Kitabı oku: «Out of a Labyrinth», sayfa 9
CHAPTER XVIII.
A SEWING MACHINE AGENT
On arriving within sight of Amora, I had reason to congratulate myself that I had brought Larkins along as convoy.
Amora was by no means a city, but it was large enough to make a search after Mr. Dwight a proceeding possibly lengthy, and perhaps difficult.
Larkins knew all about it. We drove past the Seminary, quite a large and imposing structure, surrounded by neat and tastefully laid out grounds, through a cheery-looking business street, and across a bridge, over a hill, and thence down a street which, while it was clean, well built, and thrifty of aspect, was evidently not the abode of Amora's la beau monde.
In another moment Larkins was pulling in his reins before a large, unpainted dwelling, in front of which stood a pole embellished with the legend, "Boarding House."
Several inquiring faces could be seen through the open windows, and the squeak of an untuneful violin smote our ears, as we approached the door.
Larkins, who seemed very much at home, threw open the street door; we turned to the right, and were almost instantly standing in a large, shabbily-furnished parlor.
Two of the aforementioned faces, carried on the shoulders of two blowzy-looking young women, were vanishing through a rear door, through which the tones of the violin sounded louder and shriller than before. Three occupants still remained in the room, and to one of these, evidently the "landlady," Larkins addressed himself.
"Good evening, Mrs. Cole. We want to see Ed. I hear his fiddle, so I s'pose he can be seen?"
Proffering us two hard, uninviting chairs, Mrs. Cole vanished, and, through the half-closed door, we could hear her voice, evidently announcing our presence, but the violin and "Lannigan's Ball" went on to the end. Like another musical genius known to fame, Mr. Dwight evidently considered "music before all else."
With the last note of the violin came the single syllable, "Eh?" in a voice not unpleasant, but unnecessarily loud.
Mrs. Cole repeated her former sentence; there was the sound of some one rising, quick steps crossed the floor and, as the door swung inward to admit Mr. Dwight, I advanced quickly and with extended hand.
When he halted before me, however, I stepped back in feigned surprise and confusion.
But Dwight was equal to the occasion. Before I could drop or withdraw my hand, he seized it in his own large palm, and shook it heartily, the most jovial of smiles lighting his face meanwhile.
"You've got the advantage of me, just now," he said, in the same loud, cheery tone we had heard from the kitchen, "but I'm glad to see you, all the same. Larkins! hallo, Larkins, how are you," and, dropping my hand as suddenly as he had grasped it, Dwight turned to salute Larkins.
When their greeting was over, I stammered forth my explanation.
I had made a mistake. Mr. DeWhyte must pardon it. Hearing at Clyde that a Mr. DeWhyte was living in Amora, and that he was engaged in the sale of sewing machines, I had supposed it to be none other than an old school friend of that name, who, when last I heard of him, was general agent for a city machine manufactory. It was a mistake which I trusted Mr. DeWhyte would pardon. I then presented my card and retired within myself.
But the genial Dwight was once more "happy to know me." Shifting his violin, which he had brought into the room, from underneath his left elbow, he rested it upon his knee, and launched into a series of questions concerning my suppositious friend, which resulted in the discovery that their names, though similar, were not the same, and that the existence of a Mr. Edward DeWhyte and of Ed. Dwight, both following the same occupation, was not after all a very remarkable coincidence, although one liable to cause mistakes like the one just made by me.
After this we were more at our ease. I proffered my cigar case, and both Larkins and Dwight accepted weeds, Dwight remarking, as he arose to take some matches from a card-board match safe under the chimney, that, "smoking was permitted in the parlor," adding, as he struck a match on the sole of his boot, that he "believed in comfort, and would not board where they were too high-toned to allow smoking."
Conversation now became general; rather Larkins, Dwight, and the two hitherto silent "boarders" talked, and I listened, venturing only an occasional remark, and studying my "subject" with secret interest.
"When are you comin' our way again, Dwight?" asked Larkins, as, after an hour's chat, we rose to take our leave.
"I don't know, Lark.; I don't know," said Dwight, inserting his hands in his pockets and jingling some loose coin or keys as he replied. "I don't think I'll make many more trips."
