Kitabı oku: «Amusement Only», sayfa 5
TWINS!
CHAPTER I
THE FIRST LADY
"Mrs. And Miss Danvers."
Mr. Herbert Buxton, standing at the office window of the hotel, glancing at the visitors' book on the desk at his right, saw the names among the latest arrivals. They caught his eye. "Pontresina" was stated to be the place from which they had lately come.
"It is the Danvers, for a fiver-Cecil's Danvers."
Strolling from the office window, he took a letter-a frayed letter-from his pocket-book. It was post-marked "Pontresina." The signature was "Cecil Buxton" – it was from his brother.
"Dear Hubert," it ran, "you really must get something to do! Your request for what you call an advance is absurd. So far from advancing you anything I shall have to cut short the allowance I have been making you. I have met here a Mrs. and Miss Danvers. I have asked Miss Danvers to do me the honour to marry me. She has consented. When that event comes to pass-which will be very shortly-your allowance will recede to a vanishing point. That you will get something to do is, therefore, the advice of your affectionate brother, Cecil Buxton."
"It would be an odd coincidence," reflected Hubert, "if that Miss Danvers is this Miss Danvers."
An idea occurred to his fertile-too fertile-brain. As the first glimmerings of the idea burst on him, Hubert smiled.
In giving birth to Cecil and Hubert Buxton, Nature had been indulging in one of her freaks. They were twins-born within a few seconds of each other. Cecil came first. Hubert came, with all possible expedition, immediately after. Babies are proverbially alike. These babies were so much alike that, when they were undressed, no one ever pretended to be able to tell one from the other. The resemblance outlived babyhood. As the years went on, Cecil was always being taken for Hubert, Hubert for Cecil. The unfortunate part of the business was that the resemblance was merely superficial. Inside, they were altogether different. Cecil was solid and steady, while Hubert-well, at that particular moment he was quartered at that fashionable Bournemouth hotel, without money in his pocket with which to pay his hotel bill, and with nobody within reach from whom he could borrow a five-pound note.
"If," he told himself, "this Danvers is that Danvers, I might make something out of that fatal likeness after all."
It would not be, by any means, the first time he had made something out of the "fatal likeness," but on that, in this place, we need not dwell. He strolled along the corridor, the open letter in his hand, biting his nails and thinking over things as he went. As he approached the glass door which led into the grounds, it opened to admit a lady. At sight of him she stopped.
"Cecil!" she exclaimed.
Hubert looked at her. She was a magnificent woman, planned altogether on a magnificent scale, with a profusion of red-gold hair, and a pair of the biggest and brightest eyes Hubert, with all his wide experience, ever remembered to have seen.
"It is the Danvers!" he inwardly decided. "What a 'oner'!"
But he was equal to the occasion. He generally was-more than equal. He held out his hand to her with a little sudden burst.
"You!" he cried.
The lady, however, did not immediately respond to his advances. On the contrary, she put her hands behind her back.
"This is an unexpected pleasure. I didn't expect to see you here. I thought you were in Paris."
As a matter of fact according to the most recent advices, Cecil was in Paris. But, of course, Hubert had nothing to do with that.
"I only arrived last night. You-you don't seem glad to see me?"
"It is rather I who should ask the question. Are you glad to see me?"
There was a dryness in her tone which grated on Hubert's ears.
"This is a case in which diplomacy is required. I wonder what there's been between them." Aloud he remarked, "Can you not forget and forgive?"
"Cecil, do you mean it?" She glanced behind her as if in sudden agitation. "I cannot stop now. Meet me in the garden after dinner."
She was gone before he even had a ghost of a chance of feeling his way.
CHAPTER II
THE SECOND LADY
"Cecil! Where are you? Here?"
Hubert, who had been leaning against the wall, came out into the moonlight. The lady stood on the top of the steps. The moon shone full upon her. It lit up the glory of her red-gold hair. She was clad in full evening dress. Her little opera cloak, which had slipped off her shoulders, revealed, rather than concealed, her magnificent proportions. Hubert, eying her critically from below, told himself that she was certainly a "oner!"
"I am afraid I am late. I hope you haven't been waiting long."
"Nothing to speak of. Just time enough to enjoy a cigar-and to dream of you."
"Cecil! For shame! Is it damp? I have only my thin shoes on."
She held one out in evidence. Hubert liked the look of it.
"It is as dry as tinder; just the night for lovers."
"I really think it is." She came down the steps. "How glorious!" Laying her hand upon his arm, she looked into his eyes with her big ones. "As you say, it is just the night for lovers."
