AN ODD AFFAIR AT RED GATE
Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you,
Which better fits a lion than a man.
--_Troilus and Cressida_.
As I rode through Port Annandale the lilting strains of a waltz floated
from the casino, and I caught a glimpse of the lake's cincture of
lights. My head was none too clear from its crack on the cabin floor,
and my chest was growing sore and stiff from the slash of the Italian's
knife; but my spirits were high, and my ears rang with memories of the
Voice. Helen had given me a commission, and every fact of my life
faded into insignificance compared to this. The cool night air rushing
by refreshed me. I was eager for the next turn of the wheel, and my
curiosity ran on to the boat-maker's house.
I came now to a lonely sweep, where the road ran through a heavy
woodland, and the cool, moist air of the forest rose round me. The
lake, I knew, lay close at hand, and the Hartridge cottage was not, as
I reckoned my distances, very far ahead. I had drawn in my horse to
consider the manner of my approach to the boat-maker's, and was jogging
along at an easy trot when a rifle-shot rang out on my left, from the
direction of the creek, and my horse shied sharply and plunged on at a
wild gallop. He ran several hundred yards before I could check him,
and then I turned and rode slowly back, peering into the forest's black
shadow for the foe. I paused and waited, with the horse dancing
crazily beneath me, but the woodland presented an inscrutable front. I
then rode on to the unfenced strip of wood where I had left my horse
before.
I began this narrative with every intention of telling the whole truth
touching my adventures at Annandale, and I can not deny that the shot
from the wood had again shaken my faith in Helen Holbrook. She had
sent me to the Tippecanoe on an errand of her own choosing, and I had
been fired on from ambush near the place to which she had sent me. I
fear that my tower of faith that had grown so tall and strong shook on
its foundations; but once more I dismissed my doubts, just as I had
dismissed other doubts and misgivings about her. My fleeting glimpse
of her in the window of St. Agatha's less than an hour before flashed
back upon me, and the tower touched the stars, steadfast and serene
again.
I strode on toward Red Gate with my revolver in the side pocket of my
Norfolk jacket. A buckboard filled with young folk from the summer
colony passed me, and then the utter silence of the country held the
world. In a moment I had reached the canoe-maker's cottage and entered
the gate. I went at once to the front door and knocked. I repeated my
knock several times, but there was no answer. The front window-blinds
were closed tight.
It was now half-past ten and I walked round the dark house with the
sweet scents of the garden rising about me and paused again at the top
of the steps leading to the creek.
The house-boat was effectually screened by shrubbery, and I had
descended half a dozen steps before I saw a light in the windows. It
occurred to me that as I had undoubtedly been sent to Red Gate for some
purpose, I should do well not to defeat it by any clumsiness of my own;
so I proceeded slowly, pausing several times to observe the lights
below. I heard the Tippecanoe slipping by with the subdued murmur of
water at night; and then a lantern flashed on deck and I heard voices.
Some one was landing from a boat in the creek. This seemed amiable
enough, as the lantern-bearer helped a man in the boat to clamber to
the platform, and from the open door of the shop a broad shaft of light
shone brightly upon the two men. The man with the lantern was
Holbrook, _alias_ Hartridge, beyond a doubt; the other was a stranger.
Holbrook caught the painter of the boat and silently made it fast.
"Now," he said, "come in."
They crossed the deck and entered the boat-maker's shop, and I crept
down where I could peer in at an open port-hole. Several brass
ship-lamps of an odd pattern lighted the place brilliantly, and I was
surprised to note the unusual furnishings of the room. The end nearest
my port-hole was a shop, with a carpenter's bench with litter all about
that spoke of practical use. Two canoes in process of construction lay
across frames contrived for the purpose, and overhead was a rack of
lumber hung away to dry. The men remained at the farther end of the
house--it was, I should say, about a hundred feet long--which, without
formal division, was fitted as a sitting-room, with a piano in one
corner, and a long settle against the wall. In the center was a table
littered with books and periodicals; and a woman's sewing-basket,
interwoven with bright ribbons, gave a domestic touch to the place. On
the inner wall hung a pair of foils and masks. Pictures from
illustrated journals--striking heads or outdoor scenes--were pinned
here and there.
