Five hours before, the man who was hurling himself furiously after the
rapidly retreating train had driven calmly through the city, from the
pier of the White Star Line to the apartment of a man whom he had met
abroad, and who had offered him the use of it during his absence. The
rooms were in the fourth story of a fine apartment house. The returning
exile noted with satisfaction the irreproachable neighborhood, as he
slowly descended from the carriage, paid his fee, and entered the door,
to present his letter of introduction to the janitor in charge.
His first act was to open the steamer trunk which he had brought with
him in the cab, and take therefrom his wedding garments. These he
carefully arranged on folding hangers and hung in the closet, which was
otherwise empty save for a few boxes piled on the high shelf.
Then he hastened to the telephone and communicated with his best man,
Jefferson Hathaway; told him the boat was late arriving at the dock,
but that he was here at last; gave him a few directions concerning
errands he would like to have done, and agreed to be at the church a
half-hour earlier than the time set for the ceremony, to be shown just
what arrangements had been made. He was told that his bride was feeling
very tired and was resting, and agreed that it would be as well not
to disturb her; they would have time enough to talk afterwards; there
really wasn’t anything to say but what he had already written. And he
would have about all he could do to get there on time as it was. He
asked if Jefferson had called for the ring he had ordered and if the
carriage would be sent for him in time and then without formalities
closed the interview. He and Jefferson were not exactly fond of one
another, though Jefferson was the beloved brother of his bride-to-be.
He hung up the receiver and rang for a brandy and soda to brace himself
for the coming ordeal which was to bind to him a woman whom for years
he had been trying to get in his power and whom he might have loved if
she had not dared to scorn him for the evil that she knew was in him.
At last he had found a way to subdue her and bring her with her ample
fortune to his feet and he felt the exultation of the conqueror as he
went about his preparations for the evening.
He made a smug and leisurely toilet, with a smile of satisfaction upon
his flabby face. He was naturally a selfish person and had always known
how to make other people attend to all bothersome details for him
while he enjoyed himself. He was quite comfortable and self-complacent
as he posed a moment before the mirror to smooth his mustache and note
how well he was looking. Then he went to the closet for his coat.
It was most peculiar, the way it happened, but somehow, as he stepped
into that closet to take down his coat, which hung at the back where
the space was widest, the opening at the wrist of his shirt-sleeve
caught for just an instant in the little knob of the closet latch. The
gold button which held the cuff to the wristband slipped its hold,
and the man was free almost at once, but the angry twitch he had
made at the slight detention had given the door an impetus which set
it silently moving on its hinges. (It was characteristic of George
Hayne that he was always impatient of the slightest detention.) He
had scarcely put his hand upon his wedding coat when a soft steel
click, followed by utter darkness, warned him that his impatience had
entrapped him. He put out his hand and pushed at the door, but the
catch had settled into place. It was a very strong, neat little catch,
and it did its work well. The man was a prisoner.
At first he was only annoyed, and gave the door an angry kick or two,
as if of course it would presently release him meekly; but then he
bethought him of his polished wedding shoes, and desisted. He tried to
find a knob and shake the door, but the only knob was the tiny brass
one on the outside of the catch, and you cannot shake a plain surface
reared up before you. Then he set his massive, flabby shoulder against
the door and pressed with all his might, till his bulky linen shirt
front creaked with dismay, and his wedding collar wilted limply. But
the door stood like adamant. It was massive, like the man, but it was
not flabby. The wood of which it was composed had spent its early life
in the open air, drinking only the wine of sunshine and sparkling air,
wet with the dews of heaven, and exercising against the north blast. It
was nothing for it to hold out against this pillow of a man, who had
been nurtured in the dissipation and folly of a great city. The door
held its own, and if doors do such things, the face of it must have
laughed to the silent room; and who knows but the room winked back? It
would be but natural that a room should resent a new occupant in the
absence of a beloved owner.
He was there, safe and fast, in the still dark, with plenty of time
for reflection. And there were things in his life that called for his
reflection. They had never had him at an advantage before.
In due course of time, having exhausted his breath and strength in
fruitless pushing, and his vocabulary in foolish curses, he lifted up
his voice and roared. No other word would quite describe the sound that
issued from his mighty throat. But the city roared placidly below him,
and no one minded him in the least.
He sacrificed the shiny toes of the shoes and added resounding kicks
on the door to the general hubbub. He changed the roar to a bellow
like a mad bull, but still the silence that succeeded it was as deep
and monotonous as ever. He tried going to the back of the closet and
hurling himself against the door, but he only hurt his soft muscles
with the effort. Finally he sat down on the floor of the closet.
