THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING
"What mighty ills have not been done by woman!"
_Otway._
It was nearly seven o'clock when Jack Carleton strolled into the
carriage house, to find Satterlee, sleeves rolled up, his big rubber
apron tied around his waist, busy washing the carriages. Leisurely
Carleton took his seat upon an inverted bucket, and lit a cigarette. "So
you use a horse now and then, too, do you, Tom?" he asked, "it isn't all
automobiles?"
Satterlee grinned a little ruefully. "To speak true, Mr. Jack," he
answered, "we gets a lot of trouble out of that there machine. The
gentlemen walked the last quarter mile to-night, and she's out there
in the road yet. You see, we got a new universal joint--"
Carleton raised his hand. "No, no," he cried, "you don't get me to
listen to any of those yarns. I don't know anything about motors, and I
don't want to. A horse is good enough for me. It isn't your automobile
troubles I want to hear about, Tom. It's your own, if you've got any,
only I don't believe you have. As near as I can make out, you're an
infernally lucky man."
The chauffeur nodded. "I am that, sir," he answered, readily enough. "No
man could have had better luck, or more of it, than I've had the last
year. It seems sometimes to me, Mr. Jack, like it couldn't really be so.
It's been most too much for one man."
Jack nodded. "It was all a surprise to me," he said. "Mr. Carleton never
told me he'd built you the house; I didn't even know you were married. I
wouldn't know it now if I hadn't happened to stop in there on the way up
from the train. I only did it out of curiosity, too. I wondered who on
earth had built that house, so near the big one."
Satterlee's face lit up with pleasure. "I'm more than glad you did,
sir," he said. "It's a neat little place, if I am saying so. And you
were after seeing the Mrs., I suppose?"
Jack nodded again. "Yes, indeed I did. She's prettier than ever, Tom.
And she was telling me all about the house. So Mr. Carleton built it for
you."
Satterlee pushed the wagon back into place, removed his apron, and took
his stand in front of Carleton. "Yes, sir," he answered, "you see, it
was like this. I always liked Jeanne fine--no one could help it, she's
got that way with her--but I always thought as how she was more than a
cut above me, being, as you might say, a lady, almost. And she never'd
have much to say to me, either, excepting to pass the time of day, and
such like things, you know, just friendly like, and nothing more. But
about a year ago, of a sudden she began to seem to take more notice of
me, and at last, never dreaming I was doing anything more than settle
all my hopes of ever getting her, once and for all, I got that crazy
about her I up and asked her--and she said she would. And then I didn't
know what to do. I wanted to go to housekeeping, of course; I knew
where I could rent a tidy little house down in the village, but I was
feared of losing my job, if Mr. Carleton shouldn't seem to take kindly
to the idea of it.
"Well, at last I told him, and he seemed pleased enough, and asked me
about my plans, and so on, and finally he said he'd like to think it
over for a while. So I said all right, of course, and one evening he
came down here, and talked a long time, about how fine a thing it was to
be married--he spoke something beautiful about his poor dear lady--and
said as how that I'd always done my work right, and been a faithful man
to him, and as how he knew Jeanne was a fine girl, and so on, and
finally that he'd hate to have me leave him--I got scared then--but he
didn't want me so far away as the village, and so, if I'd like it,
partly for me, and partly for a good example to the rest of the house,
he'd build me a cottage right here on the place, and set me up to
housekeeping there. And that he did, and you've seen the cottage for
yourself, so there's no need of my saying what a neat little place it
is, or how happy we are. I like it fine, and Jeanne even more than me, I
believe; you know what it is for a woman to have her own home to fuss
round with; flowers and a vegetable garden, and all such things. We
couldn't be better fixed in all the wide world."
Carleton slowly nodded. "Well, I should say not," he said at length.
"And about the money, too. Jeanne was telling me of that."
Satterlee's face brightened. "Wasn't that the greatest ever?" he said.
