Of all the people I had expected to see that morning he was the last.
Almost unconsciously I recalled the little kindnesses he had rendered me.
Busy as he had been with commercial ventures, there was never a time when
he had not stood ready with his help. And even my father's name--he had
never recalled it, except with regretful affection in his sad little
reminiscences of older, pleasanter days.
I thought I detected a trace of that affection, a trace of appeal,
almost, in the look he gave us as we entered. They made a strange
contrast, my uncle, and my father, in his gay coat and laces, his
slender, upright figure, and his face, almost youthful beneath his
powdered hair. For my uncle was an older man, and years and care had
slightly bowed him. The wrinkles were deep about his mouth and eyes. His
brown hair, simply dressed, was gray already at the temples. His plain
black coat and knee breeches were wrinkled from travel. As he often put
it, he had no time to care for clothes. Yet his cheeks glowed from quiet
living, and there was a sly, good humored twinkle in his brown eyes
which went well with his broad shoulders and his strongly knit body. His
reputation for genial good nature was with him still.
He stretched forth a hand, but the moment was inopportune. My father had
given his undivided attention to the shutters on the east windows. He
walked swiftly over and drew them to, snapping a bolt to hold them in
place. Then he turned and rubbed his hands together slowly, examining my
uncle the while with a cool, judicial glance, and then he bowed.
"You are growing old, Jason," he said, by way of greeting.
"Ah, George," said my uncle, in his deep, pleasant voice. "It does me
good to see the father and the son together."
My father joined the tips of his fingers and regarded him solemnly.
"Now heaven be praised for that!" he exclaimed with a jovial fervor,
"though it is hard to believe, Jason, that anything could make you better
than you are. It was kind of you not to keep my son and me apart."
My father came a pace nearer, his eyes never for a moment leaving the
man opposite. His last words seemed to make a doubtful impression on my
uncle. He looked quickly across at me, but what he saw must have
relieved him.
"Ah, that wit!" he laughed. "It has been too long, George, too long since
I have tasted of it. It quite reminds me of the old days, George--with
the dances, and the races and the ladies. Ah, George, how they would
smile on you--and even today, I'll warrant! Ah, if I only had the receipt
that keeps you young."
"Indeed? You care to know it?" My father quite suddenly leaned forward
and tapped him on the shoulder. As though the abruptness of the gesture
startled him, my uncle drew hastily back. And still my father watched
him. Between them was passing something which I did not understand. The
silence in the room had become oppressive before my father spoke again.
"Lead a life of disrepute," he said gravely. "I cannot think of a better
cosmetic."
"George!" cried my uncle in quick remonstrance. "Remember your son is
with you?"
"And seems amply able to look out for himself--surprisingly able, Jason.
Have you not found it so?"
"Thank heaven, yes!" he laughed, and glanced hastily at me again.
My father's coat lapel was bothering him. He straightened it
thoughtfully, patted it gently into place, and then said:
"Surely, Jason, you did not come here to discuss the past."
"Perhaps not," Uncle Jason replied with another laugh, which seemed
slightly out of tune in the silence that surrounded him, "but how can I
not be reminded of it? This room and you--indeed Henry here is all that
brings me back. He is like you, George, and yet--" he paused to favor me
with another glance--"he has his mother's eyes."
My father flicked a speck of dust from his sleeve.
"Suppose," he suggested, "we leave your sister out of the discussion. Let
us come down to practical matters and leave the dead alone."
It was the first time he had mentioned her. His voice was coldly aloof,
but his hand began moving restlessly again over his coat in search of an
imaginary wrinkle.
"You understand me?" he inquired gently after a second's pause. "Pray
remember, Jason, I have only two cheeks, and I can recall no biblical law
to follow if you should strike again."
"God bless me!" gasped my uncle in blank amazement. "I did not come here
to quarrel. I came because you are in trouble. I came as soon as I had
heard of it, because you need my help--because--" he had regained his
cordial eloquence from the very cadence of his words. He paused, and I
thought his eye moistened and his voice quavered, "because blood is
thicker than water, George."
At the last words my father inclined his head gravely, and was
momentarily silent, as though seeking an adequate reply.
"I thought you would come," he said slowly. "In fact, I depended
upon it before I set sail from France. Ha! That relieves you, does
it not, Jason?"
Yet for some reason the statement seemed to have an opposite effect. My
uncle's heavy brows knitted together, and his mouth moved uneasily.
"See, my son, how the plot thickens," said my father, turning to me with
a pleasant smile. "And all we needed was a hero. Who will it be. I
wonder, you or your uncle?"
But my uncle did not laugh again. Instead, he squared his shoulders and
his manner became serious.
"It is not a time to jest, George," he said ominously. "Don't you
understand what you have done? But you cannot know, or else you would not
be here. You cannot know that the house is watched!"
If he had expected to surprise my father, he must have felt a poignant
disappointment; but perhaps he knew that surprise was a sentiment he
seldom permitted.
