The Marathon Mystery/Part 3/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V
The Blow Falls
DINNER, that night, was anything but a cheerful meal; in fact, it was evident that the house party possessed that fatal bar to success—a spirit of antagonism. Drysdale and Grace Croydon maintained a careful silence, and Mrs. Delroy was so obviously depressed that her husband was alarmed.
“I don’t believe this stay in the country is doing you a bit of good, Edith,” he observed.
She smiled wearily in answer to his anxious look. “I don’t feel very well, tonight,” she said. “I think I shall lie down right after dinner.”
“I would,” he agreed. “You must save yourself all you can. I can’t have you getting ill, you know. If I’d had any sense, I’d have got you away from that New York whirl a month ago.”
“I’m not going to be ill,” she assured him; “I’ll be all right in a day or two.”
As soon as the meal was over, she and her sister disappeared upstairs while the men lighted their cigars and strolled down to the boathouse to view the preparations made by the Grahams for the protection of the necklace. The night was very close, with a promise of rain unmistakable.
They went through the boathouse without finding anyone, but out on the pier beyond old Graham was sitting, gazing across the water and smoking an odoriferous pipe. Between his knees he held a Winchester repeater and a revolver-butt stuck from a case at his belt.
Delroy laughed quietly as he looked at him.
“Why, you’re a regular arsenal,” he said. “You’re taking it in earnest for sure.”
“Might as well be on th’ safe side, sir,” responded Graham sententiously.
“And where’s the necklace?”
“Lowered from th’ end of th’ pier, sir.”
“No chance of it getting away?”
“I tied th’ knots, sir.”
“All right—that settles it. You’re not going to sit out here all night, I hope?”
“Willum takes his trick at midnight, sir. He’s gone over t’ th’ house t’ bring a cot an’ some beddin’ down t’ th’ boathouse. We’ll take turn an’ turn about.”
“Well,” said Delroy, turning away, “I see I can sleep without worrying any over the safety of the necklace. If there’s anything you want, Graham, in the way of eatables or drinkables, don’t hesitate to send to the butler for them.”
“Thank ’ee, sir; but I guess we’ll let th’ drinkables alone fer th’ present. We’ll cook our own meals on th’ stove in th’ boathouse.”
“What do you want to do that for?”
“Well,” returned Graham slowly, “then we’ll know that they ain’t nothin’ in them thet hadn’t ought t’ be there.”
Delroy laughed again, long and loud, and even Drysdale smiled.
“You’ve been reading a dime novel!” cried Delroy, when he had got his breath. “Deadwood Dick—I didn’t think it of you, Graham!”
“I don’t read nothin’, sir, but th’ Noo York Record”
“It’s the same thing,” Delroy interjected.
“But I don’t believe in takin’ no risks—when you come after th’ necklace, sir, it’s a-goin’ t’ be right here.”
“I haven’t a doubt of it,” his employer assured him. “It would be a mighty desperate thief who’d tackle you. You’re all right, Graham. But I’d go into the boathouse if it rains.”
“I’ll see about it, sir,” said Graham, and refilled his pipe.
As they passed through the boathouse again, they perceived young “Willum” busily engaged in making up his bed on a cot in one corner. Delroy nodded to him and passed on without speaking.
“It’s too nice a night to spend in the house,” said Drysdale, a little abruptly, as they mounted the steps to the door. “I believe I’ll go for a tramp. I’ll take my raincoat, though; then I needn’t hurry back.”
“I didn’t know you were such a lover of nature, Jack,” observed Delroy.
“I’m not; but I feel like tramping tonight.”
Delroy shrugged his shoulders, as Drysdale entered the outer hall with them and took down his raincoat from the rack. Thomas, who was stationed in the vestibule, helped him on with it.
“Good-bye,” he called from the door; “don’t look for me for an hour or two.”
“All right, we won’t worry,” answered Delroy; “though, for my part,” he added, as he and Tremaine went on through the hall together, “I prefer a book before the fire. There’s a chill in the air that strikes through one after a while, and Jack’ll soon get enough of it. But I’d better go up and see how my wife’s getting along. You’ll excuse me?”