"I never knew she had relatives so well fixed as that; I guess she
didn't, either; but Mr. Carleton looked after all the law part of it for
her, and it seems she gets a steady income for the rest of her life. Not
so much, of course, for some folks, but for her, you see, it's just pin
money, to do as she likes with. Of course I'd never touch a cent of it;
I'm doing pretty well myself, and I live simple, anyway; but she likes
her fine clothes, and her trip in town, same as all the women do, and
I'm glad to let her have the fun. Sometimes I get let off, too, but I
don't like to go often; there's plenty doing here with six horses, and
that rascal of a car. And this summer she's going off for two months to
the mountains with some friends of hers. You see, the work gets slacker
then; Mr. Carleton always goes away about that time, and it's pretty hot
here, of course, for a woman, anyway. Yes, Jeanne's quite the lady now,
and no one more glad than me."
Carleton, again nodding thoughtfully, sat for some time in silence
without looking up. At last he raised his eyes to the chauffeur's.
"Tom," he said, speaking with unwonted gravity, "I'd like to ask you one
question. What do you really think--" Abruptly he broke off. "Well,
speaking of angels," he muttered, and again was silent.
Down the drive Henry Carleton was walking briskly toward them, with a
step that a youth of twenty might have envied. As he entered the
carriage house, he eyed the pair a trifle keenly, it seemed, yet when he
spoke his tone was amiability itself. "Ah, Jack," he said, "I wondered
where you'd gone. Talking over old times with Satterlee, I suppose. We
dine at seven, you know."
Carelessly Jack Carleton answered him. "Yes, I know. I'll be ready. Lots
of time yet."
There was nothing in the words at which offense could be taken, yet at
the tone Henry Carleton's eyebrows were raised a trifle. "Suit
yourself," he said, "as long as you're not late," then turning to the
chauffeur. "It's unfortunate about the motor, isn't it, Satterlee? I
understand you to say that you can't possibly have it fixed before
to-morrow night?"
Satterlee shook his head. "Oh, no, sir, not possibly," he answered. "I
shall have to go in town to-morrow morning, and see them at the factory.
And then there's a good half day, just on labor alone. No, sir,
to-morrow night would be the very earliest possible."
Henry Carleton's face clouded a trifle, and for a moment he thought in
silence. Then he spoke, with a little reluctance evident in his manner.
"I don't like to ask you to do it, Satterlee, but I can't see any other
way. I've promised to send a message over to Mr. Sheldon to-night, a
message which is of great importance to both of us. I was going to ask
you to take the motor, and go over after dinner--it wouldn't have taken
much over an hour, I suppose--but that's out of the question now. Do you
think, Satterlee, you could oblige me by taking one of the horses, and
driving over. It will be something of a trip, I'm afraid."
Satterlee's assent could hardly have been readier, or more heartily
given. "Of course I'll go, sir," he answered, "and be more than glad to.
It's not too long a drive, sir. The night's fine. Let me see. Twelve
miles over. Twelve miles back. I could take old Robin, sir, and make it
in a matter of three hours, or I could take Fleetwood, in the sulky, and
make it in pretty near an hour quicker, if there's haste."
Henry Carleton shook his head. "Oh, no, there's no special hurry," he
answered, "and I wouldn't take Fleetwood, I think. I want to save him
for Mr. Jack to drive to-morrow. No, I think I'd take old Robin. And I
suppose you could get started by eight. If you'll stop at the house,
then, Satterlee, I'll have everything ready, and I'm sure I'm much
obliged to you. I won't forget it."
Satterlee's face showed his pleasure. There was a thoughtfulness and
consideration in his master's manner unusual and agreeable. "You're more
than welcome, I'm sure, sir," he said. "I'll be ready sharp at eight."
Jack Carleton had stood silent, with knitted brows. Now he looked up
quickly, gazing at Henry Carleton with a singular intentness,
considering the comparative unimportance of the matter involved.
"What's the matter with telephoning?" he asked abruptly, well-nigh
rudely, in fact.
