Kitabı oku: «The Fate of Felix Brand», sayfa 8
CHAPTER XIV
“There Is Not Room For Us Both”
“What shall I do?” Henrietta Marne exclaimed aloud as she looked despairingly at the papers that littered her desk. “Here are half a dozen letters, this morning, that ought to have his immediate attention, to say nothing of all the others that I’ve got stacked away in this drawer. Well, I’ll just have to keep on as I’ve done before and answer them in my own name, saying that Mr. Brand is temporarily out of the city and as soon as he returns, etc. If he doesn’t come back soon,” she grumbled on as she seated herself at the typewriter, “I’ll be as hysterical as Mildred is, though I’m not in love with him.”
She did what she could with the morning’s mail, looking at one envelope as she carefully put it away unopened, with more than a little interest and curiosity, as she saw on its upper corner the firm name of “Gordon and Rotherley.” After she had finished the letter writing she busied herself for an hour with such duties as it was possible for her to take up.
The architect’s suite of offices was on an upper floor of a high building and from its windows one’s vision soared far over the city southward and westward. Henrietta paused now and then in the course of her work to forget her anxieties in the sights and thoughts that greeted her in that wide view. Down below, at the bottom of the street canyons, people and vehicles were rushing back and forth.
But her eyes never rested long upon them. Rather, they traveled slowly out over the mighty plain of roofs, broken by chimneys and spires, by great, square buttes of buildings, by domes, turrets and towers, across the bay, gleaming silver-white or glowing copper-red in the sun, on to where the swelling hills of Staten Island loomed dimly against the horizon.
In the brilliant sunshine a thousand plumes of cloud-white steam waved gaily above the castellated plain of roofs and shook out their tendrils in the breeze. “Peace pipes” Henrietta sometimes called them to herself, as she thought of all that their fragile beauty, forever dissolving and forever being renewed, meant to the city beneath them. She liked to think of them, as she watched them curling and waving upward toward the blue, as a sign and compact of earth’s peace and good-will.
Her bent of mind was much more practical than imaginative, but she could never look out over this scene without feeling her nerves thrill with vague consciousness of the titanic energies ceaselessly grinding, striving, achieving, beneath that surface of roofs and towers. And now, as always when she stopped to gaze from her window for a few moments, she felt her own pulses quicken in response and her own inward being stir, as if those waving white plumes were trumpet calls to activity.
She turned from the window, more restless than before, impatient with the necessity of merely sitting there and waiting. In Brand’s private room the books she had got for him three weeks before still lay ranged upon his desk, in readiness for his return at any moment. In her spare hours she had been reading some of them herself and now she went to get one as the best way in which to put in her time. As she brought it back to her own room her thoughts, as they did a hundred times a day, hovered over and around her various speculations concerning the mystery of her employer’s absence.
“I wonder,” they presently ran, “if it could be possible that he is hiding somewhere in the city just to indulge in some sort of orgy.” And this time denial of such a possibility did not, as formerly, spring up spontaneously in her mind. “I don’t like to think he could be that sort of a man,” she temporized with her budding doubt, “for he always seems so refined and thoroughly nice, and he’s always been such a perfect gentleman to me. But it’s evident that Mr. Gordon, who knows him so well, hasn’t a very high opinion of him, except in his art.”
The telephone broke in upon her musing, and as she put the receiver to her ear and said “hello” she was almost as much astonished as delighted to hear in reply the voice of Felix Brand himself. He told her that he had just got home, after another beastly trip into the back woods of West Virginia, where he had had an accident. He had slipped and sprained his ankle – no, it was nothing serious, and was all right now, but it had kept him a prisoner for nearly two weeks in a mountain cabin a thousand miles from anywhere, and he would be at the office as soon as he had had his luncheon.
Glad as she was that he was there once more to take up the matters that needed his attention so badly, Henrietta was almost afraid to face him, when she heard his voice in the outer room, lest there might be that in his appearance which would give form and force to the doubts that were stirring in her mind.