The new-comer stared about, twirling a Tweed cap nervously in his
hands, while Holbrook carefully extinguished the lantern and put it
aside. His visitor was about fifty, taller than he, and swarthy, with
a grayish mustache, and hair white at the temples. His eyes were large
and dark, but even with the length of the room between us I marked
their restlessness; and now that he spoke it was in a succession of
quick rushes of words that were difficult to follow.
Holbrook pushed a chair toward the stranger and they faced each other
for a moment, then with a shrug of his shoulders the older man sat
down. Holbrook was in white flannels, with a blue scarf knotted in his
shirt collar. He dropped into a big wicker chair, crossed his legs and
folded his arms.
"Well," he said in a wholly agreeable tone, "you wanted to see me, and
here I am."
"You are well hidden," said the other, still gazing about.
"I imagine I am, from the fact that it has taken you seven years to
find me."
"I haven't been looking for you seven years," replied the stranger
hastily; and his eyes again roamed the room.
The men seemed reluctant to approach the business that lay between
them, and Holbrook wore an air of indifference, as though the impending
interview did not concern him particularly. The eyes of the older man
fell now upon the beribboned work-basket. He nodded toward it, his
eyes lighting unpleasantly.
"There seems to be a woman," he remarked with a sneer of implication.
"Yes," replied Holbrook calmly, "there is; that belongs to my daughter."
"Where is she?" demanded the other, glancing anxiously about.
"In bed, I fancy. You need have no fear of her."
Silence fell upon them again. Their affairs were difficult, and
Holbrook, waiting patiently for the other to broach his errand, drew
out his tobacco-pouch and pipe and began to smoke.
"Patricia is here, and Helen is with her," said the visitor.
"Yes, we are all here, it seems," remarked Holbrook dryly. "It's a
nice family gathering."
"I suppose you haven't seen them?" demanded the visitor.
"Yes and no. I have no wish to meet them; but I've had several narrow
escapes. They have cut me off from my walks; but I shall leave here
shortly."
"Yes, you are going, you are going--" began the visitor eagerly.
"I am going, but not until after you have gone," said Holbrook. "By
some strange fate we are all here, and it is best for certain things to
be settled before we separate again. I have tried to keep out of your
way; I have sunk my identity; I have relinquished the things of life
that men hold dear--honor, friends, ambition, and now you and I have
got to have a settlement."
"You seem rather sure of yourself," sneered the older, turning uneasily
in his chair.
"I am altogether sure of myself. I have been a fool, but I see the
error of my ways and I propose to settle matters with you now and here.
You have got to drop your game of annoying Patricia; you've got to stop
using your own daughter as a spy--"
"You lie, you lie!" roared the other, leaping to his feet. "You can
not insinuate that my daughter is not acting honorably toward Patricia."
My mind had slowly begun to grasp the situation and to identify the men
before me. It was as though I looked upon a miniature stage in a
darkened theater, and, without a bill of the play, was slowly finding
names for the players. Holbrook, _alias_ Hartridge, the boat-maker of
the Tippecanoe, was not Henry Holbrook, but Henry's brother, Arthur!
and I sought at once to recollect what I knew of him. An instant
before I had half turned to go, ashamed of eavesdropping upon matters
that did not concern me; but the Voice that had sent me held me to the
window. It was some such meeting as this that Helen must have feared
when she sent me to the houses-boat, and everything else must await the
issue of this meeting.
"You had better sit down, Henry," said Arthur Holbrook quietly. "And I
suggest that you make less noise. This is a lonely place, but there
are human beings within a hundred miles."
Henry Holbrook paced the floor a moment and then flung himself into a
chair again, but he bent forward angrily, nervously beating his hands
together. Arthur went on speaking, his voice shaking with passion.
"I want to say to you that you have deteriorated until you are a common
damned blackguard, Henry Holbrook! You are a blackguard and a gambler.
And you have made murderous attempts on the life of your sister; you
drove her from Stamford and you tried to smash her boat out here in the
lake. I saw the whole transaction that afternoon, and understood it
all--how you hung off there in the _Stiletto_ and sent that beast to do
your dirty work."
"I didn't follow her here; I didn't follow her here!" raged the other.
