CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"Judith?" Mrs. Randall took her husband's news quietly, with somethingthat was almost relief in her face, the relief that comes when agathering storm breaks at last, and you learn what it is you have beenafraid of, though you must go on being afraid. "What is it? Is she ill,Harry?"
"Come and talk to Norah."
"No, we'll go straight home."
"But she's not there, Minna. That's all Norah'll say to me, but she'sgot some idea where she is, and says she'll tell you. Judith isn'tthere."
"It must be nearly morning."
"It's two."
"It was after nine when we started."
"Minna, didn't you hear what I said?"
Mrs. Randall's face had not changed as she heard; it lookedunchangeable, like some fixed but charming mask that she wore. The lipsstill smiled though they had stiffened slightly, and she watched the twowomen's attempts to blindfold the Colonel--unaided now, but hilariouslyapplauded by the circle around her--with the same mild, interested eyes,wide-set and Madonna calm.
"I tell you, Judith's not there. What does Norah know? Why don't you dosomething? Where is she?... My God, look at them. What are they doingnow? Look at Everard."
Mrs. Burr had drawn the knot suddenly tight in the white scarf she wasmanipulating, and slipped out of the Colonel's arms and out of reach. Hefollowed, and then swung round and stumbled awkwardly after Edith Kent,who had brushed past him, leaving a light, challenging kiss on hisforehead, and was further guiding him with her pretty, empty laugh. Thegame of blind-man's buff was under way.
Crowding the garden enclosure, swaying this way and that and threateningto overflow it, a pushing, struggling mass of people kept ratherlaboriously out of one another's way and the Colonel's, not so muchamused by the effort as they were pretending to be; people with heavyand stupid faces who had never looked more irrevocably removed fromchildhood than now that they were playing a children's game.
In the heart of the crowd, now plunging ahead of it, now lost in it, thefirst gentleman of Green River disported himself. His white head waseasy to follow through the crowd, and the thing that made you follow itwas evident even now--much of his old dignity, and the charm that waspeculiarly his; you saw it in an occasional stubborn shake of hisbeautifully shaped head, in the grace of the hand that caught at someflying skirt and missed it. He was the first gentleman of Green Riverstill, but he was something else.
His white hair straggled across his forehead moist and dishevelled, andhis face showed flushed and perspiring against the white of the scarf.The trailing ends of the scarf flapped grotesquely about his head, andthe high, splendidly modelled forehead was obscured and the keen eyeswere hidden. The beauty of the face was lost, and the mouth showed thinlipped and sensual. The Colonel was really a stumbling, red-faced oldman.
"Look at him. That's what she's seen. This was Judith's party. That'swhat we've hung on in this town for till it's too late to break loose.We never can get away now. We can't----"
"Keep still, Harry. Do you want to be heard? Did any one hear you at thetelephone? Keep still and come home."
"You're right. You're wonderful. You don't lose your nerve."
"I can't afford to, and neither can you. Come---- Oh, Harry, look. I sawhim following you. What does he want? What's the matter? What is hegoing to do?"
Mrs. Randall had adjusted her cloak deliberately, and turned to pilother husband out of the garden, slipping a firm little hand through hisarm. Now she clung to him and stood still, silent after her little fireof excited questions. The entrance to the garden was blocked. Anuninvited and unexpected guest was standing there.
His entrance had been unheralded, and his welcome was slow to come. Thecrowd had closed in round the Colonel, with Edith Kent caught suddenlyin his arms, and giving a creditable imitation of attempting to escape.Interested silence and bursts of laughter indicated the progress of itclearly, though the two were entirely out of sight. Nobody saw thenewcomer except the Randalls.
He stood in the entrance to the rose arbour, clutching at the trelliswith one unsteady hand, and managing to keep fairly erect, a slightlybuilt, swaying figure, black-haired and hatless. He kept one hand behindhim, awkwardly, as a shy boy guards a favourite plaything. He wasstaring into the crowd in the garden as if he could see through into theheart of it, but had not the intellect just then to understand what hesaw there.