Henry Carleton smiled at him benignantly in return. "You always were
fond of old Robin, weren't you, Jack?" he said. "Well, I hate myself to
use a horse on a drive as long as that, and I hate to use Satterlee so
late at night, besides. But these happen to be a set of plans, Jack, and
you know to telephone plans is rather a difficult thing; and, since
you've been so good as to interest yourself in the matter, I'll tell you
further that they're street railway plans, of very great importance,
considering the fact that Sheldon is my counsel before a committee of
the legislature to-morrow morning. After all," he added more slowly, "it
is a practical world, Jack. Some one has to look after things, even if
it involves an evening trip, a horse and a man. But I suppose it's hard
for you to get used to it. Yours never was the strictly practical side."
The tone was of kindly benevolence. That there was a deliberate purpose
behind the words was evident. Jack Carleton's face gave no sign, save
that all at once his eyes seemed suddenly to have turned hard and cold.
"I see perfectly now," he answered. "Pardon my suggestion, won't you? I
didn't know the drive was connected with any plans, or of course I
shouldn't have spoken. Well, I guess I'll go ahead and dress for dinner
now."
He turned with elaborate nonchalance, almost feeling Henry Carleton's
searching glance follow him; and once, half way up the drive, he
chuckled to himself, as if in his mind he felt perfectly satisfied with
the result of the little encounter of words.
[Illustration: "I can't tell you how glad I am."--Page 201]
As he mounted the piazza steps, from the cosy corner hidden far back
among the ivy, Rose Carleton and Vaughan advanced a little consciously
to meet him. Very possibly, from a certain tumbled look about her pretty
curls and a flush in her cheeks suspiciously bright, he felt that he
might have done well to enter the house from the side door. Yet, if he
had proved an interrupter, she readily enough forgave him, coming
forward with hands outstretched, and kissing him affectionately, first
on one cheek and then on the other. "Well, cousin Jack," she cried,
"it's seemed so long. Welcome home again; I can't tell you how glad I
am."
He held her off at arm's length, looking at her with real affection in
his glance, yet quizzically. "My dear," he said, "those are very nice
kisses. You weren't as skilful as that when I left. But practice, I
suppose, will do a lot for any one."
Rose Carleton's face flushed, but not at all with anger. She held up an
admonishing finger. "Why," she cried, "I _am_ surprised at you. Even to
hint at such a thing," and then suddenly shifting the attack, "and
what's made you such a judge of kisses, anyway? Were they experts out
where you've been? I think you ought to explain, at least."
Carleton laughed. "Never mind, never mind," he said, "we'll change the
subject at once; I'm getting embarrassed; but seriously, my dear, I wish
you two people all the luck in the world. Nothing could please me
better; you can be sure of that. But I'm not going to stay here and say
nice things about you; I'll warrant you do enough of that yourselves to
make you as proud as peacocks. And if I don't get ready for dinner,
Henry'll give me a calling down; I know that much from old times," and
with a friendly wave of his hand by way of parting benediction, he took
his departure for his room.
* * * * *
To an outsider, it might have seemed that the company assembled for
dinner was a somewhat curiously assorted one; yet the dinner itself,
thanks to the efforts of the dark, observant man who presided at the
head of the table, could hardly have been more successful. Tact--always
tact--and in little things even more than in great, this was the
feature that distinguished Henry Carleton's discharge of his duties as
host. And once well under way, there was little reason, indeed, why the
occasion should not have been a success. The meal was one for an
epicure, deliciously cooked and faultlessly served, and with a quality
and variety in the liquids which accompanied it, sufficient to satisfy
even Cummings himself. Fortunate, indeed, it seemed, that Jack Carleton
took nothing at all, and that Henry Carleton and Vaughan drank
sparingly, for Cummings' capacity was frankly enormous. Constantly his
red face grew redder and redder, and his conversation became every
moment more and more monopolistic; yet Henry Carleton, with the courtesy
of the host, seemed to pay no heed, and if there was any conflict
between the laws of temperance and those of hospitality, the star of the
latter seemed to be in the ascendant, for the butler was even more than
assiduous in his attentions, and took good care that the bottom of
Cummings' glass was never visible from the beginning of the dinner until
the end.