"Sho! Ye ain't goin' to take a new route, I hope?"
"N-no; I think I'll try a new deal. I've got a little down on the S. M. biz., and talk of taking up my old trade."
"What! the show business?"
"Yes; I've got a pretty good chance for salary, and guess I'll go down south and do a little of the heel and toe business this Winter," rattling his heels by way of emphasis.
This fragment of conversation was a mine which I worked faithfully during our Clydeward drive, manifesting an interest in Mr. Ed. Dwight which quite met with the approval of Larkins, and which he was very ready to build up and gratify.
I remained in Clyde that night, and before retiring to rest in the tiny room assigned me in the "hotel," I made the following entry in my note-book:
Ed. Dwight, sewing machine agent, living at Amora, is taller than the medium, but slender, and of light weight, being narrow of chest, with slim and slightly bowed legs, and long arms that are continually in motion; large, nervous hands; small head, with close-cropped curly black hair; fine regular features, that would be handsome but for the unhealthy, sallow complexion, and the look of dissipation about the eyes; said eyes very black, restless and bold of expression; mouth sensual, and shaded by a small, black mustache; teeth, white and rather prominent.
He is full of life and animation; an inveterate joker, his "chaff" being his principal conversational stock in trade. He is loud of speech, somewhat coarse in manner, rakish in dress, and possesses wonderful self-confidence. He is considered a dangerous fellow among the country girls, and gets credit for making many conquests. Is fickle in his fancies, and, like the sailor, seems to have a sweetheart in every port.
He is a singer of comic songs, a scraper upon the violin, and a some time song and dance man.
Has sold sewing machines for nearly three years in Amora and vicinity, and is now preparing to return to the stage and to go South.
Early the next morning I bade Larkins a friendly farewell, and turned my face toward Trafton.
Nothing noteworthy had occurred during my absence. Blake and Dimber Joe had observed Sunday in the most decorous fashion, attending divine worship, but not together, and remained in and about the hotel all the rest of the day and evening, treating each other as entire strangers, and, so far as Carnes could discover, never once exchanging word or glance.
One thing Carnes had noted as peculiar: Jim Long had haunted the hotel all day, manifesting a lively interest in our city birds, watching them furtively, entering into conversation with one or the other as opportunity offered, and contriving, while seeming to lounge as carelessly as usual, to keep within sight of them almost constantly during the day and evening.
Dr. Barnard was still in a critical condition; Carnes had not seen Bethel since Saturday.
"And what elephant's tracks did ye's find till the south av us?" queried Carnes, after he had given me the foregoing information. "Any 'nish' lairs, quiet fences, or cosy jungles, eh?"
Whereupon I gave him a full description of the journey over the south road, reserving only the portion of my yesterday's experience that concerned, for the present, only Mr. Ed. Dwight and myself.
"So there's nothing to get out of that," said Carnes, after listening to my recital with a serious countenance. "What do you think now, old man? If they don't run their booty over that road, where the mischief do they take it?"
"That we must find out," I replied. "And in order to do that we must investigate in a new direction."
"How?"
"Think a moment. We decided at the first that these systematic thieves had, must have, a rendezvous within half a night's ride from Trafton."
"Yes; an' I stick to that theory."
"So do I. All these robberies have been committed at distances never more than twenty-five miles from Trafton; often less, but never more."
"Just so."
"Within a radius of twenty-five miles around Trafton, east, north, and west, and at all intermediate points, it has not been safe to own a good horse. There is but one break in this unsafe circle and that is to the south. Now, that south road, one day, or two days, after a robbery, would be anything but safe for a midnight traveler, who rode a swift going horse or drove with a light buggy. Carnes, get your map and study out my new theory thereon."
Carnes produced his map and spread it out upon his knee, and I followed his example with my own.
"Now, observe," I began, "the south road runs straight and smooth for twenty miles, intersected regularly by the mile sections."
"Yes."
"Until a little north of Clyde, two miles, I believe they call it, a more curving irregular road runs southeast. Now, follow that road."
"I'm after it."
"It continues southeast for nearly ten miles, then the road forks."
"Yes."