But he seemed no different from his usual, affable and well-dressed self. He wore, in all seasons, very dark or black clothing, which was always in perfect condition, and fitted his well-proportioned figure trimly and closely rather than with the looser English cut. His dark eyes looked down upon her with their usual caressing smile and his clean-shaven face, with its finely modeled, regular features, was as handsome, as refined, as ever.
But, no, – his secretary was conscious of something in its expression she had never noticed there before. What with the rejoicing that filled her heart and the work that kept her hands and brain busy all the rest of the day, she had not time to think what it was, or to give it any definite form in her thoughts, until her homeward trip by subway, ferry and trolley gave her leisure to scan closely the happenings of the afternoon.
Even then she merely said to herself that there was something in his face and eyes that did not seem quite like him, something that was not so “nice” as he had always seemed to be. She did not know enough about the evil undercurrents of life to give the thing more specific definition. But she did know that, whatever it was, it stirred, deep within her, a faint sense of repulsion.
“Did you get my letter?” was one of the first things he said to her.
“No, Mr. Brand, I’ve heard nothing at all from you since you left.”
“You didn’t? That’s queer. I gave it to the porter to mail and he probably forgot all about it. I went away so hurriedly I didn’t have time to write until after I got aboard the train. There were some directions in it about the work here. Well, we’ll have to go back and take things up where we left off. And the first thing is that letter I wrote and asked you not to send. Where is it?”
“Oh, I ventured to mail that – I knew how important it was, and I found out enough about the business to feel sure you would want me to.”
“You did! How fortunate!”
“Then it was all right? I am so glad! But I don’t deserve all the credit. Your friend, Mr. Hugh Gordon, was here – ”
“What! That fellow? Did he dare to come here?”
The start, the sudden turn, the sharp exclamation with which Brand broke into her sentence were so different from his habitual manner of deliberate movement and courteous speech that Henrietta gazed at him in amazement. Surprise and indignation sat upon his countenance.
“Why, yes,” she faltered. “He was here several times. The first time, a few days after you left, he told me he knew you wanted that letter sent.”
She went on to repeat what Gordon had told her and ended with: “Of course, I didn’t take his word for it entirely, but after what he told me I was able to find out enough to make me feel sure it was the right thing to do.”
“You did quite right,” he told her cordially. “But I am surprised to learn of his doing, for me, a friendly act like that. You said he was here afterwards?”
“Yes, several times. He came to tell me that you were quite safe and well and would return before long. I was very glad to have the assurance, for, of course, I couldn’t help being anxious.”
He opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it again suddenly, then, as he busied his hands with some papers on his desk, took sudden resolution and, though his face paled, said in a casual way:
“Did he tell you where I was?”
“He said he didn’t know where you were, but that he did know positively that if anything should happen to you he would be the first person to know anything about it. I felt so much less anxious after that.”
“Yes, it was quite true, what he said,” Brand assented slowly. He hesitated again, as if on the verge of farther speech, and Henrietta waited. After a moment he turned to her a face out of which he seemed purposely to have forced all expression and asked:
“How did he impress you? Do you think he looks like me? Some people say he does.”
“Oh, he impressed me very favorably, indeed. He seemed so sincere and so kind and so much in earnest. No, I didn’t think he looked like you, except in a general way. His features, perhaps, are something like yours, but he himself is so different, his manner, his expression – everything.”
She spoke interestedly, the color rising in her cheeks, and Brand watched her narrowly. “Oh, that reminds me,” she exclaimed, “there’s a letter for you from him. It’s in my desk.”
She went to get it and as her employer’s gaze followed her his eyes widened and his face grew ashen. “My God!” he muttered, and there was consternation in his whispered tone. Then sudden anger flashed over him. Henrietta felt it quivering in his tones as he said, when she gave him the envelope:
“Thank you, Miss Marne. You did just right about mailing that letter, and I am much pleased that you did. But hereafter don’t trust that fellow Gordon in any way. For all his pretense of friendship, he is the worst enemy I have and would stop at nothing to injure me. Hereafter he must not be allowed to enter these rooms. Will you please tell the boy that these are my orders – that Hugh Gordon must be put out at once if he attempts to come inside my door again.”
