CHAPTER VI
JOHN BARD
There is no cleanser of the mind like a morning bath. The same cold,whipping spray which calls up the pink blood, glowing through the marbleof the skin, drives the ache of sleep from the brain, and washes away atonce all the recorded thoughts of yesterday. So in place of a crowdedslate of wonders and doubts, Anthony bore down to the breakfast table awillingness to take what the morning might bring and forget the nightbefore.
John Woodbury was already there, helping himself from the covereddishes, for the meal was served in the English style. There was theusual "Good-morning, sir," "Good-morning, Anthony," and then they tooktheir places at the table. A cautious survey of the craglike face of hisfather showed no traces of a sleepless night; but then, what could asingle night of unrest mean to that body of iron?
He ventured, remembering the implied command to remain within the houseuntil further orders: "You asked me to speak to you, sir, before I leftthe house. I'd rather like to take a ride this morning."
And the imperturbable voice replied: "You've worn your horses outlately. Better give them a day of rest."
That was all, but it brought back to Anthony the thought of the shadowwhich had swept ceaselessly across the yellow shades of his father'sroom; and he settled down to a day of reading. The misty rain of thenight before had cleared the sky of its vapours, so he chose a nook inthe library where the bright spring sun shone full and the open firesupplied the warmth. At lunch his father did not appear, and Petersannounced that the master was busy in his room with papers. Theafternoon repeated the morning, but with less unrest on the part ofAnthony. He was busy with _L'Assommoir_, and lost himself in the storyof downfall, surrounding himself with each unbeautiful detail.
Lunch was repeated at dinner, for still John Woodbury seemed to be "busywith papers in his room." A fear came to Anthony that he was to bedodged indefinitely in this manner, deceived like a child, and kept inthe house until the silent drama was played out. But when he sat in thelibrary that evening his father came in and quietly drew up a chair bythe fire. The stage was ideally set for a confidence, but none wasforthcoming. The fire shook long, sleepy shadows through the room, theglow of the two floor-lamps picked out two circles of light, and stillthe elder man sat over his paper and would not speak.
_L'Assommoir_ ended, and to rid himself of the grey tragedy, Anthonylooked up and through the windows toward the bright night which lay overthe gardens and terraces outside, for a full moon silvered all with aflood of light. It was a waiting time, and into it the old-fashionedDutch clock in the corner sent its voice with a monotonous, softlyclanging toll of seconds, until Anthony forgot the moonlight over theoutside terraces to watch the gradual sway of the pendulum. A minute,spent in this manner, was equal to an hour of ordinary time. Fascinatedby the sway of the pendulum he became conscious of the passage ofexistence like a river broad and wide and shining which flowed on intoan eternity of chance and left him stationary on the banks.
The voice which sounded at length was as dim and visionary as a part ofhis waking dream. It was like one of those imagined calls from theworld of action to him who stood there, watching reality run past andnever stirring himself to take advantage of the thousand opportunitiesfor action. He would have discarded it for a part of his dream, had nothe seen John Woodbury raise his head sharply, heard the paper fall witha dry crackling to the floor, and watched the square jaw of his fatherjut out in that familiar way which meant danger.
Once more, and this time it was unmistakably clear: "John Bard,--JohnBard, come out to me!"
The big, grey man rose with widely staring eyes as if the name belongedto him, and strode with a thumping step into the secret room. Hardly hadthe clang of the closing door died out when he reappeared, fumbling athis throat. Straight to Anthony he came and extended a key from whichdangled a piece of thin silver chain. It was the key to the secret room.
He took it in both hands, like a young knight receiving the pommel ofhis sword from him who has just given the accolade, and stared down atit until the creaking of the opened French windows startled him to hisfeet.
"Wait!" he called, "I will go also!"
The big man at the open window turned.
"You will sit where you are now," said his harsh voice, "but if I don'treturn you have the key to the room."
His burly shoulders disappeared down the steps toward the garden, andAnthony slipped back into his chair; yet for the first time in his lifehe was dreaming of disobeying the command of John Woodbury.Woodbury--yet the big man had risen automatically in answer to the nameof Bard. John Bard! It struck on his consciousness like two hammer blowswrecking some fragile fabric; it jarred home like the timed blow of apugilist. Woodbury? There might be a thousand men capable of that name,but there could only be one John Bard, and that was he who haddisappeared down the steps leading to the garden. Anthony swerved in hischair and fastened his eyes on the Dutch clock. He gave himself fiveminutes before he should move.