It was the man Mrs. Randall had seen lurking in the shadow of the trees,but he was no mysterious stranger, though here in the light of thelanterns she hardly recognized him as she looked at his pale, excitedface; it showed an excitement quite unaccounted for by the perfectlyobvious fact that he was drunk, and entirely unconnected with that fact.Here and there on the outskirts of the crowd some one turned and sawhim, too, and stared at him. They all knew him. He was Neil Donovan'scousin, the discredited young lawyer, Charlie Brady.
He did not speak or move. He only stood still and looked at them withvague, puzzled eyes, and lips that twitched as if he wanted to speak,but standing so, he had the centre of the stage. He could not commandit, he had pushed his way into it doggedly, uncertain what to do first,but he was there. One by one his audience had become conscious of it,and were confronting him startled and uncertain, too. Young ChesterGaynor elbowed his way to the front, but stopped there, grinning at theinvader, restrained perhaps by a lady's voice, which was to be heardadmonishing him excitedly.
"Don't you get hurt, dear."
"How did he get here? Why can't somebody get him out?" other excitedladies inquired.
"Get Judge Saxon," directed Mr. J. Cleveland Kent's calm andauthoritative voice.
"Get Sebastian. Where is the fellow? Is he afraid?" demanded theHonourable Joe from the extreme rear. Some one laughed hysterically. Itwas Mrs. Burr. The laugh was quickly hushed, but the new guest had heardit, though no other sound seemed to have impressed him. He laughed, too,a dry, broken ghost of a laugh, as cracked and strange as his voice,which he now found abruptly.
"Lillie," he called. "Hello, Lillie dear."
Mrs. Burr was not heard to reply to this affectionate greeting, but hehardly paused for a reply. His light, high, curiously detached soundingvoice talked on with a kind of uncanny fluency.
"Lillie," he urged cordially, "I heard you. I know you're there. Comeout and let's have a look at you. I don't see anything of you lately.You're too grand for me. I don't care. I'm in love with a prettier girl.But you used to treat me all right, Lillie dear, and I treated youright, too. I never told. A gentleman don't tell. And you were straightwith me. You never double-crossed me, like you and the dago Sebastian doto Everard. Everard! That's who I want to talk to. Where is he?"
At the mention of the name his wavering gaze had steadied andconcentrated suddenly on the centre of the group in the garden, and now,while he looked, the crowd parted. Pushing his way through, the Colonelfaced his uninvited guest.
The great man was not at his best. His most ardent admirer could hardlyhave claimed it. He had pulled the muffling scarf down from his eyes,but was still tearing at the knot impatiently. Mrs. Kent had comefluttering ineffectively after him, catching at his arm. He struck herhands away, and pushed her back, addressing her with a lack of ceremonywhich outsiders were not often permitted to hear him employ toward amember of his favoured circle.
"Keep out of this, Edith, and you keep quiet, Lil. You girls make mesick," he snapped. "Half the trouble in this town comes because youcan't learn to hold your tongues. You'd better learn. You're going topay for it if you don't, and don't you lose sight of that. Well, Brady,what does this mean? What can I do for you?"
The ring of authority was in his voice again, as if he had called itback by sheer will power. He had stepped forward alone, and stoodlooking up at his guest, still framed in the sheltering trellis, and hisblurred eyes cleared and grew keen as he looked, regarding himindifferently, like some refractory but mildly amusing animal. Hisguest's defiant eyes avoided his, and the ineffective, swaying figureseemed to shrink
and droop and grow smaller, but it was a dignifiedfigure still and a dangerous one. There was the snarling menace ofimpotent but inevitable rebellion about it, of men who fight on withtheir backs against the wall; a menace that was not new born to-night,but the gradual growth of years, just the number of years that theColonel had spent in Green River.
"I'm sorry, sir," stammered his guest.
"Then apologize and get out."
"I can't."
"I think you'll find you can, Brady."
"I can't. I've got to ask you a few questions."
