Carmel went directly to the room in the hotel which she still occupied
pending the discovery of a permanent boarding place. She locked the
door carefully and closed the transom. Then with a queer feeling of
mingled curiosity and the exultation of a newspaper woman, she placed
side by side on her dresser the bottle of liquor she had abstracted
from the _cache_ and the match box made from a brass shotgun shell.
She sat down on the bed to regard them and to ask them questions, but
found them singularly uncommunicative. Beyond the meagerest replies she
could have nothing of them. The bottle seemed sullen, dour, as became a
bottle of Scotch whisky. In the most ungracious manner it told Carmel
its name and the name of its distillers and its age.... The match box
refused to make any answers whatever, being, she judged, of New England
descent, and therefore more closed mouth than even the Scotch. The
bottle squatted and glowered dully. It wore an air of apprehension,
and patently was on its guard. The brass match box, brought to a fine
polish by long travel in an active trousers pocket, was more jaunty
about it, having a dry, New England humor of its own, recognizable as
such. The identifying quality of New England humor is that you are
always a little in doubt as to whether it is intended to be humor.
The conversation was one-sided and not illuminating.
“Who brought you over the line?” Carmel asked.
The bottle hunched its shoulders and said nothing, but the match box
answered in the dialect of the country, “I fetched him--for comp’ny. A
feller gits dry sleepin’ out in the woods.”
“Who made you, anyhow?” Carmel asked of the match box.
“Feller that likes to keep his matches dry.”
“Somebody who likes to hunt,” said Carmel.
“Wa-al, him ’n me knows our way about in the woods.”
“Who was coming to get you from where you were hidden?” Carmel asked
the bottle, suddenly.
“D’ye ken,” said the bottle, sourly, “I’m thinkin’ ye are an
inqu_ee_sitive body. Will ye no gang aboot your business, lassie. Hae
doon wi’ ye; ye’ll hae no information frae me.”
“Who were those two men in the car?” said Carmel.
“Strangers to me,” said the match box, nonchalantly.
“One of them dropped you,” said Carmel.
“Mebby he did; dunno _if_ he did,” said the match box.
“Somebody’ll know who owns you,” said Carmel.
“How’ll you go about finding that out?” said the match box. “Findin’
_caches_ of licker in the woods hain’t good fer the health, seems as
though. Traipsin’ around town askin’ who owns me might fetch on a run
of sickness.”
“You can’t frighten me,” said Carmel.
“Sheriff Churchill wa’n’t the frightenin’ kind, neither,” said the
match box, significantly.
“What if I put a piece in my paper telling just how I found you?” said
Carmel.
“Be mighty helpful to our side,” said the match box. “Stir up ill
feelin’ without gittin’ you any place.”
“What shall I do, then?” Carmel asked.
“Can’t expect _me_ to be givin’ you advice,” said the match box. And
there the conversation lapsed. The bottle continued to glower and the
match box to glitter with a dry sort of light, while Carmel regarded
them silently, her exasperation mounting. She was in the unenviable
position of a person to whom belongs the next move, when there seems no
place to move to.
In the mass of uncertainty there was, as metallurgists say, of fact
only a trace. But the trace of fact was important--important because
it was the first tangible evidence coming into her possession of what
was going on under the surface of Gibeon. She had promised herself to
bring to retribution those who had caused the disappearance of Sheriff
Churchill. She felt certain it was the possession of some such evidence
as stood before her on her dresser, which lay at the root of the
sheriff’s vanishing. The thought was not comforting. Of another thing
she felt certain, namely, that the _cache_ she had discovered was no
sporadic bit of liquor smuggling, but was a single manifestation of a
systematic traffic in the contraband. She calculated the number of the
bottles she had seen and the profits derived from that single store of
whisky. It amounted to four figures. Supposing that amount were carried
across the border weekly!... Here was no little man’s enterprise. Here
were returns so great as to indicate the participation of an individual
of more than ordinary stature. Also it suggested to her that such
individual or group would not tolerate interference with this broad
river of dollars.... The fate of Sheriff Churchill corroborated this
reflection.
The bottle and match box on her dresser were dangerous. They stood as
if they realized how dangerous they were, and leered at her. She arose
quickly and placed them in a lower drawer, covering them carefully with
garments. The woman in her wished she had not made the discovery, and
by it confronted herself with the responsibility for taking action. The
newspaper proprietor exulted and planned how the most was to be derived
from it. For the first time she felt self-distrust and wished for a
sure counselor. She realized her aloneness. There was none to whom she
could turn for sure advice; none to whom her confidence moved her.
