He discharged the driver and in a moment was standing in a big
living-room that exhaled an atmosphere of comfort and good taste. On
every hand were the evidences of a hasty abandonment of the house by its
recent occupants. A waste-paper basket by a writing table in one corner
overflowed with scraps of discarded letters; the family had evidently
snatched a hasty luncheon before leaving and the dining table had not
been cleared. A doll lay sprawled on the landing as he made his way
upstairs, and in the bed chambers empty chiffonier drawers gaped as
though from surprise at their hasty evacuation. He made a survey of the
whole premises and then went through again from cellar to garret
checking off his sister's queries. There was something disconcerting in
the intense silence of the place broken only by the periodic thump of
the sea at the base of the cliff.
The house would serve the Featherstones admirably. There was even the
sleeping porch opening from the nursery that his sister had expressly
stipulated and a tiny retreat back of the living-room with desk and
shelves that would meet the requirements of his congressman
brother-in-law at such times as he might find it possible to join his
family.
Fully satisfied with his investigations, Archie picked up a book with a
paper-cutter thrust through it to mark the place of its last reader,
became absorbed and read until he, was roused by a clap of thunder that
seemed to shake the world. Hurrying to the window he found that the
storm had already broken. There was a greenish light over the sea and
the waves had begun to smite the rocks with dismaying ferocity. To catch
the five eleven he would have to leave at once, and he seized his
belongings and opened the door, but upon stepping out upon the veranda
the walk he had contemplated along the shore path to the village seemed
a foolhardy thing to undertake. An unearthly darkness had fallen upon
the world and a misstep in the rough path over the rocks might pitch him
headlong into the sea. He had marked the presence of a telephone in the
house and decided to summon a taxi, but as he clapped the receiver to
his ear he was startled by a blinding glare and the crack of a mighty
whip overhead. He snatched the instrument again and bawled into it, but
it was buzzing queerly and he sprang away from it as another glare lit
up the room.
He turned on the lights and sat down to think. He might return by the
highway over which he had reached the house, but the driver had told him
it was the longer way. The roof and walls rang under the downpour and he
decided that after all to spend the night in an abandoned house would be
fully as heroic as to subject himself to the ruthless fury of the
hurricane. It would be a lark to camp in the Congdon villa, a break in
the deadly routine of his days which Isabel Perry had pointed out as a
possible cause of his invalidism. He made himself comfortable and
studied the sheaf of time tables he had brought with him, methodically
formulating the messages he would be obliged to despatch in the morning
to change his westward passage.
The storm showed no sign of abating and as nightfall deepened the gloom
he set the broad fireplace in the living-room glowing, drew the shades,
and feeling twinges of hunger explored the kitchen pantry. The Congdons
had left a well-stocked larder and, finding bacon, eggs and bread, he
decided that the cooking of a supper would be a jolly incident of the
adventure. He laid aside his coat and rolling up his sleeves soon had a
fire going in the range, which smoked hideously until he mastered the
dampers. He removed the dishes that had been left on the dining-room
table and carefully laid a cover for one. The roses in a bowl that
served as a centerpiece were still fresh and were a pathetic reminder of
the mistress of the house. In rearranging the table he found a telegram
under a plate at what he assumed to be Mrs. Congdon's place. To read a
message not intended for his eyes was decidedly against his strict code,
but his curiosity overcame his scruples and these words met his eyes:
New York, June 10, 1917.
Mrs. Alice B. Congdon,
Bailey Harbor, Maine.
Your letter has your characteristic touch of cruelty. We may as
well part now and be done with it. But the children you cannot
have. Remember that I relinquish none of my rights on this
point. I demand that you surrender Edith at once and I will
communicate with you later about the custody of Harold until such
time as he is old enough to come to me.
Putney Congdon.
The cautious hint of the taxi driver that domestic difficulties were
responsible for the breaking up of the Congdon household found here a
painful corroboration. He chivalrously took sides at once with the
unhappy Alice; no matter how shrewish the absconding wife might be, only
a brute of a husband would fling such a message at her head. Archie
hated discord; the very thought of it was abhorrent. He had never had a
care in his life beyond his health, and quarrels of every sort he left
to underbred people with evil tempers. Here was a furious lunatic
telegraphing his wife of the severance of the most sacred of ties and
demanding the immediate transfer of one child to his possession and
relinquishing only temporarily the custody of the other, presumably
younger and the lawful owner of the doll he had picked up on the stair
landing.
He now visualized the whole scene that followed upon the receipt of the
telegram; the hurried, tearful packing, the bewildered children, the
panic-struck servants rushing about obeying the orders of a hysterical
mistress. The more he thought of it the warmer became his defensive
attitude toward the unknown Alice. She had met the situation like a
woman of quick decisions,--perhaps she was a little too unyielding and
this had caused the rupture; but no man worthy to be called a gentleman
would commit to the wires so heartless a message directed at the mother
of his children.