They began to stroll. She spoke-
"It seems strange, after all that has passed between us, that you and I should be walking here together."
"It does seem strange." It certainly did.
"After all the hard things you have thought and said of me." There was a pause. She looked down, speaking softly. "Call me by my pet name."
He slightly started. But he was not the sort of man to remain long at a loss. As he turned to her and answered, in his voice there was a ring of passionate intensity.
"Tell me by what name to call you!"
"Call me Angel."
"Angel! My angel of love! My angel of all good things!"
"Cecil!"
Their lips met in a kiss. As they did so, he told himself that if she was Cecil's idea of an angel, she wasn't his. But she was certainly a "oner." He wondered if she had been christened "Angel" Danvers. What a weapon with which to chastise a wife!
"Cecil, let us understand each other. You are not trifling with me again?"
"Need you ask?" This time he was fairly startled. "I am afraid that after all which has passed between us, I need-"
"You do mean to make me your wife?"
"Make you my wife? Good heavens! What do you suppose I mean?"
"Then you do not believe I cheated?"
"Cheated!"
"Then you do not believe that man? You don't believe the lies they said of me?"
"Never for one single instant."
His outspoken denial seemed to take her aback.
"Then, if you didn't believe it, why-but never mind! Cecil, it would be useless to pretend to you that I have been the best of women, but I swear that I will be a good wife to you until I die."
"My own," he murmured. To himself he said, "There seems to have been a good deal more romance about this little affair of Cecil's than I supposed."
Her manner changed.
"Let us talk of something else! Let us talk of you. Tell me of yourself, my love!"
"Well," said Hubert, the ever-ready, "for the moment I am in rather an awkward predicament."
"What is it?"
"The fact is" – he looked her straight in the face, and never turned a hair-"my remittances seem to have all gone wrong. I am landed here with empty pockets."
She laughed. "Let me be your banker, will you?"
"With pleasure."
"I'm quite rich, for me. I've got a heap of money in my purse, if I can only find it." She found it, after long seeking. "How much would you like-twenty pounds?"
"Thank you."
"Should I make it thirty?"
"If you could make it thirty."
Some bank-notes changed hands. He thrust them into his waistcoat-pocket, telling himself that that was something on account at any rate.
"Now, your remittances must make haste and come. Thirty pounds is nothing to you; it is a deal to me. Now I am destitute."
She held out her purse for him to see. It still contained a couple of bank-notes and some gold.
"I suppose you couldn't manage to spare the rest?" he said.
"You greedy thing! I can scarcely believe you are the Cecil Buxton I used to know-he would never have condescended to borrow thirty pounds from me. Do you know, it isn't only that you are nicer, but, somehow, even your manner and your voice seem different."
"Do you think so?" They were standing under the shadow of a tree. He leaned back against the tree. "By the way, I have been remiss. I ought to have inquired after your mother."
"My mother?" She started.
"I see your names are bracketed in the visitors' book together."
"Our names bracketed in the visitors book together! You are dreaming!"
"I saw them there-Mrs. and Miss Danvers."
"Mrs. and Miss Danvers! Cecil! what do you mean?"
It was his turn to stare. Her manner had all at once become quite singular.
"What do you mean? Isn't your mother with you?"
"Cecil, are you making fun of me?"
Hubert felt that, in some way, he was putting his foot in it-though he did not quite see how.
"Nothing is further from my thoughts than to make fun of you. But when I saw Mrs. Danvers' name in the visitors' book-"
"Whose name?"
"When I saw Mrs. and Miss Danvers there as large as life-"
The lady moved a step away from him. All at once she became, as it were, a different woman entirely.
"I see that you are the same man after all. The same Mr. Cecil Buxton. The same cold, calculating, sneering cynic. Only you happen to have broken out in another place. I presume you have been having a little amusement at my expense on a novel plan of your own. But this time, my friend, you have gone too far. You have asked me, in so many words, to be your wife-I dare you to deny it! You have borrowed money-I dare you to deny that too! I am not so unprotected as you may possibly imagine. I took the precaution to wire this morning for a friend. You will marry me, or we shall see!"
The lady swept him a splendid curtsey, and-walked off. He was so taken aback by the sudden change in her deportment that he made not the slightest attempt to arrest her progress. He stared after her, in the moonlight, open-eyed and open-mouthed.
