand on the man’s shoulder was caressing, and as she leaned forward nearer him there was a curious softness in her eyes.
“I want you to listen, Tony, and I am not going to find fault with you,” she said. “When you showed your preference for me people who I know are wise talked to me of you. They had very little to urge against you except one thing, which I think is true. They said you were a trifle too fond of shirking a difficulty.”
“I hope you thanked them for their kindness,” said Tony dryly.
The girl pressed his shoulder. “Tony,” she said, “shall I tell you why I liked you? Well, it was because I fancied the respect you showed me was genuine, and you were open and generous. That, at least, was one of the reasons, for I detest a cunning man. I am ready to give you everything, but I shall expect a good deal from you; and now you see why I am not pleased with your answer to my question.”
It was an unexpected opportunity, and, though the man aid not know this, the last he would have. The girl, as she had said, was willing to give him all she had to offer, of which her faith in him was not the least, but he had not the courage to put it to the test. Had he done so she would have taken his word, and believed in it against all other testimony; but the story he had to tell was not a pleasant one, and he dreaded her incredulity, in which he wronged her past forgiveness. Meanwhile, looking up at her he saw, not the love and strength which would have saved him from his weaknesses, but the calm, proud face which was tender, too, just then, the gleaming red-gold hair, and the beautifully moulded form. In place of speaking he gazed at her a moment with passion in his eyes.
“I can never understand how you came to think of me at all,” he said. “I am not fit to dust your shoes; but if I lost you now I think it would kill me.”
The girl checked him with a little quiet gesture, and laid the hand she raised from his shoulder on his forehead. “I like to hear you tell me so, but there are times when the man who is willing to lose everything gains the most. I wonder if you understand that, Tony? There are men who do.”
“No,” said Tony in honest bewilderment, “I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Still,” said the girl softly, “it is true; but perhaps it isn’t seemly that I should preach to you. Am I to conclude that if any odium follows your friend because he went out that night you could not dispel it?”
This left a loophole, which was unfortunate, because the man reflected that he could offer no convincing testimony as to what had really happened at the fir spinny.
“No,” he said a trifle hoarsely, “I could not.”
Violet Wayne looked at him steadily, and Tony, who saw the gravity in her eyes, felt his heart thumping furiously. Then she said very slowly: “Since you have given me your word we will never mention this again.”
Tony drew in his breath as he turned his head away. The crisis had passed, and he knew that Violet Wayne believed him; but a little shiver ran through him, for he felt that he was committed to a course of deception now, and that if exposure came he could not face her scorn. She was a proud woman, who seldom unbent even to him as she had done that evening, and his one impulse was to lead her thoughts as far from the question she had asked him as he conveniently could.
“You hinted that you had met men who would give up everything for – a fancy,” he said. “Do I know them?”
“You know one. I think Bernard Appleby would sacrifice a good deal for a friend – or a woman he respected.”
“He could not help it in your case. You could compel most men to do almost anything for you.”
The girl shook her head. “Even if that is true it would not gratify me much,” she said. “It is only those nearest and dearest to me I expect the most from, and that I am not worthy of it does not affect the case. Still, I think we have talked sufficiently in this strain.”
Tony rose and stooped over her chair, but the girl made a little restraining gesture, and he straightened himself again.
“No,” she said quietly. “Not now, Tony. We are strange creatures; but I think if you had made me a confession a little while ago I could have forgiven you anything and kissed you afterwards.”
Tony said nothing, and a maid came in with a light; but he spent a very unpleasant half-hour when Violet Wayne left him. Now it had slipped away unprofited by, he saw what that opportunity would have meant for him. Tony was not clever, but he realized that fate does not give men such chances frequently.
