The Unspeakable Gentleman/Chapter 8
VIII
Of all the people I had expected to see that morning he was the last. Almost unconsciously I recalled the little kindnesses he had rendered me. Busy as he had been with commercial ventures, there was never a time when he had not stood ready with his help. And even my father's name—he had never recalled it, except with regretful affection in his sad little reminiscences of older, pleasanter days.
I thought I detected a trace of that affec. tion, a trace of appeal, almost, in the look he gave us as we entered. They made a strange contrast, my uncle, and my father, in his gay coat and laces, his slender, upright figure, and his face, almost youthful beneath his powdered hair. For my uncle was an older man, and years and care had slightly bowed him. The wrinkles were deep about his mouth and eyes. His brown hair, simply dressed, was gray already at the temples. His plain black coat and knee breeches were wrinkled from travel. As he often put it, he had no time to care for clothes. Yet his cheeks glowed from quiet living, and there was a sly, good humored twinkle in his brown eyes which went well with his broad shoulders and his strongly knit body. His reputation for genial good nature was with him still.
He stretched forth a hand, but the moment was inopportune. My father had given his undivided attention to the shutters on the east windows. He walked swiftly over and drew them to, snapping a bolt to hold them in place. Then he turned and rubbed his hands together slowly, examining my uncle the while with a cool, judicial glance, and then he bowed.
"You are growing old, Jason," he said, by way of greeting.
"Ah, George," said my uncle, in his deep, pleasant voice. "It does me good to see the father and the son together."
My father joined the tips of his fingers and regarded him solemnly.
"Now heaven be praised for that!" he exclaimed with a jovial fervor, "though it is hard to believe, Jason, that anything could make you better than you are. It was kind of you not to keep my son and me apart."
My father came a pace nearer, his eyes never for a moment leaving the man opposite. His last words seemed to make a doubtful impression on my uncle. He looked quickly across at me, but what he saw must have relieved him.
"Ah, that wit!" he laughed. "It has been too long, George, too long since I have tasted of it. It quite reminds me of the old days, George—with the dances, and the races and the ladies. Ah, George, how they would smile on you—and even today, I'll warrant! Ah, if I only had the receipt that keeps you young."
"Indeed? You care to know it?" My father quite suddenly leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder. As though the abruptness of the gesture startled him, my uncle drew hastily back. And still my father watched him. Between them was passing something which I did not understand. The silence in the room had become oppressive before my father spoke again.
"Lead a life of disrepute," he said gravely. "I cannot think of a better cosmetic."
"George!" cried my uncle in quick remonstrance. "Remember your son is with you?"
"And seems amply able to look out for himself—surprisingly able, Jason. Have you not found it so?"
"Thank heaven, yes!" he laughed, and glanced hastily at me again.
My father's coat lapel was bothering him. He straightened it thoughtfully, patted it gently into place, and then said:
"Surely, Jason, you did not come here to discuss the past."
"Perhaps not," Uncle Jason replied with another laugh, which seemed slightly out of tune in the silence that surrounded him, "but how can I not be reminded of it? This room and you—indeed Henry here is all that brings me back. He is like you, George, and yet—" he paused to favor me with another glance—"he has his mother's eyes."
My father flicked a speck of dust from his sleeve.
"Suppose," he suggested, "we leave your sister out of the discussion. Let us come down to practical matters and leave the dead alone."
It was the first time he had mentioned her. His voice was coldly aloof, but his hand began moving restlessly again over his coat in search of an imaginary wrinkle.
"You understand me?" he inquired gently after a second's pause. "Pray remember, Jason, I have only two cheeks, and I can recall no biblical law to follow if you should strike again."
"God bless me!" gasped my uncle in blank amazement. "I did not come here to quarrel. I came because you are in trouble. I came as soon as I had heard of it, because you need my help—because—" he had regained his cordial eloquence from the very cadence of his words. He paused, and I thought his eye moistened and his voice quavered, "because blood is thicker than water, George."
At the last words my father inclined his head gravely, and was momentarily silent, as though seeking an adequate reply.
"I thought you would come," he said slowly. "In fact, I depended upon it before I set sail from France. Ha! That relieves you, does it not, Jason?"
Yet for some reason the statement seemed to have an opposite effect. My uncle's heavy brows knitted together, and his mouth moved uneasily.
"See, my son, how the plot thickens," said my father, turning to me with a pleasant smile. "And all we needed was a hero. Who will it be, I wonder, you or your uncle?"
But my uncle did not laugh again. Instead, he squared his shoulders and his manner became serious.