A little late in beginning, it was doubtless due to Cummings' frank
enjoyment of his food and drink, and his innocent delight in recounting
at length anecdote after anecdote of which he was invariably the hero,
that the dinner came to an end far later than Henry Carleton had
anticipated. It was fully half-past eight, indeed, before he had the
opportunity to slip out on the piazza, where Satterlee sat patiently
waiting, with old Robin dozing peacefully between the shafts. "I'm
sorry, Satterlee," he said, as he handed over the parcel; "I didn't mean
to keep you waiting so long. I'm afraid it's going to be pretty late
before you get back."
Satterlee gathered up the reins. "Close to midnight, I expect, sir," he
answered cheerfully, "maybe later, if the old fellow doesn't happen to
be feeling very brisk. But what's the odds? The night's fine, and
there'll be a moon later on. It's no difference to me. Good night, sir.
I'll be ready for the eight-two, in the morning," and he jogged
leisurely away down the avenue.
The rest of the party, in the meantime, had joined their host on the
piazza. Almost imperceptibly Rose and Vaughan seemed to be again
gravitating in the direction of the sheltered corner. Jack Carleton,
observing them, smiled to himself; then turned to his host. "If you'll
excuse me, Henry," he said, "I believe I'll go up to my room, smoke a
pipe and turn in. I've been awfully short of sleep since I got back."
Henry Carleton, the hospitable, with the greatest readiness assented.
"Why, of course, Jack, don't talk of my excusing you. No such ceremony
as that out here. Turn in, and sleep the clock around, if you want to.
Come on, Cummings. You and I will have a little game of billiards, if
that'll suit you."
"Suit me?" echoed Cummings expansively, "well, I guess yes. Surest thing
you know." This, he reflected to himself, was certainly going some. This
was being treated better than ever before. A bang-up dinner; all the
fizz he wanted--that, from Cummings, meant much--and now a game of
billiards with the old man. And billiards was his particular long suit.
No wonder that he was perfectly happy. Scarcely, it seemed to him,
could he wait until the next morning, to see the other fellows in the
office, and recount all his good fortune to their well-nigh unbelieving
ears. "Surest thing you know," he repeated again, "just what I'd like to
do."
Left alone, Rose Carleton and Vaughan retreated under the shadow of the
vines. For a little while, indeed, with a self-restraint most
commendable, their talk was not wholly of themselves. A few words they
had to say about Jack; a few, with bated breath, concerning Cummings and
his peculiarities; a brief account Vaughan gave of his wholly pleasant
and successful interview with Henry Carleton, and then, in spite of
themselves, their talk swung around into the path of that endless circle
which engrosses so absolutely the attention of those happy persons but
newly engaged, and soon, all unconsciously, they had drifted away into
the realms of the small but all-sufficing world which can never be
inhabited by more than two.
Meanwhile, up-stairs in the billiard room Jim Cummings was enjoying
himself always more and more. The table was perfect; the cigar from
the box which Henry Carleton had carelessly shoved toward him he
had appraised with a critical eye, and instantly classified as a
twenty-five-cent straight; at his elbow, on the neat little sideboard,
were liqueurs, and Scotch and soda. Only a victory at the game was
needed to make for Cummings a perfect world, and that finally was also
forthcoming. Not easily, indeed; old Carleton, to his infinite surprise,
played a most surprising game, marred only by a tendency to slip up on
easy shots after he had made a run of those which almost any amateur
in the city might have envied. The first game went to Cummings, the
second to his host, the third and rubber at last, after the closest of
finishes, to Cummings again. And then, pulling their chairs up to the
little table, they sat for perhaps half an hour and talked. Cummings,
indeed, seemed to be the leader as far as number of words went; Carleton
apparently doing little more than to make a suggestion here, propound a
difficulty there, and then finally to allow himself to be assured by
Cummings' lordly manner of overcoming every obstacle in the path. At
last they rose; the lights in the billiard room were extinguished, and
Carleton left his guest at the door of the bedroom allotted to him. "So
I think," he said, laying a friendly hand on Cummings' arm, "that, as
between two men of the world, we may fairly say that we perfectly
understand each other."