His attention had been arrested several times by a photograph of a young
girl, of eleven or twelve, set in a silver frame on the living-room
table, whom he assumed to be the Edith mentioned in the telegram. She
was a lovely child, with a wealth of hair falling about her shoulders,
and roguish eyes that looked at him teasingly. It was a thoroughly
feminine face with an unusual perfection of line. Very likely the child
was the reëmbodiment of her mother who must, he thought, be a very
handsome woman indeed. His resentment hardened against the husband and
father, the author of the brutal message that disposed of his marital
obligations as coolly as though he had been canceling an order for a
carload of merchandise, as he held up the picture for the joy of meeting
the gaze of the merry eyes.
Though the breaking of eggs into the skillet had proved a fearsome
matter and the bacon sizzled strangely, the cooking had proved much
simpler than he had believed possible. He burnt his fingers handling the
toaster, but after ruining a considerable quantity of bread he produced
three slices of toast that were the equal of any offered by his favorite
club. As usual when frustrated in his plans (something that had rarely
happened in his whole life) he made the most of the situation, eating
slowly while the rain poured in an unbroken sheet down the windows. He
wished Isabel could see him and know that for once the routine of his
life had been interrupted only to find him resourceful and the easy
master of his fate.
He made a point of washing the dishes and cooking utensils and putting
them carefully away. These matters attended to, he roamed over the house
which now had a new interest for him since the Congdon family skeleton
had come out of its closet and danced round the dinner table. In one way
and another he found it possible to make a fair acquaintance with the
late inmates of the house. In a bedroom adjoining the nursery there
were books in abundance, and very good books they were--essays, poetry,
a few of those novels that appeal only to sophisticated readers, and
children's books, including a volume of Bible stories retold for the
young. He could readily imagine Mrs. Congdon reading aloud from these
volumes to her youngsters as they stood beside the wicker rocker in the
bay-window. Only a few hours earlier the house had rung with the happy
laughter of children; he fancied he could hear them calling to their
mother up the stair. Mrs. Congdon was a blonde, he decided, from the
presence in a closet of a blue peignoir overlooked in her flight and a
bolt of blue ribbon that had rolled under the bed as though seeking
refuge from the general confusion.
In the adjoining room he sought traces of the hard-hearted husband, but
in his departure, presumably sometime earlier, Congdon had made a clean
sweep; there was nothing to afford a clue to his character beyond a
four-in-hand tie whose colors struck Archie as execrable. Below in the
snuggery fitted up for masculine use was a table, containing a humidor
half filled with dried-up cigars, and an ill-smelling pipe--Archie hated
pipes--and a box of cigarettes. A number of scientific magazines lay
about and a forbidding array of books on mechanics and chemistry
overflowed the shelves. He threw open a cabinet filled with blue prints
illustrating queer mechanical contrivances. They struck him as very
silly and he slammed the thing shut in disgust, convinced that Congdon
was a crank, or he wouldn't have indulged in such foolishness. In a
drawer of the desk was an automatic pistol and a box of cartridges. At
a country house where he once week-ended a burglar scare had inspired
feverish intensive pistol practice among the guests and Archie had
learned to load and fire and even developed some skill as a marksman.
There were three cartridges in the magazine and Archie thrust it into
his pocket thinking it not a bad idea to be prepared for invasion.
He was oppressed with a fleeting sense of his isolation as he drew back
a shade and pressed his face to the pane. The house stood at the edge of
the summer colony and a considerable distance from its nearest neighbor.
The landward horizon still brightened at intervals with a languid
mockery of lightning, dimmed by the fog that was dragging in from the
sea. The siren in the harbor had begun its mournful iterations, and he
caught the occasional flash of the revolving light that gleamed now and
then through breaks in the fog.
He switched off the lights in the lower rooms and established himself in
the guest chamber. The bed had been dismantled but he found blankets and
linen and addressed himself to the novel task of making a couch for
himself. If he had consulted his pleasure in advance he would have
shrunk from camping in a lonely seaside house for a night; but now that
the experience was forced upon him he was surprised to find that he was
not afraid. The revelation was an agreeable one. He, Archibald Bennett,
was a perfectly normal being, capable of rising to emergencies; and when
he saw Isabel Perry again, as he had every intention of doing at the end
of the summer, this little trip to Bailey Harbor would make a very
pretty story which could not fail to convince her of his fortitude and
courage.
Sleeping in his underwear was distasteful but this was only another
small item that proved his resolute fiber and ability to accept
conditions as he found them. He opened the windows and performed his
usual before-retiring calisthenics, tested the reading lamp beside the
bed, placed the pistol within easy reach and became absorbed in a volume
of short stories.
He read the book through, put out the light and was half asleep when he
was roused by footsteps on the veranda below.