"It is not a time to jest, George," he said ominously. "Don't you understand what you have done? But you cannot know, or else you would not be here. You cannot know that the house is watched!"
If he had expected to surprise my father, he must have felt a poignant disappointment; but perhaps he knew that surprise was a sentiment he seldom permitted.
"I know," replied my father, "that since my arrival here I have been the object of many flattering attentions. But why are you concerned, Jason? I have broken no law of the land. I have merely mixed myself up in French politics."
Uncle Jason made an impatient gesture.
"You have mixed yourself up in such an important affair, in such a ridiculous way, that every secret agent that France has in this country will be in this town in the next twelve hours. That's all you have done, George."
My father tapped his silver snuff box gently.
"I had hoped as much," he remarked blandly. "When one is the center of interest, it is always better to be the very center. You must learn to know me better, Jason, and then you will understand that I always seek two things. I always seek profit and pleasure. It seems as though I should find them both in such pleasant company."
Then, as if the matter were settled, he looked again at the shuttered window, and leaned down to place another log in the fire.
"Come, George," urged my uncle. "Let us be serious. Your nonchalance and irony have been growing with the years. Surely you recognize that you have reached the end of your rope. I tell you, George, these men will stop at nothing."
"Has it ever occurred to you," returned my father, "that I also, may stop at nothing?"
My uncle frowned, and then smiled bleakly.
"No, George," he said, in a voice that dropped almost to a whisper. "You are too fond of life for that. Suppose for a moment, just suppose, they had means of taking you back to France. Just suppose there was a boat in the harbor now, manned and victualled and waiting for the tide, with a cabin ready and irons. They would admire to see you back in Paris, George, for a day, or perhaps two days. I know, George. They have told me."
"Positively," said my father, stifling a yawn behind his hand, "positively you frighten me. It is an old sensation and tires me. Surely you can be more interesting."
Jason's face, red and good-natured always, became a trifle redder.
"We have beat about the bush long enough," he said, with an abrupt lack of suavity. "I tell you, once and for all, you are running against forces which are too strong for you—forces, as I have pointed out, that will do anything to gain possession of a certain paper. They know you have that paper, George."
My father shrugged his shoulders.
"Indeed?" he said. "I hardly admire their perspicacity."
"And they will prevent your disposing of it at any cost. I tell you, George, they will stop at nothing—" again his voice dropped to a confidential monotone—"and that is why I'm here, George," my uncle concluded.
My father raised his eyebrows.
"I fear my mind works slowly in the early morning. Pardon me, if I still must ask—Why are you here?"
Quite suddenly my uncle's patience gave way in a singular manner to exasperation, exposing a side to his character which I had not till then suspected.
"Because I can save your neck, that's why! Though, God knows, you don't seem to value it. I have interceded for you, George, I have come here to induce you to give up that paper peacefully and quietly, or else to take the consequences."
Evidently the force he gave his words contrived to drive them home, for my father nodded.
"You mean," he inquired, "that they propose to take me to France, and have me handed over to justice, a political prisoner?"
"It is what I meant, George, as a man in a plot to kill Napoleon—" then his former kindliness returned—"and we cannot let that happen, can we?"
"Not if we can prevent it," my father replied. "If the trouble is that I have the paper in my possession, I suppose I must let it go."
Uncle Jason smiled his benignest smile.
"I knew you would understand," he said, with something I took for a sigh of relief. "I told them you were too sensible a man, George, not to realize when a thing was useless."
My father drew the paper from his breast pocket, and looked at it thoughtfully.
"Yes," he said slowly. "I suppose I must let it go."
"Good God! What are you doing?" cried my uncle.
My father had turned to the fireplace, and was holding the paper over the blaze. But for some reason my uncle was not relieved. He made an ineffectual gesture. His face became a blotched red and white. His eyes grew round and staring, and his mouth fell helplessly open.
"Stop!" he gasped. "For God's sake, George"
"Stay where you are, Jason," said my father. I can manage alone, I think. I suppose I should have burned it long ago."
He withdrew the paper slightly, as if to prolong the scene before him. If my uncle had been on the verge of ruin, he could not have looked more depressed.
"Don't!" he cried. "Will you listen, George? I'll be glad to pay you for it."
My father slowly straightened, placed the paper in his pocket, and bowed.
"Now," he said pleasantly, "we are talking a language I understand. Believe me, Jason, one of my chief motives in keeping this document was the hope that you might realize its intrinsic qualities."
Uncle Jason moistened his lips. His call was evidently proving upsetting.
"How much do you want for it?" he asked, with a slight tremor in his voice.
"Twenty-five thousand dollars seems a fair demand," said my father, "in notes, if you please."