Henrietta noticed that the architect took the letter she gave him with a hand that trembled slightly, cast at it a single frowning, hostile glance and hastily but carefully put it away in his breast pocket. She remembered that just so had he looked at the previous letter from Gordon, and with just the same angry care had put it away unopened.
In that inner pocket it remained untouched, just as had the former one, by turns searing his very heart with impotent anger and chilling it with fear, until a late hour of the night, when he sat alone before his library fire. Then, at last, with the look and manner of a man forced to touch a loathed object, he took it out and opened it.
“Felix Brand, I have come to a decision,” the letter abruptly began. “It must be either you or I. Until lately I thought there might be room for us both. But there isn’t. If you had paid any attention to what I told you before, had shown any remorse for the evil you have done, or any intention of reforming your conduct, I might have come to a different conclusion. I will say more than that. If you had felt in your soul the desire to get yourself together and be a real man instead of a source of pollution, and had shown in your thoughts and actions the willingness and the ability to try to make yourself over, I would have recognized your right to live.
“In that case, I would have gone, perhaps not willingly, but feeling it right to go, back to where I came from, and I would have let you alone. At least, I would have tried to do that, because I give you full credit for your genius, of which I have none, and know its value to the world. But I might not have succeeded. For I have tasted life and found it good and the desire to live, the will to live, is so strong within me that it might have been stronger than the sense of my duty, of your right, or anything else.
“But it is useless to speculate about that, because you grow worse instead of better. You are like one of those people who, apparently unharmed themselves, carry about with them the germs of typhoid and scatter destruction wherever they go. The sooner the world is rid of you the better for it, and the better for you, too.
“You will be surprised, and probably angry, to hear from your secretary that I have visited your office. I went, primarily, because I wanted to meet Miss Marne, but also because I knew she ought to mail that letter and, finally, because I wanted to reassure her about your absence and prevent any measures being taken to search for you. The first reason is none of your affair and on the other two counts you ought to be grateful to me, though I don’t suppose you will be. I took some trouble to find out about the matters on which that letter bore, because I knew how important you considered them. You may find it difficult to believe, but it is true that, although I despise and loathe you, I did not wish to be responsible for such smash-up of your plans as longer delay in the sending of your letter would have caused. The bond between us is too close, Felix Brand, for me not to feel compassion for you sometimes.
“I could have kept you away longer this time if I had not felt sorry for Miss Annister. It was on her account that I let you return when I did. Don’t make her suffer that way again. If you don’t give her beforehand some sort of plausible preparation for your next absence – for there will be another, and that before long – I shall enable her father to find out some plain truths about you that may complicate matters for you in that quarter.
“My mind is made up, Felix Brand. There is not room in the world for both you and me. I shall try not to hurt you publicly again, because it does no good. And efficient measures are the only ones that appeal to me. But I am going to do my best to push you off the edge for good and all. I have doubted and hesitated and argued the matter over and over with myself and tried to see some way of compromise. But you will not come my way and I loathe yours. And you know quite well that you yourself are responsible for the whole business, even for the fate that awaits you. You will merely suffer the consequences of your own actions. For I believe I shall win. I know that you will put up a good fight, for we have fought before, and, so far, you have won oftener than I have. But in the end, I shall win. I dare say you will think it impertinent in me to add that I am convinced it will be for your good, as well as for the world’s benefit, that I should win. Nevertheless, I do think that very thing and so I can still declare myself,
“Yours sincerely,“Hugh Gordon.”
Felix Brand read this letter with an interest that made him, in spite of his abhorrence, go through it a second time before he lifted his eyes from its pages. For him its mysterious threats needed no explanation and as he sensed the full meaning of the fate it predicted, angry horror swept over him.
He shuddered as he glanced apprehensively about him, as though fearing to see take shape out of the air the intangible force with which, on that other night three weeks before, he had fought to the utmost of his strength, only to be overcome at last. The memory of that fierce struggle was upon him now, chilling his veins and clutching his heart with terror. And he would have to fight that invisible, relentless power over and over again to save himself from the black-magic destiny that threatened. Then, suddenly, fear and horror were swept away by a frenzy of rage that ramped through him all the more fiercely because there was nothing upon which it could wreak itself.