They seemed to be slow in framing themselves. There was a little pause,the kind of pause that for no apparent reason deprives you for themoment of any desire to move or speak. The unassuming figure of theyoung man under the trellis stood still, swaying only slightly from sideto side. A deprecating smile appeared on his lips, as if his errand weredistasteful to him and he wished to apologize for it. Gradually thesmile faded and the eyes grew steady again and unnaturally bright. Heheld himself stiffly erect where he stood for a moment, took a fewlurching steps forward, paused, and then plunged suddenly across thegarden toward Colonel Everard.
It would have been hard to tell which came first, the little, stumblingrun forward, the Colonel's instinctive move to check it, the stampedeof the devotees of the time-honoured game of blind-man's buff, actingnow with a promptness and spontaneity which they had not displayed inthat game, Lillian Burr's hysterical scream, the snarling words from theColonel that silenced it, or the quick flash of metal. It had allhappened at once. But now, in an amphitheatre of scared faces, as farbehind as the limits of the garden enclosure would allow, Mr. Brady andhis host stood facing each other alone, and the Colonel, now entirelyhimself, with the high colour fading out of his cheeks, was looking withcool and unwavering eyes straight into the barrel of Mr. Brady'srevolver.
It was a clumsy, old-fashioned little weapon. Brady's thin hand graspedit firmly, as if some stronger hand than his own were steadying his. Helaughed an ineffective laugh, like a boastful boy's, but there was athreat in it, too.
"What have you got to say for yourself? I'll give you a chance to sayit," he stated magnanimously, "but you shan't say a word against her.She was always a good girl. She is a good girl. What have you done withher? Where is she?"
"You don't make yourself altogether clear, Brady," said the Colonelsmoothly.
"Where's Maggie?"
"Maggie?" The Colonel's eyes swept the circle of his guestsdeliberately, as if to assure himself that no lady of that name wasamong them.
"Maggie. You know the name well enough." The sound of it seemed to givethe lady's champion new courage; it flamed in his eyes, hot, and quickto burn itself out, but while it lasted, even a gentleman who hadlearned to face drawn revolvers as indifferently as the Colonel might dowell to be afraid of him. "Maggie's missing. I'm going to find her.That's all I want of you. I won't ask you who's worked on her and made afool of her. I won't ask you how far she's been going. But I want herback before the whole town knows. I want to find her and find her quick.She's a good girl and a decent girl. She's going to keep her good name.She's coming home."
"Commendable," said the Colonel, not quite smoothly enough. His guestwas past listening to him.
"Maggie. That's all I want. You're getting off easy. Luck's with you.I've stood a lot from you, the same as the town has. It will stand a lotmore, and I will. Get Maggie back. Get her back and give her to me andleave her alone, and I'll eat out of your hand and starve when you don'tfeed me, the same as the rest"--he came two wavering steps nearer, anddropped his voice to a dry quaver meant to be confidential, a grotesqueand sinister parody of a confidence--"the rest, that don't know what Iknow."
"What do you mean?"
"I won't tell. Don't be afraid. A gentleman don't tell, and there'snobody that can but me. Young Neil don't know. The luck's with you, sir,just the same as it always was."
"I've had enough of this. Get home, Brady," cried the Colonel, in avoice that was suddenly wavering and high, like an old man's, but hisguest only smiled and nodded wisely, beginning to sway as he stood, butstill gripping the clumsy revolver tight.
"Just the same as it was when old Neil Donovan died."
"Get home," shrilled the Colonel again, but his guest pursued the tenorof his thoughts untroubled, still with the look of an amiably disposedfellow-conspirator on his weak face, a maddening look, even if his wordsconveyed no sting of their own.
"Neil Donovan," he crooned, "my father's own half-brother, and a gooduncle to me, and a gentleman, too. He sold rum over a counter, but hewas a gentleman, for he didn't talk too much. A gentleman don't tell."
But the catalogue of his uncle's perfections, whether in place here ornot, was to proceed no further. The audience pressed closer, as eagerto look on at a fight as it was to keep out of one. There was a new andsurprising development in this one. The two men had closed with eachother, and it was not the half-crazed boy who had made the attack, butthe Colonel himself.