“Certainly—and stay as long as you like. I’m going to my room presently, myself—I have some letters to write.”
Delroy nodded and went on up the stair. Tremaine sank into one of the chairs before the fire and watched the blazing logs, with an expression intent, alert, as though he were waiting for someone.
A door opened and closed, a light step crossed the hall, a hand was laid upon the chair-back…
“Oh,” said Miss Croydon, “I thought—where is Mr. Drysdale?”
Tremaine arose slowly.
“Drysdale,” he said, with a meaning look which did not escape her. “was unable to resist the charms of the evening. He has gone for a walk. He said he would not be back for a couple of hours. Please sit down.”
It was more of a command than an invitation, and she yielded to it reluctantly.
“I can stay but a moment,” she said. “Edith is not at all well and needs me. Why are you waiting here?”
He pulled a chair close beside her. “I was waiting for you,” he said calmly. “I don’t think you quite realise yet that I am in earnest.”
“To be in earnest would be infamous.”
“No indeed; not to be in earnest would be infamous. I’m paying you the greatest compliment I’m capable of paying any woman. I ask you to be my wife.”
“Why keep up that mockery?” she demanded scornfully.
“It is not a mockery. The past is dead.”
“It is not dead; you have brought it to life. It is becoming intolerable.”
“I know it; therefore I offer to make it tolerable. I have no wish to persecute anyone.”
“Then why do you?”
“Necessity”
“Oh, nonsense!”
“Listen,” he said, with sudden intensity leaning toward her and looking in her eyes, “if I can prove to you that the past is really dead—dead past recall—dead past hope of resurrection—will you marry me?”
She looked at him without shrinking.
“No!” she answered.
“I see what it is,” he said between his teeth; “it is not that I do not awaken an answering chord in you—I do—I can see it—we were set apart for each other. It is not that you do not long to break through this silly English cage which has always hedged you about—I remember that you are really French in every drop of your blood. It is this pink-and-white nonentity who stands between us. You’ve fallen in love with his baby face—but it’s not the love of a woman for a man, it’s the love of a mother for her child. That other love you as yet know nothing of—but it shall be my part to teach it you—my privilege—my great mission—and I shall enjoy the fruits of it. Deep in your heart you know that the pale feeling you have for this boy is not love—not strong, passionate, mature love—the love that seizes and conquers, that takes one through heaven and through hell. Not many women are capable of such a love—they’re too cold, too selfish. But you’re capable of it, and when it comes to you, as I swear it shall come, you’ll not stop to question the past; you’ll look only toward the future—you’ll not stop to ask what the world thinks; you’ll heed only the longings of your own heart.”
She had sat spell-bound, gazing at him, chained by the sound of his voice, by his vehemence. She roused herself with an effort.
“If I should love,” she said, “I should at least choose a gentleman”
He interrupted with a dry laugh.
“There spoke the Philistine—the English variety! Your heart wasn’t in it! Let me tell you that you wouldn’t stop to ask what he was—he would be only the man you love. And have you chosen a gentleman? Does a gentleman listen at the turn of the stairs to a conversation not intended for him? He did listen; he told you of his ridiculous doubts of you. What right has he to doubt you, to make conditions, to demand explanations? Explanations from a woman like you!”
“He has a right”
“He has no right—he’s a beggar at your table! If he can’t hold you, it’s his fault, not yours. And he can’t hold you—he’s too weak every way! Ah, I could hold you!”
“Yes—perhaps even beat me!”
He looked at her, his eyes agleam.
“Perhaps,” he agreed, his mouth working with eagerness. “Perhaps I should. But if I did, you would stab me in the night.”
He was weaving the spell about her again; she gazed at him, half-fascinated.
“Yes,” she said intensely; “yes—I should like to do it now!”
His eyes flashed with sudden triumph.
“And yet you think yourself in love with Drysdale!” he cried. “Did he ever awaken a wish like that in you?”
“No; thank God!” and she shivered slightly.