Cummings' speech was a trifle thick, something scarcely to be wondered
at, but his step was steady, and his brain clear. "Perfe'ly," he
responded. "No misund'standing at all. Perfe'ly, I'm sure."
Henry Carleton looked at him sharply. He was well aware of the quantity
of liquor his guest had somehow managed to put away. "And just one
thing," he added, "you won't forget that it's got to be done quietly.
That's the important thing. You can't be too careful. It's a most
delicate mission. That, Jim," he added in a burst of confidence, "is
why I selected you."
Cummings' immediate expansion was visible to the eye. "I 'preciate your
choice," he responded handsomely, "and I un'erstand just how you want it
done. 'S that enough, or d'you want talk some more?"
Henry Carleton whipped out his watch. "No, no," he answered hastily,
"it's late now, Jim. Later than I thought. We understand each other, of
course. Do your best, that's all. And, Jim," he added, with a curious
note, almost, one would have said, of entreaty, in his tone, "you
understand my motives perfectly, don't you? You see my reasoning? You're
convinced that I'm acting for the best?"
Singular enough it was to see the great financier verging on an appeal
to a man in every way so far his inferior. Cummings, even in his
slightly befuddled condition, seemed to appreciate the honor conferred.
"Mr. Carleton," he answered, "I un'erstand 'ntirely. Your motives
irreproachable; no one say otherwise, by possibility."
Henry Carleton looked his relief. "Good," he said briefly. "I shouldn't
proceed without your approval of the plan. And you will bear in mind the
need of haste, I know."
It was five minutes later that he rejoined his daughter and Vaughan upon
the piazza, with his usual thoughtfulness emerging slowly from the
house, and clearing his throat somewhat ostentatiously several times by
way of fair and friendly warning. It may have been that this signal was
needed, it may have been that it was not; in any event, when Henry
Carleton had actually reached the cosy corner, it was to find Rose and
Vaughan seated decorously enough some distance apart, although for the
moment, indeed, conversation between the two appeared to have come
completely to a standstill.
Henry Carleton eyed them benevolently. "A beautiful night," he observed
impartially, and then, more especially addressing himself to Rose, "Did
you know that it was after half-past ten, my dear. Early to bed, you
know."
In the darkness Rose Carleton frowned impatiently. Yes, she knew. That
she should retire early was one point on which her father insisted with
a strictness that made it hopeless to contest the point with him. "Early
to bed." She felt a huge dislike for the worthy originator of the
phrase. Even the soundest and sanest of maxims, without the occasional
exception which proves the rule, may come to mean next to nothing.
"Yes, I know it," she answered shortly, with just a trace of irritated
rebellion in her tone. Eighteen does not relish being treated like
twelve.
Her father noted the tone. "Well, good night, my dear," he observed
evenly. "Say good night to Mr. Vaughan, and don't forget to be up in
good season to-morrow. We shall be a little hurried without the motor.
You must have our coffee ready for us sharp on time." Then, a pause
ensuing, without any move seeming to come from Rose, he added
persuasively, "I trust you and Mr. Vaughan have enjoyed your evening
together, my dear."
There was a hint of mild reproach in his tone, and at the words
forthwith the girl relented. It was true enough. He had been considerate
to allow her to have Vaughan to herself for the evening. It would have
been easy to have managed things otherwise. He was a pretty good father,
after all. So obediently she rose and gave her hand to Vaughan, with
just sufficient pressure to let him understand that had the occasion
served, her good night would have been a very different one, kissed her
father, and went quietly up-stairs.
Left alone, Vaughan turned to Henry Carleton.
"Cummings turned in?" he asked casually.
Carleton nodded. "Yes, he's turned in, I believe," he answered; then,
with the hospitality for which he was famous, he added, "Is there
anything more that I may chance to be able to do for your entertainment,
Mr. Vaughan?"