It was a sudden and awkward attack, and there was something strangerabout it still. The Colonel was angry. He had tried to knock the weaponout of the boy's hand, failed, and tried instinctively, still, to getpossession of it, but he was not making an adequate and necessaryattempt to disarm him, he was no longer adequate or calm. He was angry,suddenly angry with the poor specimen of humanity that was making itsfutile attempt at protest and rebellion, as if it were an equal and anenemy. His face was distorted and his eyes were dull and unseeing. Hisbreath came in panting gasps, and he made inarticulate little sounds inhis throat. He struck furious and badly directed blows.
It was a curious thing to see, in the heart of the great man's admiringcircle, at the climax of his most successful party of the year. It didnot last long. The two struggling figures broke away from each other,and the boy staggered backward and stood with the revolver still in hishand. He was a little sobered by the struggle, and a little weakened byit, pale and dangerous, with a fanatic light in his eyes. Some one whohad an eye for danger signals, if the Colonel had not, had made hisunobtrusive way forward, and joined him now. He was not the mostformidable looking of allies, but he stood beside them as if he had aright to be there, and the Colonel turned to him as if he recognized it.
"Hugh, you heard what he said?" he appealed; "you heard?"
"Judge, you keep out of this," Brady called, "keep out, sir."
Judge Saxon, keeping a casual hand on his most prominent client's arm,stood regarding Mr. Brady with mild and friendly blue eyes. He had quitehis usual air of being detached from his surroundings, but benevolentlyinterested in them.
"Charlie," he said, as if he were recognizing Mr. Brady for the firsttime at this critical moment, and deriving pleasure from it. "Why,Charlie," his voice became gently reproachful, but remained friendly,too. "Everard, this boy don't mean a word he says," he went on, withconviction, "he's excited and you're excited, too. This is a pretty poortime for you to get excited, Everard."
"You're right, Hugh," muttered the Judge's most prominent clientthickly; "you're right. Get him away. Get him home."
"He's a good boy," pronounced the Judge.
It was not the obvious description of Mr. Brady just at that moment.There was only friendly amusement in the Judge's drawling voice andshrewd eyes, but back of it, unmistakably there, was something that madeevery careless word worth listening to. Mr. Brady was resisting it. Hisface worked pitifully.
"Judge, I told you to keep out. I don't want to hurt you."
"Thanks, Charlie."
"Every word I say is God's truth, Judge."
The Judge did not contradict this sweeping statement. He was studyingMr. Brady's weapon with some interest. "Your uncle's," he commented,pleased. "Why, I didn't know you still owned that thing, Charlie."
"I want Maggie. I want----"
"I'll tell you what you want," offered the Judge, amicably, "you want tohand that thing to me, and go home."
Mr. Brady received this suggestion in silence, a sil
ence which left hisaudience uncertain how deeply he resented it. Indeed, they werepainfully uncertain, and showed it. Bits of advice reached the Judge'sears, contradictory, though much of it sound, but he took no notice ofit. He only smiled his patient and wistful smile and waited, like a manwho knew what would happen next.
"Hand it to me," he repeated gently.
"I won't, Judge." Mr. Brady's weapon wavered, and then steadied itself.His thin body trembled. The fanatic light in his eyes blazed bright. Theexcitement which had gripped him, too keen to last long, reached itsclimax now in one last burst of hysterical speech.
"He's a liar and a thief," he asserted, uncontradicted. He was not to becontradicted. There was a dignity of its own about the hystericalindictment, grotesque as it was, an unforgettable suggestion of truth."He's a thief and a murderer, too. I don't have to tell what I know.Everybody knows. You all know, all of you, and you don't dare to tell.He's murdering the town."
The high, screaming voice broke off abruptly. Mr. Brady, still with theecho of his big words in his ears and apparently dazed by it, stoodlooking blankly into the Judge's steady and friendly eyes.
"I can't--I won't----" he stammered.