"One fork, running directly south, takes you straight to some coal beds at Norristown – "
"Aye, aye!"
"The other runs beyond the county line and it is not on our maps; it takes an easterly course for nearly twenty miles, terminating at the river."
"Ah! I begin to see!"
"From Trafton to the river, then, is a little more than forty miles. You cross the river and are in another State. Up and down the river, for many miles, you have heavy timber; not far inland you find several competing railroads. Now, my belief is, that after the excitement following these robberies has had time to die out, the horses are hurried over this fifty miles of country, and across the river, and kept in the timber until it is quite safe to ship them to a distant market."
"But meantime, before they are taken to the river, where are they ambushed, then?"
"Under our very noses; here in Trafton!"
Carnes stared at me in consternation.
"Old man," he said, at last, drawing a long, deep breath, "you are either insane – or inspired."
"I believe I have caught an inspiration. But time will test my idea, 'whether it be from the gods or no.' These outlaws have proven themselves cunning, and fertile of brain. Who would think of overhauling Trafton for these stolen horses? The very boldness of the proceeding insures its safety."
"I should think so. And how do you propose to carry out your search?"
"We must begin at once, trusting to our wits for ways and means. In some way we must see or know the contents of every barn, stable, granary, store-house, outbuilding, and abandoned dwelling, in and about Trafton. No man's property, be he what he may, must be held exempt."
"Do you think, then, that the stolen horses, the last haul of course, are still in Trafton?"
"It is not quite a week since the horses were taken; the 'nine days' wonder' is still alive. If my theory is correct, they are still in Trafton!"
CHAPTER XIX.
HAUNTED BY A FACE
It was the day of Miss Manvers' garden party, and a brighter or more auspicious one could not have dropped from the hand of the Maker of days.
Never did the earth seem fairer, and seldom did the sun shine upon a lovelier scene than that presented to my gaze as I turned aside from the dusty highway, and paced slowly up the avenue leading to the Hill House.
Even now the picture and the scenes and incidents of the day, rise before my mental vision, a graceful, sunlit, yet fateful panorama.
I see the heiress, as she glides across the lawn to greet me, her brunette cheeks glowing, her lips wreathed in smiles. She wears a costume that is a marvel of diaphanous creamy material, lighted up here and there with dashes of vivid crimson. Crimson roses adorn the loops and rippling waves of her glossy hair, and nestle in the rich lace at her throat. And, as I clasp her little hand, and utter the commonplaces of greeting, I note that the eye is even more brilliant than usual, the cheek and lip tinged with the vivid hue left by excitement, and, underneath the gay badinage and vivacious hospitality, a suppressed something: – anxiety, expectation, displeasure, disappointment; which, I can not guess. I only see that something has ruffled my fair hostess, and given to her thoughts, even on this bright day, an under current that is the reverse of pleasant.
The grounds are beautiful and commodious, tastefully arranged and decorated for the occasion, and the élite of Trafton is there; all, save Louise Barnard and Dr. Bethel.
"Have you heard from Dr. Barnard since noon?" queries my hostess, as we cross the lawn to join a group gathered about an archery target. "I have almost regretted giving this party. It seems unfeeling to be enjoying ourselves here, and poor Louise bowed down with grief and anxiety beside a father who is, perhaps, dying."
"Not dying, I hope."
"Oh, we all shall hope until hope is denied us. I suppose his chance for life is one in a thousand. I am so sorry, and we shall miss Louise and Dr. Bethel so much."
"Bethel is in close attendance?"
"Yes, Dr. Barnard has all confidence in him; and then – you know the nature of his relation with the family?"
"His relation; that of family physician, I suppose?"
Miss Manvers draws back her creamy skirts as we brush past a thorny rose tree.
"That of family physician; yes, and prospective son-in-law."
"Ah! I suspected an attachment there."
"It appears they have been privately engaged for some time, with the consent of the Barnards, of course. It has only just been publicly announced; rather it will be; I had it from Mrs. Barnard this morning. Dr. Barnard desires that it should be made known. He believes himself dying, and wishes Trafton to know that he sanctions the marriage."