Now, the janitor’s wife, who occupied an apartment somewhat
overcrowded, had surreptitiously borrowed the use of this closet the
week before, in order to hang therein her Sunday gown, whose front
breadth was covered with grease-spots, thickly overlaid with French
chalk. The French chalk had done its work and removed the grease-spots,
and now lay thickly on the floor of the closet, but the imprisoned
bridegroom did not know that, and he sat down quite naturally to rest
from his unusual exertions, and to reflect on what could be done next.
The immediate present passed rapidly in review. He could not afford
more than ten minutes to get out of this hole. He ought to be on the
way to the church at once. There was no knowing what nonsense Celia
might get into her head if he delayed. He had known her since her
childhood, and she had always scorned him. The hold he had upon her now
was like a rope of sand, but only he knew that. If he could but knock
that old door down! If he only hadn’t hung up his coat in the closet!
If the man who built the house only hadn’t put such a fool catch on the
door! When he got out he would take time to chop it off! If only he had
a little more room, and a little more air! It was stifling! Great beads
of perspiration went rolling down his hot forehead, and his wet collar
made a cool band about his neck. He wondered if he had another clean
collar of that particular style with him. If he _only_ could get out of
this accursed place! Where were all the people? Why was everything so
still? Would they never come and let him out?
He reflected that he had told the janitor he would occupy the room with
his baggage for two or three weeks perhaps, but he expected to go away
on a trip this very evening. The janitor would not think it strange
if he did not appear. How would it be to stay here and die? Horrible
thought!
He jumped up from the floor and began his howlings and gyrations once
more, but soon desisted, and sat down to be entertained by a panorama
of his past life which is always unpleasantly in evidence at such
times. Fine and clear in the darkness of the closet stood out the
nicely laid scheme of deviltry by which he had contrived to be at last
within reach of a coveted fortune.
Occasionally would come the frantic thought that just through this
little mishap of a foolish clothespress catch he might even yet lose
it. The fraud and trickery by which he had an heiress in his power
did not trouble him so much as the thought of losing her--at least of
losing the fortune. He must have that fortune, for he was deep in debt,
and--but then he would refuse to think, and get up to batter at his
prison door again.
Four hours his prison walls enclosed him, with inky blackness all
around save for a faint glimmer of light, which marked the well-fitted
base of the door as the night outside drew on. He had lighted the gas
when he began dressing, for the room had already been filled with
shadows, and now, it began to seem as if that streak of flickering gas
light was the only thing that saved him from losing his mind.
Somewhere from out of the dim shadows a face evolved itself and gazed
at him, a haggard face with piercing hollow eyes and despair written
upon it. It reproached him with a sin he thought long-forgotten. He
shrank back in horror and the cold perspiration stood out upon his
forehead, for the eyes were the eyes of the man whose name he had
forged upon a note involving trust money fifteen years before; and the
man, a quiet, kindly, unsuspecting creature had suffered the penalty in
a prison cell until his death some five years ago.
Sometimes at night in the first years after his crime, that face had
haunted him, appearing at odd intervals when he was plotting some
particularly shady means of adding to his income, until he had resolved
to turn over a new leaf, and actually gave up one or two schemes as
being too unscrupulous to be indulged in, thus acquiring a comforting
feeling of being virtuous. But it was long since the face had come.
He had settled it in his mind that the forgery was merely a patch of
wild oats which he had sown in his youth, something to be regretted but
not too severely blamed for, and thus forgiving himself he had grown
to feel that it was more the world’s fault for not giving him what
he wanted than his own for putting a harmless old man in prison. Of
the shame that had killed the old man he knew nothing, nor could have
understood. The actual punishment itself was all that appealed to him.
He was ever one that had to be taught with the lash, and then only
kept straight while it was in sight.
But the face was very near and vivid here in the thick darkness. It
was like a cell, this closet, bare, cold, black. The eyes in the gloom
seemed to pierce him with the thought: “This is what you made me
suffer. It is your turn now. IT IS YOUR TURN NOW!” Nearer and nearer
they came looking into his own, until they saw down into his very soul,
his little sinful soul, and drew back appalled at the littleness and
meanness of what they saw.
Then for the first time in his whole selfish life George Hayne knew any
shame, for the eyes read forth to him all that they had seen, and how
it looked to them; and beside the tale they told the eyes were clean of
sin and almost glad in spite of suffering wrongfully.
Closer and thicker grew the air of the small closet; fiercer grew the
rage and shame and horror of the man incarcerated.
Now, from out the shadows there looked other eyes, eyes that had never
haunted him before; eyes of victims to whom he had never cast a half a
thought. Eyes of men and women he had robbed by his artful, gentlemanly
craft; eyes of innocent girls whose wrecked lives had contributed to
his selfish scheme of living; even the great reproachful eyes of
little children who had looked to him for pity and found none. Last,
above them all were the eyes of the lovely girl he was to have married.