Her friends were few. In Gibeon she was confident of the loyalty of
Tubal and of Simmy, the printer’s devil. They would fight for her,
follow her lead to the ultimate--but neither was such as she could
appeal to for guidance. Evan Bartholomew Pell owed her gratitude.
Doubtless he felt some rudiments of it and possibly of loyalty. She
was dubious of both. He was such a crackling, dry, self-centered
creature--not contemptible as she had first seen him. Never again could
she visualize him as contemptible. But to go to him for advice in this
emergency seemed futile. He would guide her by rule and diagram. He
would be pedantic and draw upon printed systems of logic. What she
wanted was not cold logic out of a book, but warm, throbbing, inspiring
co-operation from out the heart. She glanced at her watch. It told her
the hour was verging toward ten.
She sat upon the edge of her bed, debating the matter in hand, when
there sounded a knocking upon her door.
“What is it,” she called.
“Mr. Fownes is down in the parlor a-waitin’. He wants to know if you’ll
come down and see him--if you hain’t to bed yit.” The last sentence was
obviously not a part of the message, but interested conjecture on the
part of the messenger.
“What does he want?”
“Didn’t say. I asked him, but he let on ’twan’t none of my business.
Said it was important, though.”
Carmel pondered a moment. Aversion to the fat little man waged war with
woman’s curiosity to know what his errand could be at this hour when
Gibeon was tucking itself into its feather beds.
“Please tell him I’ll come down,” she said.
She went down. The parlor of the hotel was tucked off behind the big
room which was combined office and lounging room for traveling men
and village loafers. It contained a piano which had not been played
since it had been tuned and had not been tuned for a time so long that
the memory of man runneth not to the contrary. On the wall was a hand
painting of a forest fire, done by a talented relative of the hotel’s
proprietor. Doubtless this portrayed some very special kind of forest
fire, or it would not have called forth the artist’s genius. One would
not know at first glance that it depicted a forest fire, because it
looked to the uninitiated like a number of dilapidated red feather
dusters standing upright in a heavy surf. But it had been done by hand,
and Gibeon regarded it as her artistic farthest north. There were also
two gilt chairs, evidently peeling after sunburn, a small onyx table
and a piece of furniture known to furniture manufacturers of its period
as a settee.... Abner Fownes was, on Carmel’s entrance, the settor. He
arose with the ease and grace of a man lifting a barrel of flour and
bowed.
“You wished to see me?” she said, coldly.
“Very much. Very much indeed.”
“Your business would not wait until morning?”
“I chose this hour, Miss Lee,” he said, pompously. “Dislike to be
watched. Whole village watches me.... Doubtless very natural, but
annoying.”
“I fancied we said all it was needful to say on our last meeting.”
“Time for reflection. Allowed you time to cool.... Hot youth. Er--must
confess I admired your--er--force of character.”
“I’m sure I’m grateful.”
“Be seated. Can’t talk standing up,” he said, as a potentate might
invite some favored subject to be at ease in his august presence. “Wish
to discuss your affairs.”
“I don’t,” said Carmel, “with you.”
“Um!... How old would you say I am?”
“I’ve never given your age a thought.”
“Fifty-two,” he said, “and well preserved. Well preserved. Careful
living. Good habits.”
“It must be a satisfaction to you,” she said, with ill-concealed irony.
“You have--er--style and beauty,” he said. “Valuable attributes.... Be
a credit to any man.”
“You came to talk business, did you not?”
“Not exactly.... Not precisely.”
“Will you tell me why you have come,” she said, sharply.
“Certainly. Certainly. Arriving at the point.”
“Please do so. I am tired.”
He paused briefly while his small, sharp eyes traveled over her person
with an estimating glance, a glance which heated her resentment. It was
an unpleasant glance for a young woman to undergo.
“Ahem!... Present your case. Inventory, so to speak. You own a
bankrupt country paper. Never paid--never will. Alone in the world. No
relatives. Nobody to help you. No money. Hard future to face.... Debit
side of the ledger. Um!... Credit side shows youth--er--intelligence,
education. All valuable assets. Shows also beauty and--er--the ability
to look like a lady.... Breeding. Difficult to find. Desirable.” He
paused again until he appraised her with greedy eyes.
Suddenly she felt apprehensive. A sense of outrage swept over her, but
for once words failed in the emergency. She felt her limbs tremble. The
man’s eyes were an outrage; his manner was an affront. She was angry as
she had never been angry before; terrified with a new sort of crawling,
skin-chilling terror. She was aware of being afraid he might touch her;
that his fat, pudgy, well-kept fingers might reach out and rest upon
her hand or her cheek or her hair. If they should, she knew she would
scream. His touch would be intolerable. She had a feeling it would
leave a damp, ineradicable mark. She drew back in her chair, crouching,
quivering.