Her voice has an undertone of constraint which accords with her manner, and I, remembering the scene of a week before, comprehend and pity. In announcing her friend's betrothal she proclaims the death of her own hope.
I do not resume the subject, and soon we are in the midst of a gay group, chattering with a bevy of fair girls, and receiving from one or two Trafton gallants, glances of envious disfavor, which I, desiring to mortify vanity, attributed to my new Summer suit rather than to my own personal self.
Arch Brookhouse is the next arrival, and almost the last. He comes in among us perfumed and smiling, and is received with marked favor. My new costume has now a rival, for Arch is as correct a gentleman of fashion as ever existed outside of a tailor's window.
He is in wonderful spirits, too, adding zest to the merriment of the gay group of which he soon becomes the center.
After a time bows and quivers come more prominently into use. Archery is having its first season in Trafton. Some of the young ladies have yet to be initiated into the use of the bow, and presently I find myself instructing the pretty sixteen-year-old sister of my friend, Charlie Harris.
She manages her bow gracefully, but with a weak hand; her aim is far from accurate, and I find ample occupation in following the erratic movements of her arrows.
Brookhouse and Miss Manvers are both experts with the bow. They send a few arrows flying home to the very center of the target, and then withdraw from the sport, and finally saunter away together, the hand of the lady resting confidingly upon her escort's arm.
"Arn't they a pretty couple?" exclaims my little pupil, twanging her bow-string as she turns to look after them. "I do wonder if they are engaged."
"So do I," I answer, with much fervor.
She favors me with a quick roguish glance, and laughs blithely.
"I don't know," turning back to her momentarily forgotten pastime. "Mr. Brookhouse has been very attentive, and for a long time we all thought him the favored one, until Dr. Bethel came, and since you appeared in Trafton. Ah! I'm afraid Adele is a bit of a flirt."
And astute Miss sixteen shoots me another mischievous glance, and poises her arrow with all the nonchalance of a veteran.
Again I glance in the direction taken by my hostess and her cavalier, but they have disappeared among the plentiful shrubbery.
I turn back to my roguish little pupil, now provokingly intent upon her archery practice.
Once more the arrow is fixed; she takes aim with much deliberation, and puts forth all her strength to the bending of the bow. Twang! whizz! the arrow speeds fast and far – and foul. It finds lodgment in a thicket of roses, that go clambering over a graceful trellis, full ten feet to the right of the target.
There is a shout of merriment. Mademoiselle throws down the bow with a little gesture of despair, and I hasten toward the trellis intent upon recapturing the missent arrow.
As I am about to thrust my hand in among the roses, I am startled by a voice from the opposite side; startled because the voice is that of my hostess, thrilling with intensest anger, and very near me.
"It has gone far enough! It has gone too far. It must stop now, or – "
"Or you will make a confounded fool of yourself."
The voice is that of Arch Brookhouse, disagreeably contemptuous, provokingly calm.
"No matter. What will it make of you?"
The words begin wrathful and sibilant, and end with a hiss. Can that be the voice of my hostess?
Making a pretense of search I press my face closer to the trellis and peer through.
I see Adele Manvers, her face livid with passion, her eyes ablaze, her lips twitching convulsively. There is no undercurrent of feeling now. Rage, defiance, desperation, are stamped upon her every feature.
Opposite her stands Arch Brookhouse, his attitude that of careless indifference, an insolent smile upon his countenance.
"If I were you, I would drop that nonsense," he says, coolly. "You might make an inning with this new city sprig, perhaps. He looks like an easy fish to catch; more money than brains, I should say."
"I think his brains will compare favorably with yours; he is nothing to me – "
Brookhouse suddenly shifts his position.
"Don't you see the arrow?" calls a voice behind me, and so near that I know Miss Harris is coming to assist my search.
I catch up the arrow and turn to meet her.
No rustle of the leaves has betrayed my presence; the sound of our voices, and their nearness, is drowned by the general hilarity.
We return to our archery, and the two behind the screen finish their strange interview. How, I am unable to guess from their faces, when, after a time, they are once more among us, Brookhouse as unruffled as ever, Miss Manvers flushed, nervous, and feverishly gay.