"No; but you watched and waited until you traced me here. You were not
satisfied with what I had done for you. You wanted to kill me before I
could tell Pat the truth; and if it hadn't been for that man Donovan
your assassin would have stabbed me at my door." Arthur Holbrook rose
and flung down his pipe so that the coals leaped from it. "But it's
all over now--this long exile of mine, this pursuit of Pat, this
hideous use of your daughter to pluck your chestnuts from the fire. By
God, you've got to quit--you've got to go!"
"But I want my money--I want my money!" roared Henry, as though
insisting upon a right; but Arthur ignored him, and went on.
"You were the one who was strong; and great things were expected of
you, to add to the traditions of family honor; but our name is only
mentioned with a sneer where men remember it at all. You were spoiled
and pampered; you have never from your early boyhood had a thought that
was not for yourself alone. You were always envious and jealous of
anybody that came near you, and not least of me; and when I saved you,
when I gave you your chance to become a man at last, to regain the
respect you had flung away so shamefully, you did not realize it, you
could not realize it; you took it as a matter of course, as though I
had handed you a cigar. I ask you now, here in this place, where I am
known and respected--I ask you here, where I have toiled with my hands,
whether you forget why I am here?"
Henry Holbrook tugged at his scarf nervously and his eyes wandered
about uneasily. He did not answer his brother. Arthur stood over him,
with folded arms, his back to me so that I could not see his face; but
his tone had in it the gathered passion and contempt of years. Then he
was at once himself, standing away a little, like a lawyer after a
round with a refractory witness.
"I must have my money; Patricia must make the division," replied Henry
doggedly.
"Certainly! Certainly! I devoutly hope she will give it to you; you
need fear no interference from me. The sooner you get it and fling it
away the better. Patricia has been animated by the best motives in
withholding it; she regarded it as a sacred trust to administer for
your own good, but now I want you to have your money."
"If I can have my share, if you will persuade her to give it, I will
pay you all I owe you--" Henry began eagerly.
"What you owe me--what you _owe_ me!" and Arthur bent toward his
brother and laughed--a laugh that was not good to hear. "You would
give me money--money--you would pay me _money_ for priceless things!"
He broke off suddenly, dropping his arms at his sides helplessly.
"There is no use in trying to talk to you; we use a different
vocabulary, Henry."
"But that trouble with Gillespie--if Patricia knew--"
"Yes; if she knew the truth! And you never understood, you are
incapable of understanding, that it meant something to me to lose my
sister out of my life. When Helen died"--and his voice fell and he
paused for a moment, as a priest falters sometimes, gripped by some
phrase in the office that touches hidden depths in his own experience,
"then when Helen died there was still Patricia, the noblest sister men
ever had; but you robbed me of her--you robbed me of her!"
He was deeply moved and, as he controlled himself, he walked to the
little table and fingered the ribbons of the work-basket.
"I haven't those notes, if that's what you're after--I never had them,"
he said. "Gillespie kept tight hold of them."
"Yes; the vindictive old devil!"
"Men who have been swindled are usually vindictive," replied Arthur
grimly. "Gillespie is dead. I suppose the executor of his estate has
those papers; and the executor is his son."
"The fool. I've never been able to get anything out of him."
"If he's a fool it ought to be all the easier to get your pretty
playthings away from him. Old Gillespie really acted pretty decently
about the whole business. Your daughter may be able to get them away
from the boy; he's infatuated with her; he wants to marry her, it
seems."
"My daughter is not in this matter," said Henry coldly, and then anger
mastered him again. "I don't believe he has them; you have them, and
that's why I have followed you here. I'm going to Patricia to throw
myself on her mercy, and that ghost must not rise up against me. I
want them; I have come to get those notes."
I was aroused by a shadow-like touch on my arm, and I knew without
seeing who it was that stood beside me. A faint hint as of violets
stole upon the air; her breath touched my cheek as she bent close to
the little window, and she sighed deeply as in relief at beholding a
scene of peace. Arthur Holbrook still stood with bowed head by the
table, his back to his brother, and I felt suddenly the girl's hand
clutch my wrist. She with her fresher eyes upon the scene saw, before
I grasped it, what now occurred. Henry Holbrook had drawn a revolver
from his pocket and pointed it full at his brother's back. We two at
the window saw the weapon flash menacingly; but suddenly Arthur
Holbrook flung round as his brother cried:
"I think you are lying to me, and I want those notes--I want those
notes, I want them now! You must have them, and I can't go to Patricia
until I know they're safe."