He had always loved Celia Hathaway more than he could have loved anyone
or anything else besides himself, and it had eaten into his very being
that he never could make her bow to him; not even by torture could he
bring her to her knees. Stung by the years of her scorn he had stooped
lower and lower in his methods of dealing with her until he had come
at last to employ the tools of slow torture to her soul that he might
bring low her pride and put her fortune and her scornful self within
his power. The strength with which she had withheld him until the
time of her surrender had turned his selfish love into a hate with
contemplations of revenge.
But now her eyes glowed scornfully, wreathed round with bridal white,
and seemed to taunt him with his foolish defeat at this the last minute
before the final triumph.
Undoubtedly the brandy he had taken had gone to his head. Was he going
mad that he could not get away from all these terrible eyes?
He felt sure he was dying when at last the janitor came up to the
fourth floor on his round of inspection, noticed the light flaring
from the transom over the door occupied by the stranger who had said
he was going to leave on a trip almost immediately, and went in to
investigate. The eyes vanished at his step. The man in the closet lost
no time in making his presence known, and the janitor, cautiously,
and with great deliberation made careful investigation of the cause
and reason for this disturbance and finally let him out, after having
received promise of reward which never materialized.
The stranger flew to the telephone in frantic haste, called up the
house of his affianced bride, shouting wildly at the operator for all
undue delays, and when finally he succeeded in getting some one to the
’phone it was only to be told that neither Mrs. Hathaway nor her son
were there. Were they at the church? “Oh, no,” the servant answered,
“they came back from the church long ago. There is a wedding in the
house, and a great many people. They are making so much noise I can’t
hear. Speak louder please!”
He shouted and raved at the servant, asking futile questions and
demanding information, but the louder he raved the less the servant
understood and finally he hung up the receiver and dashed about the
room like an insane creature, tearing off his wilted collar, grabbing
at another, jerking on his fine coat, searching vainly for his cuffs,
snatching his hat and overcoat, and making off down the stairs;
breathlessly, regardless of the demand of the janitor for the fee of
freedom he had been promised.
Out in the street he rushed hither and thither blindly in search of
some conveyance, found a taxicab at last, and, plunging in, ordered it
to go at once to the Hathaway address.
Arrived there, he presented an enlivening spectacle to the guests, who
were still making merry. His trousers were covered with French chalk,
his collar had slipped from its confining button in front and curved
gracefully about one fat cheek, his high hat was a crush indeed, having
been rammed down to his head in his excitement. He talked so fast and
so loud that they thought he was crazy and tried to put him out, but he
shook his fist angrily in the face of the footman and demanded to know
where Miss Hathaway was? When they told him she was married and gone,
he turned livid with wrath and told them that that was impossible, as
he was the bridegroom.
By this time the guests had gathered in curious groups in the hall and
on the stairs, listening, and when he claimed to be the bridegroom they
shouted with laughter, thinking this must be some practical joke or
else that the man was insane. But one older gentleman, a friend of the
family, stepped up to the excited visitor and said in a quieting voice:
“My friend, you have made a mistake! Miss Hathaway has this evening
been married to Mr. George Hayne, just arrived from abroad, and they
are at this moment on their way to take the train. You have come too
late to see her, or else you have the wrong address, and are speaking
of some other Miss Hathaway. That is very likely the explanation.”
George looked around on the company with helpless rage, then rushed to
his taxicab and gave the order for the station.
Arriving at the station, he saw it was within half a minute of the
departure of the Chicago train, and none knew better than he what time
that train had been going to depart. Had he not given minute directions
regarding the arrangements to his future brother-in-law? What did it
all mean anyway? Had Celia managed somehow to carry out the wedding
without him to hide her mortification at his non-appearance? Or had she
run away? He was too excited to use his reason. He could merely urge
his heavy bulk onward toward the fast fleeting train; and dashed up
the platform, overcoat streaming from his arm, coat-tails flying, hat
crushed down upon his head, his fat, bechalked legs rumbling heavily
after him. He passed Jefferson and his mother; watching tearfully,
lingeringly, the retreating train. Jefferson laughed at the funny
spectacle, but the mother did not notice and only said absently: “I
think he’ll be good to her, don’t you, Jeff? He has nice eyes. I don’t
remember that his eyes used to seem so pleasant, and so--deferential.”
Then they turned to go back to their car, and the train moved faster
and faster out of the station. It would presently rush away out into
the night, leaving the two pursuers to face each other, baffled.