Vaughan shook his head. "Oh, thanks, no," he answered, "I'm ready for
bed myself, I believe."
"Very well," said Carleton quickly, "then I think, in that case, if you
will excuse me, I'll take my little turn about the grounds and retire
myself. If you should care for a pipe on the piazza, the house is always
open. We don't lock up here at all. I always say, if a burglar is going
to try to break into a country house, that's all windows and doors, a
key turned in the lock isn't going to stop him. So you can get in at any
time between now and morning."
Vaughan laughed. "Thanks," he answered, "that's genuine kindness, but I
don't think I shall take advantage of it. A bed seems more attractive
to me just now than a pipe even."
"Suit yourself," answered Carleton, "I'll have my man call you in the
morning. Good night."
He turned indoors as he spoke, and Vaughan stood silent for perhaps five
minutes, looking out into the glorious summer night, with his thoughts
where they could scarcely have failed to be--on the wonderment of all
the happiness that had come to him, on the difference that the love of a
girl had made in him, his ambitions, his hopes, of all the great things
that he longed to accomplish now for her sake, to show her that perhaps
she had not chosen unworthily.
Then, coming suddenly to himself, he decided that it would be pleasant
to accompany Carleton on his rounds, looked indoors for him, and not
finding him there, concluded that he must have gone out by some other
way. Coming out once more on to the piazza, he stood for a moment
irresolute, had even made a hesitating step toward the house again, and
then, summoned irresistibly by some subtle kinship with tree and flower,
star and whispering breeze, he walked hastily down the steps, and then,
more leisurely, strolled away around the curve of the drive until his
figure was lost amid the shrubbery of the lawn.
Surely Henry Carleton's little evening had been enjoyed to the full by
every one. And, as it chanced, even the humblest actor in it was to have
his share of luck. Tom Satterlee, with some two thirds of his journey to
Mr. Sheldon's accomplished, suddenly gripped the reins more tightly as a
warning blast fell on his ears, and a moment later a big motor whizzed
past him from the rear. Instantly he recognized the chauffeur, driving
alone, and the next moment his cheerful hail had brought the motor to a
halt. Then ensued a brief conference, resulting in the transfer of the
package, while Satterlee, with a good hour saved from the schedule that
was to bring him back at midnight, in high good humor turned old Robin's
head toward home.
Meanwhile, back at The Birches, Vaughan wandered idly along, his feet on
earth, his thoughts in the clouds. Rose and his book. His book and Rose.
From one to the other his thoughts plied back and forth. Not, indeed,
that the book could ever rival Rose, but it was as a means to win her
that it now appeared most precious to him, as if his written word, as
something outside of himself, were striving, like some faithful friend,
to aid him in his fight--and Rose and the book and his happiness blended
in his mind with all the intoxication of youth and hope, and a world
still untried and unconquered, its problems undespaired of still.
On and on he walked, half unconscious of where he was going, and
then, on a sudden he seemed to become aware of a light flashing
somewhere ahead of him through the trees, now disappearing, now,
as he went onward, springing again into view, much as some gigantic
will-o'-the-wisp might have done. And at the same instant, looking
around him, he perceived, to his surprise, that unconsciously he had
been following the trail of a little rough hewn path, winding first to
right, and then to left, but always forward, and always toward the
light. Partly from a real curiosity as to what it might be, partly with
enough of the instinct of boyhood days left in him, to make him feel a
perfectly irrational delight in the sense of nocturnal adventure, he
skirted his way along through the woods, and a moment later found
himself standing on a little elevation of rock, gazing through the trees
at the house which stood over across from him, not a hundred yards away,
amid the circle of birches which, gleaming like silver in the faint
moonlight, surrounded it with their protection as with a natural
palisade.