"Well-! I've done something, though I don't know what. And I've done it somehow, though I don't know how. Cecil ought to be grateful to me for ridding him of her. They'd never have been happy together, I'll stake my life on it. Hallo! Who's this? More adventures!"
There was a rustling behind him. He turned. Someone came out of the shadow of the tree. It was a young girl. She was clad in a plain black silk dinner dress. A shawl was thrown over her shoulders. He could see that she had brown hair and pleasant features. She addressed to him a question which surprised him.
"Who is that woman?" she asked.
She pointed after the rapidly retreating "Angel" with a gesture which was almost tragic. He raised his hat.
"I beg your pardon? I don't think I have the pleasure-"
She paid no attention to his words.
"Who is that woman?" she repeated.
"Which woman?"
"That woman?"
"Really I-I think there's some mistake-"
To his amazement she burst into a passion of tears. "Cecil, don't speak to me like that-don't! don't! don't!"
Hubert stared. The young lady dropped her hands from before her face. She looked at him with streaming eyes.
"Who is that woman? Tell me! I've been longing for your coming, thinking of all that I should say to you, wishing that the minutes were but seconds-and you've been here all the time! You must have come hours before you told me that your train was due. What is the meaning of it all?"
"That is precisely what I should like to know."
"I came out here that I might be alone before our meeting. I heard the sound of voices, and I thought that one of them was yours-I could not believe it. I listened. I heard you talking to that woman. I saw her kiss you. Oh, Cecil! Cecil! my heart is broken!"
She tottered forward, all but falling into Hubert's arms. He tried to soothe her. Sotto voce he told himself that Cecil had more romance in his nature than he had given him credit for. His complications in the feminine line appeared to be worthy of the farces at the Palais Royal. In the midst of her emotion, the young lady in his arms continued to address him.
"Why-did you-tell me-you were coming-by one train-when-all the time-you must have meant-to come by another. I-have your letter here-"
From the bosom of her dress she drew an envelope. Hubert made a dash at it.
"My letter? Permit me for an instant!"
With scant ceremony he took it from her hand. He glanced at the address-recognising Cecil's well-known writing.
"Miss-Miss Danvers! Are you-are you-Miss Danvers?"
The girl shrank from him. Her tears were dried. Her face grew white. "Cecil!" she exclaimed.
"Forgive me if my question seems a curious one, but-are you Miss Danvers?"
The girl shrank away still more. Her face grew whiter. She spoke so faintly her words were scarcely audible.
"Cecil! Give me back my letter, if you please!"
He handed her back her envelope. "Miss Danvers, I entreat you-"
But the look of scorn which was on her face brought even Hubert to a standstill. As he hesitated, she "fixed him with her eyes." He had seldom felt so uncomfortable as he did just then. He seemed to feel himself growing smaller simply because of the scorn which was in her glance.
"Good evening, Mister Buxton."
She slightly inclined her head-and was gone. Hubert stared after her dumfounded. When he did recover the faculty of speech he hardly knew what use to make of it.
"Well-I've done it! If she's Miss Danvers-who is 'Angel?' Cecil will thank me for the treat which I'm preparing for him. I knew this fatal likeness would dog me to the grave. Why was I born a twin?"
He strolled slowly toward the building. As he entered the hall a lady was coming along the corridor. At sight of him she quickened her pace. She advanced to him with outstretched hands. She was a lady of perhaps forty years of age.
"Cecil!" she cried.
But Hubert was not to be caught with salt. He had had enough, for the present, of Cecil and-of Cecil's feminine friends. Ignoring her outstretched hands, he slightly raised his hat.
"Pardon me, you have the advantage of me, Madame."
The lady seemed bewildered. She stared at him as if she could not believe her eyes and ears. The door through which Hubert had just entered from the grounds was re-opened at his back. A figure glided past him. It was the young girl from whom he had just parted-in not too cordial a manner. She went straight to the lady, slipping her arm through hers.
"Mamma, Mr. Buxton has declined to acknowledge my acquaintance as he declined to acknowledge yours. I think I can give you a sufficient reason for his doing so, if you will come with me, dear mother."
"Hetty!" murmured the elder woman, still plainly at a loss.
"Come!" said the girl. They went, leaving Hubert to stare.
"Well-I've gone one better! That's Mrs. Danvers, I presume. So I've contrived to insult the mother and the daughter too. Cecil will shower blessings on my head. Who can that Angel be?"
As he was about to follow the ladies along the corridor, someone touched him on the arm. Turning, he saw that a stranger in a black frock coat stood at his side.