Both realized this at the same instant and the short, thick-set man
with sudden decision turned again and plunging along with the train
caught at the rail and swung himself with dangerous precipitation to
the last platform of the last car with a half-frightened triumph.
Looking back he saw the other man with a frantic effort sprint forward,
trying to do the same thing, and failing in the attempt, sprawl flat on
the platform, to the intense amusement of a couple of trainmen standing
near.
George Hayne, having thus come to a full stop in his headlong career,
lay prostrate for a moment, stunned and shaken; then gathered himself
up slowly and stood gazing after the departing train. After all, if he
had caught it what could he have done? It was incredible that Celia
could have got herself married and gone on her wedding trip without
him. If she had eloped with some one else and they were on that train
what could he have done? Kill the bridegroom and force the bride to
return with him and be married over again? Yes, but that might have
been a trifle awkward after all, and he had enough awkward situations
to his account already. Besides, it wasn’t in the least likely that
Celia was married yet. Those people at the house had been fooled
somehow, and she had run away. Perhaps her mother and brother were gone
with her. The same threats that had made her bend to him once should
follow her wherever she had gone. She would marry him yet and pay for
this folly a hundred fold. He lifted a shaking hand of execration
toward the train which by this time was vanishing into the dark opening
at the end of the station, where signal lights like red berries
festooned themselves in an arch against the blackness, and the lights
of the last car paled and vanished like a forgotten dream.
Then he turned and hobbled slowly back to the gates regardless of the
merriment he was arousing in the genial trainmen; for he was spent
and bruised, and his appearance was anything but dignified. No member
of the wedding company had they seen him at this juncture would have
recognized in him any resemblance to the handsome gentleman who had
played his part in the wedding ceremony. No one would have thought it
possible that he could be Celia Hathaway’s bridegroom.
Slowly back to the gate he crept, haggard, dishevelled, crestfallen;
his hair in its several isolated locks downfallen over his forehead,
his collar wilted, his clothes smeared with chalk and dust, his
overcoat dragging forlornly behind him. He was trying to decide what
to do next, and realizing the torment of a perpetual thirst, when a
hand was laid suddenly upon him and a voice that somehow had a familiar
twang, said: “You will come with me, sir.”
He looked up and there before him in the flesh were the eyes of the man
who had haunted him for years, the very eyes grown younger, and filled
with more than reproach. They were piercing him with the keenness of
retribution. They said, as plainly as those eyes in the closet had
spoken but a brief hour before: “Your time is over. My time has come.
You have sinned. You shall suffer. Come now and meet your reward.”
He started back in horror. His hands trembled and his brain reeled. He
wished for another cocktail to help him to meet this most extraordinary
emergency. Surely, something had happened to his nerves that he was
seeing these eyes in reality, and hearing the voice, that old man’s
voice made young, bidding him come with him. It could not be, of
course. He was unnerved with all he had been through. The man had
mistaken him for some one--or perhaps it was not a man after all. He
glanced quickly around to see if others saw him, and at once became
aware that a crowd was collecting about them.
The man with the strange eyes and the familiar voice was dressed in
plain clothes, but he seemed to have full assurance that he was a real
live man and had a right to dictate. George Hayne could not shake away
his grasp. There was a determination about it that struck terror to his
soul, and he had a weak desire to scream and hide his eyes. Could he be
coming down with delirium tremens? That brandy must have been unusually
strong to have lasted so long in its effects. Then he made a weak
effort to speak, but his voice sounded small and frightened. The eyes
took his assurance from him.
“Who are you?” he asked, and meant to add, “What right have _you_
to dictate to _me_?” but the words died away in his throat, for the
plainclothes man had opened his coat and disclosed a badge that shone
with a sinister light straight into his eyes.
“I am Norman Brand,” answered the voice, “and I want you for what you
did to my father. It is time you paid your debt. You were the cause
of his humiliation and death. I have been watching for you for years.
I saw the notice of your wedding in the paper and was tracking you. It
was for this I entered the service. Come with me.”
With a cry of horror George Hayne wrenched away from his captor and
turned to flee, but instantly three revolvers were levelled at him, and
he found that two policemen in brass buttons were stationed behind him,
and the crowd closed in about him. Wherever he turned it was to look
into the barrel of a gun, and there was no escape in any direction.
They led him away to the patrol wagon, the erstwhile bridegroom, and
in place of the immaculate linen he had searched so frantically for in
his apartment they put upon his wrists cuffs of iron. They put him in a
cell and left him with eyes of the old man for company and the haunting
likeness of his son’s voice filling him with frenzy. The unquenchable
thirst came upon him and he begged for brandy and soda, but none came
to slake his thirst, for he had crossed the great gulf and justice at
last had him in her grasp.