Something singular there seemed to him about the whole affair. The
cottage he could not place; and idly he began to wonder whether, intent
upon his day-dreams, he had wandered farther than he had intended,
and had crossed the boundaries of The Birches to trespass on some
neighboring domain. His vivid imagination had even begun to weave a
web of vague, elusive romance about the cottage itself, based partly,
perhaps, on the spell of the moonlight, partly on the fact that despite
the lateness of the hour a light still gleamed in the upper, and one in
the lower, hall. And then, with a realizing rush of sober common sense,
with a smile at his wandering fancies, he came back to real life again,
and had turned, though half regretfully, to go, when suddenly, at the
very instant, he stopped, and again stood still. A dark figure had come
across the lawn in the rear of the house, walked up to the door without
reconnoitering, and disappeared within.
A moment or two of silence. Then the light down-stairs was extinguished,
and an instant later the one above was suddenly darkened, until only the
faintest glimmer remained. And again Vaughan, though half doubtfully
this time, smiled at his folly. Surely this was the novelist at his
worst. Striving to find something unusual and strange, worthy of his
notice and comment, in what? In the coming home of some prosaic
householder, doubtless tempted into a longer stay than usual at the
village by the charms of the good fellowship of tavern or grocery store.
Suddenly his heart leaped. What was that? Something mysterious was on
foot, then, after all. From within the house came sounds as if of a
struggle--a crash, as of furniture overturned--a single half-choked,
muffled cry. Then a rush and clatter of feet on the stairs, and then,
before his wide-open, straining eyes, from the rear door of the house a
figure emerged, followed almost instantly by another. The pursued, the
taller and slimmer of the two, and evidently by far the fleeter of foot,
ran, as one who knows his ground, straight for the thickest cluster of
trees, and reaching them, dived into their shelter like a hare. The
pursuer, following for a space, all at once slackened his speed,
swerving and bearing aimlessly away, constantly farther and farther to
the left, in a wide half circle, his body bent all the time more and
more to one side, his head thrown back and upward, as if spent and
exhausted, even with the brief effort he had made. And finally, fairly
doubling on his tracks, he came headed straight for the rock at the
summit of which Vaughan stood. Nearer and nearer he came, and then,
quickly, as in the faint moonlight the man's face became more plainly
visible, Vaughan drew one instant gasping breath of sickened horror. The
face was set, as if rigid with agony, the eyes were unnaturally wide,
and over the upturned forehead and the pallid cheeks flowed something
hideously dark and glistening. And then, convulsively, with a ghastly
semblance of an athlete who finishes his race, the figure threw one arm
high into the air, as if grasping for support, staggered, pitched
forward, and fell motionless, lying, in the darkness below, a huddled
heap in the road.
To Vaughan, all unschooled in the darker experiences of life, came a
sudden access of blind terror. He knew that he should at once descend,
yet, knowing it, stood motionless, his will unequal to the task. And
then, as he sought to nerve himself for the trial, nature intervened. At
once he was conscious that his heart was throbbing so faintly and so
fast that his ear could scarcely separate the beats; something tightened
in his throat; the silver birches floated and turned before him,
and he found himself nearer fainting than he had ever been in his life
before. Slowly, after what seemed to him an indefinite period of
semi-consciousness, his brain again cleared; distrustingly he loosed his
hold on the sapling which he had grasped, and with genuine courage,
sought once more to approach the edge of the little cliff and begin his
descent.
Yet that descent, spite of his newly taken resolution, was now never to
be made. At the edge he gave one shuddering look below, then hastily
and with caution drew back, peering fixedly through the screen of leaf
and branch. The man, indeed, still lay where he had fallen, but now,
creeping down the driveway, came the first figure, returning, as if
impelled by some impulse too powerful to resist. Stealthily it
approached the huddled figure on the ground, looked around listening,
then swiftly knelt, turned the body over, and raised the head upon its
knee. Then came the quick spurt of a match, and Vaughan, leaning forward
with fascinated gaze, saw more than he wished to see--saw what he would
have given anything in the world not to have seen; for the motionless
figure, with head drooped horribly to one side, hair matted, and face
streaked and dabbled with red, was that of Tom Satterlee, and the face
which bent over him, showing pale and horror-stricken in the light of
the tiny flame, was the face of Jack Carleton. Vaughan turned and ran.