“You thief!” he cried, glaring about him with bloodshot eyes. “You hypocrite, to set yourself up as better than I am! Do you hear me? You hypocrite, thief, murderer!”
The exaltation of his anger gave him fresh strength and new confidence in himself and he tore the letter into bits and ground them beneath his heel as he shouted:
“This is what will happen to you! It’s what you deserve and what you’ll get, you damned thief!”
CHAPTER XV
Felix Brand Has a Bad Quarter of an Hour
It was evident to Dr. Annister that Felix Brand was having a bad quarter of an hour. But the little physician, sitting upright in his capacious chair, his elbows on its arms and his finger-tips resting against one another, could not find it in his heart to abate in the least the penetrating gaze of his gray eyes or the gentle insistence of his questions. For the longer their talk continued the more he became convinced that the man before him was not speaking the truth and the more he felt it necessary, for his daughter’s sake, to find out what was the truth.
“I am sorry to have to tell you, Felix,” said Dr. Annister, in the beginning of their conversation, “that I am unable to feel entire confidence in your explanation of your long and mysterious absence.”
The architect hesitated for a bare instant before he turned to reply. The other noted that he had to stop to think, that neither movement nor answer was spontaneous.
“Do you mean me to understand, Dr. Annister,” he said courteously, “that you think I am lying?”
“Let’s not put it just that way. Suppose we call it the endeavor on your part to conceal something you don’t want known – the instinct of self-defense. Morally, doubtless, it is the same thing. But I am not concerned just now with the moral nature of the thing itself. I am much concerned, however, for Mildred’s sake, with the nature of the thing behind it.”
Brand shot a quick, uneasy glance at him and moved restlessly in his chair. But there was no change in the customary, soft modulations of his voice or the urbanity of his manner as he replied: “Pardon me, Dr. Annister, but you are taking for granted something you have no right to assume. You know that I am an honorable man, accustomed to show at least ordinary regard for the truth. And therefore I say that you have no right to doubt my word on mere suspicion.”
“My suspicion, if you wish to call it so, is well enough grounded to deserve, on my part, the most careful attention and, on yours, entire respect. Your explanation seems to me to be so thin and full of holes as not to be worth a moment’s notice. It would be puerile for me to tell you how many opportunities you would have had on the train, as you were leaving the railroad, when you returned to it, and on your way home, to write or to telegraph to me, to Mildred, or to Miss Marne, and give us some idea of your whereabouts and assurance of your safety.”
“I did write, on the train, to Mildred and also to Miss Marne. Apparently, the letters were lost in the mails or the porter forgot to post them.”
Dr. Annister’s finger-tips patted one another softly while his eyes searched the patrician face of his companion and marked in it signs of uneasiness.
“I have always supposed,” he said quietly, “that a telegraph line runs beside the railroad into West Virginia, and I have not heard that the wires were down during your absence.”
Felix Brand rose and with hands thrust into his pockets moved uncertainly from one chair to another. “Mildred has entire confidence in my explanation,” he said with a touch of defiance in his voice. “She knows I would not deceive her.”
“Mildred is young,” her father replied gently, “and ignorant of the evil of which there is such a plenty in the world. She is very, very much in love with her promised husband and if he told her that black is white the dazzle in her eyes would make her see it white. But, Felix, it is just because she is so young, so innocent and so much at the mercy of her loving heart that I must speak plainly to you. I don’t expect you to be entirely worthy of such a wealth of pure young love as she gives you. The man doesn’t live who is clean enough in heart and in life to be worthy of such a treasure. But I do expect you to be, Felix, and I must assure myself that you are, clean enough and honorable enough not to blight all the rest of her life. What is past is past, but from now on there must be nothing that will not bear the light of day.”
Brand was moving slowly back and forth, his countenance expressive of inward debate and hesitation. He was asking himself if it would not be the wisest plan to lay his trouble frankly before the physician and ask for his help. But his pride and his confidence in himself drew back from such a step.