He advanced several steps and his manner grew confident as he saw that
he held the situation in his own grasp. I would have rushed in upon
them but the girl held me back.
"Wait! Wait!" she whispered.
Arthur thrust his hands into the side pockets of his flannel jacket and
nodded his head once or twice.
"Why don't you shoot, Henry?"
"I want those notes," said Henry Holbrook. "You lied to me about them.
They were to have been destroyed. I want them now, to-night."
"If you shoot me you will undoubtedly get them much easier," said
Arthur; and he lounged away toward the wall, half turning his back,
while the point of the pistol followed him. "But the fact is, I never
had them; Gillespie kept them."
Threats cool quickly, and I really had not much fear that Henry
Holbrook meant to kill his brother; and Arthur's indifference to his
danger was having its disconcerting effect on Henry. The pistol-barrel
wavered; but Henry steadied himself and his clutch tightened on the
butt. I again turned toward the door, but the girl's hand held me back.
"Wait," she whispered again. "That man is a coward. He will not
shoot."
The canoe-maker had been calmly talking, discussing the disagreeable
consequences of murder in a tone of half-banter, and he now stood
directly under the foils. Then in a flash he snatched one of them,
flung it up with an accustomed hand, and snapped it across his
brother's knuckles. At the window we heard the slim steel hiss through
the air, followed by the rattle of the revolver as it struck the
ground. The canoe-maker's foot was on it instantly; he still held the
foil.
"Henry," he said in the tone of one rebuking a child, "you are bad
enough, but I do not intend that you shall be a murderer. And now I
want you to go; I will not treat with you; I want nothing more to do
with you! I repeat that I haven't got the notes."
He pointed to the door with the foil. The blood surged angrily in his
face; but his voice was in complete control as he went on.
"Your visit has awakened me to a sense of neglected duty, Henry. I
have allowed you to persecute our sister without raising a hand; I have
no other business now but to protect her. Go back to your stupid
sailor and tell him that if I catch him in any mischief on the lake or
here I shall certainly kill him."
I lost any further words that passed between them, as Henry, crazily
threatening, walked out upon the deck to his boat; then from the creek
came the threshing of oars that died away in a moment. When I gazed
into the room again Arthur Holbrook was blowing out the lights.
"I am grateful; I am so grateful," faltered the girl's voice; "but you
must not be seen here. Please go now!" I had taken her hands, feeling
that I was about to lose her; but she freed them and stood away from me
in the shadow.
"We are going away--we must leave here! I can never see you again,"
she whispered.
In the starlight she was Helen, by every test my senses could make; but
by something deeper I knew that she was not the girl I had seen in the
window at St. Agatha's. She was more dependent, less confident and
poised; she stifled a sob and came close. Through the window I saw
Arthur Holbrook climbing up to blow out the last light.
"I could have watched myself, but I was afraid that sailor might come;
and it was he that fired at you in the road. He had gone to Glenarm to
watch you and keep you away from here. Uncle Henry came back to-day
and sent word that he wanted to see my father, and I asked you to come
to help us."
"I thank you for that."
"And there was another man--a stranger, back there near the road; I
could not make him out, but you will be careful,--please! You must
think very ill of me for bringing you into all this danger and trouble."
"I am grateful to you. Please turn all your troubles over to me."
"You did what I asked you to do," she said, "when I had no right to
ask, but I was afraid of what might happen here. It is all right now
and we are going away; we must leave this place."
"But I shall see you again."
"No! You have--you have--Helen. You don't know me at all! You will
find your mistake to-morrow."
She was urging me toward the steps that led up to the house. The sob
was still in her throat, but she was laughing, a little hysterically,
in her relief that her father had come off unscathed.
"Then you must let me find it out to-morrow; I will come to-morrow
before you go."
"No! No! This is good-by," she said. "You would not be so unkind as
to stay, when I am so troubled, and there is so much to do!"
We were at the foot of the stairway, and I heard the shop door snap
shut.
"Good night, Rosalind!"
"Good-by; and thank you!" she whispered.