"Hand it to me," said the Judge, as if no interruption had occurred. Fora moment the boy before him looked too dull and dazed to obey or tohear. Then, as suddenly as if some unseen hand had struck it out of his,the revolver dropped to the ground, and he collapsed, sobbingheartbrokenly, into the Judge's arms.
He was a heroic figure no longer. The alien forces that made him onehad deserted him abruptly, and he looked unworthy of their supportalready, only an inconsiderable creature of jangled nerves andhysterical speech, which would be discredited if you looked at him, evenif it still echoed in your ears. The Judge, holding him and quietinghim, looked allied with him, humble and discredited, too. The relievedaudience hung back for a moment, taking in the full force of thepicture, before it broke ranks to crowd round the Colonel and offer himbelated support. The Colonel said a few inaudible words to Judge Saxon,and then turned from him and his protege with the air of washing hishands of the whole affair. He looked surprisingly unruffled by it, evenstimulated by it. The interruption to his party was over.
* * * * *
It ended as it had begun, the most successful party of the year. Mr.Brady's invasion was not the first unscheduled event which had enliveneda party at the Birches. There was more open and general speculationabout the fact that the Randalls left immediately after, did not lingerover their good-nights, and were obviously not permitted by their hostto do so.
Mrs. Randall, leaning back in her corner with her hand tight in Harry's,and her long-lashed eyes, that were like Judith's, tightly shut, showedthe full strain of the evening in her pale face. She was a woman who didnot look tired easily, but she was also a woman who could not afford tolook tired.
There was no appeal or charm about her pale face now, only a naked lookof hardness and strain. Her husband, staring straight ahead of him withtroubled eyes, and his weak, boyish mouth set in a hard, worried line,spoke rapidly and disconnectedly not of Judith, or the Colonel's ominouscoldness to him, but of Mr. Brady.
"Maggie's a bad lot," he was explaining for approximately the fifth timeas they whirled into the drive and under their own dark windows. "Shealways was. Everard isn't making away with the belle of Paddy Lane. Notyet. He's not that far down. But that dope about old Neil Donovan----"
"Oh, Harry, hush," his wife said, "here we are. What do you care aboutBrady?"
"Nothing," he whispered, his arm tightening round her as he lifted herdown. "I don't care about anything in the world but Judith."
"Neither do I. Not really," she said in a hurried, shaken voice that wasnot like her own, "you believe that, don't you, Harry?"
He did not answer. Gathering up her skirts, she followed him silently tothe front of the house, single file along the narrow boardwalk, not yettaken up for the summer, creaking loudly under their feet.
"Look," she whispered, catching at his arm. The front of the house wasdark except for two lights, a flickering lamp that was being carriednearer to them through the hall, and a soft, shaded light that showed ata bedroom window. The window was Judith's. He fumbled for his key, butthe door opened before them. Norah, her forbidding face more militantthan ever in the flickering light of the kerosene hand-lamp she held,her white pompadour belligerently erect, and her brown eyes maliciouslyalight, peered at them across the door chain, and then gingerly admittedthem.
"It's a sweet time of night to be coming home to the only child you'vegot," she commented, "why do you take the trouble to come home at all?"
It was a characteristic greeting from her. If it had not been, Mrs.Randall would not have resented it now. She clutched at the old woman'sunresponsive shoulder.
"Where is she?" she demanded breathlessly.
"Judith is it you mean?"
"Oh, yes."
"How should I know how she spends her evenings? At some of the girls'to-night. Rena Drew's maybe. I don't know. It's a new thing for you tocare. She was late in, and it's no wonder I was worried. She's like myown to me. But she needs her sleep now. You'd better go softlyupstairs."
"Do you mean she's here?"
"What is it to you?" Norah, one bony hand clutching the newel post as ifit were a negotiable weapon of defense, and her brown eyes flashing asif she were capable of using any weapon for Judith, barred the way upthe stairs.
"I tell you, she needs her sleep, poor lamb--poor lamb," she said, "andyou're not to go near her to-night. You're to promise me that. But she'shere fast enough. My lamb is safe at home in her own bed."