No, he told himself, nobody must know. It must be kept in the darkest secrecy – suppose the thing should get out, and into the papers! His heart quaked at the thought. And he could not feel sure what view Dr. Annister would take of the truth – he might forbid the marriage with Mildred. No, he would keep the truth locked in his own breast and fight his battle alone. Well, he was sure of winning. It might take a little time, but he had no doubt of the outcome. Nevertheless, there was some uncertainty in his manner, though his courteous tones were firm enough as he said:
“If you will not take my word – and permit me to say, Dr. Annister, that it has never been doubted before – what more can I say?”
“You can tell me the truth, Felix,” bluntly replied his prospective father-in-law. “I am fond of you, my boy, very fond of you, – I think you know that. I am proud of your genius and I expect to see you become one of the most famous architects of our time. More than anything else in the world I want to see my little girl as happy, as your wife, as her love deserves she should be. But I must tell you frankly, Felix, that I am afraid. I am afraid for you and your future and very much afraid for that of my daughter with you. That’s why I feel I must speak as plainly as I am going to. I wish you would make it easier for me by meeting me half way.”
The architect, still moving about the room with slow restlessness, stopped short and cast a quick, suspicious glance at the physician. The sweat broke out on his forehead as the fear leaped into his heart that Dr. Annister had guessed the truth. He had to grope among his panic thoughts for a moment before he could reply. His voice was a little strained as he said:
“Meet you half way? I don’t know what you mean?”
Dr. Annister leaned back in his chair and sighed. But his searching gray eyes did not leave the other’s face nor fail to take note there of the frequent signs of inner perturbation. Sadly he was saying to himself that everything in Brand’s expression and manner increased his fears and justified his suspicion.
“Well, then,” he said, “let us come straight to the point. A look, an expression, a tell-tale sign that I don’t like has been steadily growing stronger in your face for the last six months. For the physician, and especially for the one who deals as much as I do with the psychological results of misliving, a man’s countenance becomes a veritable table of contents for the book of his life. And your face is beginning to tell me such a story of self-indulgence and sensuality as makes me unwilling to give my daughter to your arms.”
Brand turned a little away, as if he would conceal the traitor face whose refined beauty this inquisitor was finding even less than skin deep. “Of course,” he said, “I am not as innocent as I was a dozen years ago. But – what you would have, Dr. Annister? A saint? You know you would have to look far to find one among modern young men. I’m no worse than the most of them and much better than some.”
The physician was leaning forward again in his chair, his finger-tips tapping. He paid no attention to his companion’s defense but pursued his own line of thought with an increasing tensity in his voice.
“I have been watching that revealing table of contents in your face grow steadily plainer for the last six months. After each of these long absences, for which you can give no satisfactory explanation, the expression has become, to my eyes, stronger and more significant than before. It forces me to the hypothesis, almost to the conclusion, that you have been spending this time somewhere in the under-world, in some sort of secret debauch.”
Brand wiped the starting beads of sweat from his brow, and said, “I don’t believe you really think me that sort of man, Dr. Annister!”
“Or, possibly,” the physician continued, “that you have become a victim to the alcohol or one of the drug habits. I don’t see the signs of that sort of thing upon you, yet. But – well, if such is your misfortune, I wish, Felix, that you would confide in me. Such habits are curable and even if my other hypothesis, which your physical appearance has forced me to, should be true we might be able to find its cause in some nerve lesion susceptible of remedy. In either case, you know as well as I do, Felix, that there is disaster before you, physical, moral and mental, if you keep on. Make a clean breast of it, and I’ll do my best to help you.”
Again the temptation was assailing the architect’s mind to accept this proffered help and shift his burden to the shoulders of this little but puissant man of healing. Perhaps those tapping fingers could make him whole again. But as he faced avowal of the truth his whole soul drew back. It was impossible – the one thing he could not do. Then came another idea, perhaps a way out.