Throughout the remainder of the fête, the face of my hostess is continually before me; not as her guests see it, fair, smiling, and serene, but pallid, passionate, vengeful, as I saw it from behind the rose thicket. And I am haunted by the thought that somewhere, sometime, I have seen just such a face; just such dusky, gleaming, angry eyes; just such a scornful, quivering mouth; just such drawn and desperate features.
Now and then I find time to chuckle over the words, uncomplimentary in intent, but quite satisfactory to me – "a city sprig with more money than brains."
So this is the ultimatum of Mr. Brookhouse? Some day, perhaps, he may cherish another opinion, at least so far as the money is concerned.
Then, while the gayety goes on, I think of Groveland and its mystery; of the anonymous warning, the album verse, the initials A. B. Again I take my wild John Gilpin ride, with one arm limp and bleeding.
"Ah," I say to myself, thinking wrathfully of his taunting words and insolent bearing, which my hostess had seemed powerless to resent, "Ah, my gentleman, if I should trace that unlucky bullet to you, then shall Miss Manvers rejoice at your downfall!"
What was the occasion of their quarrel? What was the meaning of their strange words?
Again and again I ask myself the question as I go home through the August darkness, having first seen pretty Nettie Harris safely inside her father's cottage gate.
But I find no satisfactory answer to my questions. I might have dismissed the matter from my thoughts as only a lover's quarrel, save for the last words uttered by Brookhouse. But lovers are not apt to advise their sweethearts to "make an inning" with another fellow. If jealousy existed, it was assuredly all on the side of the lady.
Having watched them narrowly after their interview behind the rose trellis, I am inclined to think it was not a lover's quarrel; and if not that, what was it?
I give up the riddle at last, but I can not dismiss the scene from my mental vision, still less can I banish the remembrance of the white, angry face, and the tormenting fancy that I have not seen it to-day for the first time.
I am perplexed and annoyed.
I stop at the office desk to light a cigar and exchange a word with "mine host." Dimber Joe is writing ostentatiously at a small table, and Blake Simpson is smoking on the piazza.
The sight of the two rogues, so inert and mysterious, gives me an added twinge of annoyance. I cut short my converse with the landlord and go up to my room.
Carnes is sitting before a small table, upon which his two elbows are planted; his fingers are twisted in his thick hair, and his head is bent so low over an open book that his nose seems quite ready to plow up the page.
Coming closer, I see that he is glowering over a pictured face in his treasured "rogues' gallery."
"If you want to study Blake Simpson's cranium," I say, testily, "why don't you take the living subject? He's down-stairs at this moment."
"I've been studying the original till my head got dizzy," replies Carnes, pushing back the book and tilting back in his chair. "The fact is, the fellow conducts himself so confoundedly like a decent mortal, that I have to appeal to the gallery occasionally to convince myself that it is Blake himself, and not his twin brother."
I laugh at this characteristic whim, and, drawing the book toward me, carelessly glance from page to page.
Carnes prides himself upon his "gallery." He has a large and motley collection of rogues of all denominations: thieves, murderers, burglars, counterfeiters, swindlers, fly crooks of every sort, and of both sexes.
"They've been here four days now," Carnes goes on, plaintively, "and nothing has happened yet. It's enough to make a man lose faith in 'Bene Coves.' I wonder – "
"Ah!" The exclamation falls sharply from my lips, the "gallery" almost falls from my hands.
Carnes leaves his speech unfinished and gazes anxiously at me, while I sit long and silently studying a pictured face.
By-and-by I close the book and replace it upon the table.
One vexed question is answered; I know now why the white, angry face of Adele Manvers has haunted me as a shadow from the past.
I arise and pace the floor restlessly; like Theseus, I have grasped the clue that shall lead me from the maze.
After a time, Carnes goes out to inform himself as to the movements of Blake and Dimber Joe.
Midnight comes, but no Carnes.
The house is hushed in sleep. I lock the door, extinguish my light, and, lowering myself noiselessly from the window to the ground, turn my steps toward the scene of the afternoon revel.
In the darkness and silence I reach my destination, and scaling a high paling, stand once more in the grounds of The Hill.