"What were you saying to those ladies?" this person asked.
"What the deuce is that to do with you? And who the devil are you?"
"It has this to do with me, that I am the manager of this hotel, and that it is sufficiently obvious that your presence is objectionable to those ladies. Moreover, under existing circumstances, it is objectionable to me. It is a rule of this hotel that accounts are paid weekly. You have been here more than three weeks, and your first week's bill is yet unpaid. You have made sundry promises, but you have not kept them. I don't wish to have any unpleasantness with you, sir, but I regret that I am unable to accommodate you with a bed, in this hotel, to-night."
Hubert felt a trifle wild. He was capable of that feeling now and then. As they were advancing in one direction, two gentlemen, a tall and a short one, were advancing towards them in the other. They were coming to close quarters. Hubert was conscious that the manager's outspoken observations could not be altogether inaudible to the approaching strangers. So he rode as high a horse as he conveniently could.
"As for your bill, I will see it hanged first. As for your insolence, I will report it to your employers. As for myself, I shall only be too glad to go at once."
One of the approaching strangers-the tall one-suddenly standing still, placed himself in front of Hubert in such a way as to bar his progress. With the finger tips of his right hand he tapped him lightly on the chest.
"Not just at once, dear Buxton, not just at once. Not before you have said a few words to me."
"And to me," said the short man, who stood beside his taller companion. Hubert looked from one to the other.
"And pray who may you be?" he inquired.
"You do not know me?" asked the big stranger.
"Nor me?" echoed the little one.
"But it does not matter. Perhaps you have a bad memory, my dear Buxton."
The big man's manner was affable. He turned to the manager. "You must excuse us for one moment, we have just a word to say to our friend Buxton. Here is our little private sitting-room most convenient-just a word."
Before Hubert had altogether realised the situation, the big man had thrust his arm through his, and drawn him into a sitting-room which opened off the corridor from the left. When they were in, the big man locked the door-he not only locked the door, but in an ostentatious manner he pocketed the key.
CHAPTER III
THE UNFORTUNATE RESULT OF BEING A TWIN
"So, Mr. Buxton, you don't know me?"
"Nor me?"
The larger stranger stood against the door. The lesser one, who appeared to be acting as echo, leaned against a table. He began, with a slightly overacted air of carelessness, to roll a cigarette. There was something about this little man which Hubert did not like at all. He was a short, wiry individual, with long, straight black hair, hollow, sallow, shaven cheeks, high projecting cheek-bones, and a pair of small black eyes, which he had a trick of screwing up until only the pupils could be seen. His personal attractions were not enhanced by a huge mole which occupied a conspicuous place in the middle of his left cheek. But if he liked the appearance of the small man little, it was not because he liked the appearance of the tall man more. This was a great hulking fellow, with sandy whiskers and moustache, and a manner which, in spite of its greasy insinuation, Hubert felt was distinctly threatening.
"Is it really possible, Mr. Buxton, that I have had the misfortune to escape your memory?"
"And me?"
Hubert glanced from one to the other. That the little man was a foreigner, probably an Italian, he made up his mind at once. As to the nationality of the big man he was not so sure. He had had dealings with some strange people in his time, both at home and abroad. But he could not recollect encountering either of these gentlemen before.
"I do not remember having ever seen either of you."
"Oh, you do not remember?" The big man came a step nearer. "You do not remember that pleasant evening in that little room at Nice?"
"You do not remember slapping my face?" quickly exclaimed the little man, suddenly slapping his own right cheek with startling vigour.
"You do not remember accusing me of cheating you at cards?"
"You do not remember placing an insult on me! on me! on me?"
All at once, abandoning the process of manufacturing his cigarette, the little man came and placed himself in even uncomfortable proximity to Hubert's person. "My friend, my cheek is burning to this very hour."
Hubert did not like the look of things at all. He was sure he had never seen these men before.
"I understand the position exactly. You are doing what people constantly are doing-you are mistaking me for my brother."
"Mistaking you for your brother? I am mistaking you for your brother?"
"And me!" cried the little man, again saluting his own cheek smartly. "You liar!"
The big man's manner was insulting. Hubert felt he must resent it.
"How dare you-"
But the sentiment died down into his boots as the big man came at him with a sudden ferocity which seemed to cause the beating of his heart to cease.
"How dare I! You dare to speak a word to me. Liar! I will kill you where you stand."
"As for me," remarked the short man, affably, "I have this, and this." From one recess in his clothing he took a revolver. From another, a long, glittering, and business-like, if elegant, knife.