The watched pot will never boil, and the minute hand of the big clockdragged forward with deadly pauses from one black mark to the next.Whispers rose in the room. Something fluttered the fallen newspaper asif a ghost-hand grasped it but had not the strength to raise; and thewindow rattled, with a sharp gust of wind. The last minute Anthony spentat the open French window with a backward eye on the clock; then heraced down the steps as though in his turn he answered a call out of thenight.
The placid coolness of the open and the touch of moist, fresh airagainst his forehead mocked him as he reached the garden, and there werereassuring whispers from the trees he passed; yet he went on with along, easy stride like a runner starting a distance race. First heskirted the row of poplars on the drive; then doubled back across themeadow to his right and ran in a sharp-angling course across an orchardof apple trees. Diverging from this direction, he circled at a quickerpace toward the rear of the grounds and coursed like a wild deer over astretch of terraced lawns. On one of these low crests he stopped shortunder the black shadow of an elm.
In the smooth-shaven centre of the hollow before him, the same groundover which he had run and played a thousand times in his childhood, hesaw two tall men standing back to back, like fighters come to a laststand and facing a crowd of foes. They separated at once, striding outwith a measured step, and it was not until they moved that he caught theglint of metal at the side of one of them and knew that one was the manwho had answered to the name of John Bard and the other was the greyman who had spoken to him at the Garden the night before. He knew it notso much by the testimony of his eyes at that dim distance as by a queer,inner feeling that this must be so. There was also a sense offamiliarity about the whole thing, as if he were looking on somethingwhich he had seen rehearsed a thousand times.
As if they reached the end of an agreed course, the two whirled at thesame instant, the metal in their hands glinted in an upward semicircle,and two guns barked hoarsely across the lawns.
One of them stood with his gun still poised; the other leaned graduallyforward and toppled at full length on the grass. The victor strode outtoward the fallen, but hearing the wild yell of Anthony he stopped,turned his head, and then fled into the grove of trees which topped thenext rise of ground. After him, running as he had never before raced,went Anthony; his hand, as he sprinted, already tensed for the comingbattle; two hundred yards at the most and he would reach the lumberingfigure which had plunged into the night of the trees; but a call reachedhim as sharp as the crack of the guns a moment before: "Anthony!"
His head twitched to one side and he saw John Bard rising to his elbow.His racing stride shortened choppily.
"Anthony!"
He could not choose but halt, groaning to give up the chase, and thensped back to the fallen man. At his coming John Bard collapsed on thegrass, and when Anthony knelt beside him a voice in rough dialect began,as if an enforced culture were brushed away and forgotten in the crisis:"Anthony, there ain't no use in followin' him!"
"Where did
the bullet strike you? Quick!"
"A place where it ain't no use to look. I know!"
"Let me follow him; it's not too late--"
The dying man struggled to one elbow.
"Don't follow, lad, if you love me."
"Who is he? Give me his name and--"
"He's acted in the name of God. You have no right to hunt him down."
"Then the law will do that."
"Not the law. For God's sake swear--"
"I'll swear anything. But now lie quiet; let me--"
"Don't try. This couldn't end no other way for John Bard."
"Is that your real name?"
"Yes. Now listen, Anthony, for my time's short."
He closed his eyes as if fighting silently for strength.
Then: "When I was a lad like you, Anthony--" That was all. The massivebody relaxed; the head fell back into the dewy grass. Anthony pressedhis head against the breast of John Bard and it seemed to him that therewas still a faint pulse. With his pocket knife he ripped away the coatfrom the great chest and then tore open the shirt. On the expanse of thehairy chest there was one spot from which the purple blood welled; adeadly place for a wound, and yet the bleeding showed that there muststill be life.
He had no chance to bind the wound, for John Bard opened his eyes againand said, as if in his dream he had still continued his tale to Anthony.
"So that's all the story, lad. Do you forgive me?"
"For what, sir? In God's name, for what?"
"Damnation! Tell me; do you forgive John Bard?"
He did not hear the answer, for he murmured: "Even Joan would forgive,"and died.