He was radiant, assured.
“Nor any other feeling except a baby liking! Yet you yield to his fancied right; you promise to explain to him! It was to do that you came here tonight”
“Who told you that?”
“He did.”
“Then why isn’t he here?”
“He preferred to commune with nature,” Tremaine answered, in an indescribable tone. “Think of any man preferring nature to you—preferring anything to you—life, honour—anything! Do you know what I’m longing to do? I’m longing to take you in my arms and hold you fast and kiss you on those red lips of yours—kiss you, kiss you”
He was half out of his chair, leaning over her. Another instant—but his ears caught the opening of a door.
“Here comes Delroy,” he said in another tone, rising suddenly, his hands gripped tensely at his sides. “Damn him!”
She lay back in her chair, relaxed suddenly, panting With exhaustion.
“I’ll go,” he added hoarsely. “I can’t keep up the farce of polite conversation—besides I have some letters to write. Good-night.”
For an hour or more, Delroy sat alone before the fire reading. At last he yawned, laid down his book, arose, and walked to the door. The wind was rising; he could hear it roaring in the trees; and every minute a broad flash of lightning illumined the clouds on the horizon.
“There’s a storm coming,” he said to Thomas, who was nodding at his post. “I wonder where the devil Drysdale went? He’d better be getting in pretty soon.”
As though in answer to the thought, a dark figure appeared suddenly on the walk, strode up the steps, and opened the door. It was Drysdale.
He took off his coat, threw it to Thomas, and went on into the inner hall, where he stood rubbing his hands before the fire, with a face so hopeless, fierce, despairing, that Delroy was fairly startled.
“You may go to bed, Thomas,” he said; then he went to Drysdale and laid a hand upon his shoulder. “What’s the matter, Jack?” he asked. “You’re looking regularly done up.”
Drysdale turned with a start.
“Oh, it’s you, is it, Dickie? Where is Grace?”
“Upstairs with my wife.”
“Where has she been this evening?”
“She’s been down here talking with Tremaine most of the time—but I say—hold on—what ails the fellow?” he demanded, staring after the other as he bounded up the stairs. “Well, that beats me!”
He was still staring, when Tremaine appeared at the landing and came down, a packet of letters in his hand.
“I want to put these in the bag,” he said, “so they’ll get off by the early mail.”
“It’s on the rack out there,” Delroy replied, and the other went past him into the outer hall. He was back in a moment.
“That’s a good evening’s work,” he said, with a sigh of satisfaction. “But what’s the matter? You look as though you’d seen a ghost.”
“Drysdale came in just now looking as though he’d seen one, all nerves and raw flesh—and stalked upstairs as mad as a hornet about something.”
“Ah,” said Tremaine, with just the flicker of an eyelash, “and yet one would have thought that a walk through the silence of the night would calm his nerves. There comes the rain!”
There was a hiss, a flash, and a great crash of thunder split the firmament apart and shook the house to its foundations. They could hear the rain dashing in sheets against the windows.
“That’s a storm for sure; listen to the wind. Drysdale got in just in time. But I never saw him like that before; something extraordinary must have happened to him. He’s been out of humour for a day or two. I wonder, now, if he was caught in that steel crash? By Jove, I did hear him say that he’d bought a block of stock on margin!”
A gleam of triumph indescribable flashed into Tremaine’s eyes.
“That may explain it,” he said, with studied carelessness.
“Yes--but it doesn’t excuse it. If a man can’t keep his temper when he loses, he hasn’t any business to speculate. Hello, who’s that?”
Someone was pounding at the outer door. Delroy strode to it and threw back the bolt. It flew open and young Graham staggered rather than walked into the hall, hatless, coatless, soaked with rain, his eyes staring, his face rigid with horror.
“Good God, man; what is it?” cried Delroy.
He opened his mouth; but only a low rumbling came from his throat.
“Come!” cried Delroy sharply. “Be a man! What is it?”
By a mighty effort, Graham pulled himself together.
“Father’s killed!” he whispered hoarsely.