"All these years I have not been able to make up my mind if I will shoot you like a dog, or stick you like a pig-which you are."
"Gentlemen," explained Hubert, with surprising mildness, "I assure you you are under a misapprehension. The likeness between my brother and myself is so striking that our most intimate friends mistake one for the other."
"For whom, then, did my sister mistake you this morning and to-night?"
A light flashed upon Hubert's brain. "You mean Angel?"
"You call her Angel! He calls her Angel!"
"I hear," observed the little man.
"If you will allow me to explain!"
The big man made a gesture of refusal. But the little man caught him by the arm. "Let the liar speak," he said.
The big man, acting on his friend's advice, let the-that is, he let Hubert speak. Availing himself of the courteously offered permission, Hubert did his best to make things clear.
"I am not-as I would have told you before if you would have let me-I am not Cecil, but Hubert Buxton." The big man made another gesture. Again the little man restrained him. "We are twins. All our lives it has been difficult to tell one from the other. Of recent years, I understand, the resemblance between us has grown even greater. But the likeness is only skin deep. Cecil is the elder by, I believe, about thirty seconds. He is a rich man, and I am a poor man-bitterly poor."
The big man spoke. "And you dare to tell me that you have been making love to my sister under a false name? Very good, I have killed a man for less. But I will not kill you-not yet-Is your handwriting as much like your brother's as you are?"
"My fist is like Cecil's."
"So! Sit down." Hubert sat down. "Take that pen." He took the pen. He dipped it in the ink. "Write, 'I promise to marry-'"
"What's the good of my promising to marry anyone? Don't I tell you that I'm without a sou with which to bless myself?"
"Write, my friend, what I dictate. 'I promise to marry-'" Hubert wrote it-"'Marian Philipson Peters-'"
"And who the-something is Marian Philipson Peters?"
"Marian Philipson Peters-Mrs. Philipson Peters, is my sister."
It seemed to be a tolerably prosaic paraphrase of "Angel." Hubert, if the expression of his features could be trusted, appeared to think so.
"And what possible advantage does your sister propose to derive from my promising, either in black and white or in any other way, to marry her? Does the lady propose to pay my debts, or to provide me with an income?"
"Attend to me, my friend-write what I dictate." The big man laid his hand on Hubert's shoulder with an amount of pressure which might mean much-or more! Hubert looked up. The pressure increased. "Write it."
The little man was standing on the other side of the unwilling scribe. He had his revolver in one hand, his knife in the other. "Write it!" he said.
Up went Hubert's shoulders-he wrote it. The big man continued his dictation.
"'Within three months after date.'"
"What on earth-"
"Write-'Within three months after date.'"
"Oh, I'll write anything. I'll promise to marry her within three minutes-to oblige you."
The big man examined what Hubert had written.
"Very like! – very like indeed. So like Cecil Buxton's handwriting that I plainly perceive, my friend, that you are the prince of all the liars. Now sign it." He arrested Hubert's hand. "Sign it-'Cecil Buxton.'"
Hubert glanced up. He dropped his pen. "Now I see!"
"Pick up that pen."
"With pleasure." He picked it up.
"Sign it-'Cecil Buxton."'
The big man spoke in a tone of voice which could not, truthfully, be described as friendly.
"In other words-commit forgery."
The tall man turned to the short one.
"Eugene, who is to use your revolver? Is it you or I? I swear to you that if this scoundrel, this contemptible villain, does not make all the reparation to my sister that is in his miserable power, I will blow his brains out as he is sitting here."
The short man smiled-not pleasantly.
"Leave to me, my friend, that sacred duty-the sacred duty of being executioner. I have long had a little grudge of my own against Mr. Cecil Buxton. I have one of those little insults to wipe out which can only be wiped out by-blood. I have not doubted all the time that this is Mr. Cecil Buxton. I doubt it still less now that I have seen him write."
"I swear to you-"
The big man cut Hubert uncivilly short. He repeated his command. "Sign it-'Cecil Buxton.'"
Hubert looked from one face to the other. He was conscious-painfully conscious! – that his was not a pleasant situation. He saw murder on the short man's face. He did not like the look of his revolver. He held it far too carelessly. That he was the sort of man who would entertain no kind of conscientious scruple against shooting him, to use his own words, like a dog, he felt quite certain.
"Let me say one word?" he pleaded.
The big man refused him even that grace. "Not one!"
While Hubert hesitated, the pen between his fingers, there came a rapping at the door.