“Those assets,” he said, “entitle you to a future. Should realize on
them.... Ahem!...” Again he paused and touched his cravat fussily. He
glanced down at his little shoes, immaculate, on his tailored legs and
impressive abdomen. “Beauty,” he said, “requires ease and care....
Um!... Fades with hard work and economy.”
He crossed his hands on his stomach and smiled fatuously. “I,” he said,
“have been a widower fifteen years. A long time.... Not from necessity.
No, indeed. But my home, the sort of home I maintain--in keeping with
my position--er--requires an adequate mistress.... One possessing
qualities. Yes, indeed. Qualities suitable to the wife of Abner Fownes.”
He drew himself up to the utmost of his scanty height, making, as well,
the most of his breadth. He resembled, Carmel thought, a dropsical
pouter pigeon.
“The mistress of my home--er--mansion,” he amended, “would occupy
enviable position. Extremely. Looked up to. Envied. Arbiter of local
society. Ease, comfort--luxury. Everything money can buy.... Travel.
Yes, indeed.... Clothes suitable to her station and mine.... Women are
fond of clothes. Jewels. Amply able to provide my wife with jewels.”
Carmel was breathless. Her heart beat in a manner to cause her alarm
lest it outdo itself. Her scalp prickled. She wondered if something
physically unpleasant were going to happen--like fainting.
“Enviable picture,” he said, expansively. “Sufficient to attract any
woman. Be pointed out as Abner Fownes’s wife. Women take pride in their
husbands. Husband of a personage.” At this he swelled to his utmost.
“I have studied you,” he said, in a voice of one coming to the end
of an oration. “I have found you in all ways capable of filling the
position of my wife. Er--you would be a credit to me. Yes, indeed. End
all your difficulties. Satisfy every whim. What more can anybody ask?”
He stared at her pompously, but with a horrid hunger in his eyes,
stared as if waiting for an answer.
“I am asking you,” he said, “to become Mrs. Abner Fownes.”
She gasped to hear the unthinkable put into words. It had not seemed
possible to her that it could be put into words. It was the sort of
thing one hinted at, made use of _double entendre_ to convey. But he
dragged it out into the light and gloated over it. He insisted on
stating it baldly.... She bore it as she would endure some shock,
quivered under the affront of it, caught her breath, grasped at her
heart as if to quiet it with her fingers. For moments she could not
move nor speak. She was engulfed in material horror of the thing. It
was as if she were immersed in some cold, clammy, clinging, _living_
fluid--a fluid endowed with gristly life.
Suddenly she found herself upon her feet, speaking words. The words
came from subconscious depths, not directed by intellect or by will,
but by the deep-lying soul, by the living, indestructible thing which
was herself. Disgust emanated from her.
“You toad!” she heard herself say. “You white, dreadful toad! You
dare to say such words to _me_! You dare to sit there appraising
me, coveting me! You ask me to be your wife--your _wife_!... You
are unspeakably horrible--can’t you see how horrible you are?” She
heard her voice arguing with him, trying to impress him with his
own horribleness. “You dreadful, fat little creature! A credit to
you!... I can think of no woman so low, so degraded, so unnatural as
to be a credit to what you are. A woman of the streets would refuse
you. Your touch would be death to her soul--to what fragment of soul
she retained.... How dare you insult me so?...” The words would not
stop, the dreadful words. She did not wish to utter them, knew their
utterance served no purpose, but they continued to flow as water from a
broken spout. She rent and tore him, holding him up to the light of the
stars for himself to see. It was a dreadful thing to do to any human
being; to sink one’s claws into his body, searching for and finding and
rending the soul.
She saw him turn the color of his vest; saw him shrink, compress within
himself, crumple, sag like a punctured football. She saw an ugly glint
in his little, narrowed eyes; understood how she had put upon him the
supreme affront of stripping him of his pretense and showing him to
himself as he knew he was. She stood him before his own eyes, stark,
horribly vivid; showed him secrets he concealed even from himself. Yet
it was not Carmel who did this thing, but some uncontrollable force
within her, some force fighting the battle of womanhood.... He got
unsteadily to his feet and backed away from her mouthing. He stumbled,
recovered, felt behind him for the door.
“Damn you!” he cried shrilly. “Damn you!... You--you’ll suffer for
this....”
Then he was gone and she found herself kneeling with her face upon the
seat of her chair, shaken by sobs.