"What!" my uncle shouted.
My father seated himself on the edge of the table, and surveyed his visitor intently.
"Be silent," he said. "Silent and very careful, Jason. You seem to forget that I am a dangerous man." And he flicked an imaginary bit of dust from his cuff. My uncle gave a hasty glance at the half opened door.
"And now listen to me," my father continued, his voice still gently conversational. "You have tried to frighten me, Jason. You should have known better. Of all the people in the world I fear you least. You forget that I am growing old, and all my senses are becoming duller—fear along with the rest. You have tried to cheat me of the money I have demanded, and it has tried my patience. In fact, it has set my nerves quite on edge. Pray do not irritate me again. I know you must have that paper, and I know why. The price I offer is a moderate one compared with the unpleasantness that may occur to you if you do not get it. Never mind what occurrence. I know that you have come here prepared to pay that price. The morning is getting on. You have the money in your inside pocket. Bring it out and count it—twenty-five thousand dollars."
Hesitatingly my uncle produced a packet that crackled pleasantly.
"There! I said you had them," remarked my father serenely. "All perfectly negotiable I hope, Jason, in case you should change your mind."
I stood helplessly beside him, beset with a hundred useless impulses. Silently I watched Jason Hill hold out the notes.
"And now the paper," said my uncle.
My father, examining the packet with a minute care, waved his request aside.
"First you must let me see what you are giving me. I fear your hands are trembling too much, Jason, for you to do justice to it. Twenty-five thousand dollars! It seems to me I remember that a similar sum once passed between us. In which direction? I seem to have forgotten—Yes, strangely enough they are quite correct. A modest little fortune, but still something to fall back on."
"And now the paper!" demanded my uncle.
"Ah, to be sure, the paper," said my father, and he swung from the table where he had been sitting, and smiled brightly.
"I have changed my mind about the paper, Jason, and business presses. I fear it is time to end our interview."
"You mean you dare"
"To accept a sum from you in payment of damage you have done my character? I should not dare to refuse it. Or let us put it this way, Jason. The paper is merely drawing interest. Positively, I cannot afford to give it up."
The red had risen again to my uncle's face, giving his features the color of ugly magenta. For a moment I thought he was going to leap at the slighter man before him, but my father never moved a muscle, only stood attentively watching him, with his hand folded behind his back.
"Show him the door, Brutus," he said briskly, "and as you go, Jason, remember this. I know exactly what dangers I am running without your telling me. For that reason I have ordered my servant to keep a fire burning in every room I occupy in this house. I make a point of sitting near these fires. If you or any of your friends so much as raise a finger against me, the paper is burned. And as for you"
With a quick, delicate motion, he raised a hand, and drew a finger lightly across his throat.
"And as for you, Jason, even the slightest suspicion that you, or your paid murderers, are interfering in any way with my affairs, will give me too much pleasure. I think you understand. Pray don't make me overcome with joy, Jason; and now I wish you a very good morning."
But Uncle Jason had recovered from the first cold shock of his surprise. He drew himself up to his full height. His jaw, heavy and cumbersome always, thrust itself forward, and I could see the veins swell dangerously into a tangled, clotted mass on his temples. His fingers worked convulsively, as though clawing at some unseen object close beside him, and then his breath whistled through his teeth.
"You fool," he shouted suddenly, his temper bursting the weakened barriers of control. "You damned, unregenerate fool!"
And then, for an instant, my father's icy placidity left him. His lips leapt back from his teeth. There was a hissing whir of steel. His small sword made an arc of light through the yard of space that parted them. His body lunged forward.
"So you will have it, will you?" His words seemed to choke him. "Take it, then," he roared, "take it to hell, where you belong."
It was, I say, the matter of an instant. In a leaden second he stood poised, his wrist drawn back, while the eyes of the other stared in horror at the long, thin blade. And then the welts of crimson that had mounted to his face, disfiguring it into a writhing fury, slowly effaced themselves. His lips once more assumed a thin, immobile line. Again his watchful indolence returned to him, and slowly, very slowly, he lowered the point to the floor's scarred surface. His voice returned to its pleasant modulation, and with his words returned his icy little smile.
"Your pardon, Jason," he said. "I fear I have been too much myself this morning. Thank your God, if you have one, that I was not entirely natural. Take him away, Brutus, he shall live a little longer."
But Brutus had no need to obey the order. My father stood, still smiling, watching the empty doorway. Then I realized that I was very cold and weak, and that my knees were sagging beneath me. I walked unsteadily to the table and leaned upon it heavily. Thoughtfully my father sheathed his small sword.