“Suppose – I do not admit it, but suppose, for the sake of your argument, that your hypothesis should be true. What then – Mildred – what about – ”
Dr. Annister sprang to his feet and broke in upon the other’s stumbling words in a voice whose low-toned intensity gave his listener an uncomfortable thrill: “Nothing could make me happier than to see my child the happy wife of the man she loves, if he deserves her love. But I’d rather see her dead than married to a man of gross and unclean life, who has made himself a slave to seasons of secret debauch!”
There was silence for a moment while Brand looked away, unwilling to meet the physician’s eyes. His face was pale and he breathed as if there were a weight upon his chest. Again he was considering open confession. But when he spoke he said:
“Dr. Annister, you are most unjust. I told you the truth about my absence. On that question there is nothing more to be said. But it is my right to know, and I insist upon knowing, whether or not you have any basis whatever for these insinuations you have been making, except your own suspicions.”
Mildred’s father gazed thoughtfully at her betrothed for a moment before he replied. He was saying to himself that the man’s words were candid enough in their import, but that, somehow, the speech had not rung true. There was no spark of indignation in those brown eyes, that seemed to have some difficulty in meeting his. Nor was there any quiver of that honest resentfulness he longed to see. Beneath Brand’s habitual manner of slightly ceremonious politeness and deference he discerned uncertainty of thought and purpose.
“There’s something wrong here,” the physician was thinking, “something woefully wrong. He doesn’t seem to feel the monstrosity of what I’ve almost been charging him with.” Unconsciously he shook his head sadly as he began to speak aloud:
“As I told you before, Felix, with the knowledge I have spent a lifetime of hard work gaining, I don’t need any better evidence than my own eyes can give. I consider it as worthy of confidence as any information I might have from another. That and my own intelligence are the sole ground of my fears. These did have, however, some slight corroboration in the rather mysterious manner and assurances of your friend, Mr. Hugh Gordon.”
At the sound of that name Brand faced sharply round upon the astonished doctor, anger flaming in his face and eyes.
“That man!” he cried. “Are you taking his word against mine? He is my worst enemy, and he will stop at nothing to injure me. He is a thief, a murderer, or would be if he dared. I demand that you tell me what he has been charging me with!”
Dr. Annister stared in amazement at this flare of hostility and wrath. “You mistake me, Felix,” he said quietly, although inwardly he was wondering much as to the cause of the outburst. “I did not say he charged you with anything, nor did he. On the contrary, he seemed to me to be doing his best to execute a friendly office toward you. I thought it strange that he should be so positive you were in no danger of any sort and yet should not know where you were. He seemed sincere and straightforward and the only hypothesis upon which I could reconcile his two statements was one that strengthened what you call my suspicions.”
While the doctor spoke Brand had been moving about with quick steps and sharp turns, scowling and muttering. “Oh, I know the fellow goes about making this pretense of friendship,” he said sullenly, “but there’s no trust to be put in him. He is bent on my ruin. But I’ll get even with him, I’ll down him yet!”
He took another turn or two, apparently endeavoring to get himself under control again, while Dr. Annister regarded him with gray brows wrinkled thoughtfully. He began to feel, uneasily, that there was more underneath this situation than he had guessed.
“Well, Felix,” he said at last, “I am sorry that our conversation has had no better result. I hoped you would clear this matter up and, if you need help, would let me give you whatever advice and aid I could. Think the matter over more carefully and if you should see it in a different light come to me at any time and let me see what I can do for you.”
“I thank you, Dr. Annister. I shall keep your kindness in mind, although I do not suppose I shall have any more occasion to make use of it in the future than I have now. But Mildred – ” he hesitated as he turned an anxious countenance upon his companion. “You are not going to forbid our marriage on account of these baseless and unjust notions of yours?”
Down in his heart Dr. Annister was at that moment deciding that his daughter should never become this man’s wife unless all his apprehensions and fears were first cleared away. But he feared the effect upon Mildred, especially at this juncture, of a forced breaking of the engagement. So he temporized.
“No, I shall not forbid it, or at least, not now. But I can not consent to a marriage in the early future, as you have both begged me to do. You will have to wait a while longer, Felix, and prove yourself worthy. I don’t like these mysterious disappearances.”