"I know," replied my father, "that since my arrival here I have been the
object of many flattering attentions. But why are you concerned, Jason? I
have broken no law of the land. I have merely mixed myself up in French
politics."
Uncle Jason made an impatient gesture.
"You have mixed yourself up in such an important affair, in such a
ridiculous way, that every secret agent that France has in this country
will be in this town in the next twelve hours. That's all you have
done, George."
My father tapped his silver snuff box gently.
"I had hoped as much," he remarked blandly. "When one is the center of
interest, it is always better to be the very center. You must learn to
know me better, Jason, and then you will understand that I always seek
two things. I always seek profit and pleasure. It seems as though I
should find them both in such pleasant company."
Then, as if the matter were settled, he looked again at the shuttered
window, and leaned down to place another log in the fire.
"Come, George," urged my uncle. "Let us be serious. Your nonchalance and
irony have been growing with the years. Surely you recognize that you
have reached the end of your rope. I tell you, George, these men will
stop at nothing."
"Has it ever occurred to you," returned my father, "that I also, may stop
at nothing?"
My uncle frowned, and then smiled bleakly.
"No, George," he said, in a voice that dropped almost to a whisper.
"You are too fond of life for that. Suppose for a moment, just suppose,
they had means of taking you back to France. Just suppose there was a
boat in the harbor now, manned and victualled and waiting for the tide,
with a cabin ready and irons. They would admire to see you back in
Paris, George, for a day, or perhaps two days. I know, George. They
have told me."
"Positively," said my father, stifling a yawn behind his hand,
"positively you frighten me. It is an old sensation and tires me. Surely
you can be more interesting."
Jason's face, red and good-natured always, became a trifle redder.
"We have beat about the bush long enough," he said, with an abrupt lack
of suavity. "I tell you, once and for all, you are running against forces
which are too strong for you--forces, as I have pointed out, that will do
anything to gain possession of a certain paper. They know you have that
paper, George."
My father shrugged his shoulders.
"Indeed?" he said. "I hardly admire their perspicacity."
"And they will prevent your disposing of it at any cost. I tell you,
George, they will stop at nothing--" again his voice dropped to a
confidential monotone--"and that is why I'm here, George," my uncle
concluded.
My father raised his eyebrows.
"I fear my mind works slowly in the early morning. Pardon me, if I still
must ask--Why are you here?"
Quite suddenly my uncle's patience gave way in a singular manner to
exasperation, exposing a side to his character which I had not till then
suspected.
"Because I can save your neck, that's why! Though, God knows, you don't
seem to value it. I have interceded for you, George, I have come here to
induce you to give up that paper peacefully and quietly, or else to take
the consequences."
Evidently the force he gave his words contrived to drive them home, for
my father nodded.
"You mean," he inquired, "that they propose to take me to France, and
have me handed over to justice, a political prisoner?"
"It is what I meant, George, as a man in a plot to kill Napoleon--" then
his former kindliness returned--"and we cannot let that happen, can we?"
"Not if we can prevent it," my father replied. "If the trouble is that I
have the paper in my possession, I suppose I must let it go."
Uncle Jason smiled his benignest smile.
"I knew you would understand," he said, with something I took for a sigh
of relief. "I told them you were too sensible a man, George, not to
realize when a thing was useless."
My father drew the paper from his breast pocket, and looked at it
thoughtfully.
"Yes," he said slowly. "I suppose I must let it go."
"Good God! What are you doing?" cried my uncle.
My father had turned to the fireplace, and was holding the paper over the
blaze. But for some reason my uncle was not relieved. He made an
ineffectual gesture. His face became a blotched red and white. His eyes
grew round and staring, and his mouth fell helplessly open.
"Stop!" he gasped. "For God's sake, George--"
"Stay where you are, Jason," said my father. "I can manage alone, I think.
I suppose I should have burned it long ago."
He withdrew the paper slightly, as if to prolong the scene before him. If
my uncle had been on the verge of ruin, he could not have looked more
depressed.
"Don't!" he cried. "Will you listen, George? I'll be glad to pay
you for it."
My father slowly straightened, placed the paper in his pocket,
and bowed.
"Now," he said pleasantly, "we are talking a language I understand.
Believe me, Jason, one of my chief motives in keeping this document was
the hope that you might realize its intrinsic qualities."
Uncle Jason moistened his lips. His call was evidently proving upsetting.
"How much do you want for it?" he asked, with a slight tremor in
his voice.
"Twenty-five thousand dollars seems a fair demand," said my father, "in
notes, if you please."
"What!" my uncle shouted.
My father seated himself on the edge of the table, and surveyed his
visitor intently.
"Be silent," he said. "Silent and very careful, Jason. You seem to forget
that I am a dangerous man." And he flicked an imaginary bit of dust from
his cuff. My uncle gave a hasty glance at the half opened door.
"And now listen to me," my father continued, his voice still gently
conversational. "You have tried to frighten me, Jason. You should have
known better. Of all the people in the world I fear you least. You forget
that I am growing old, and all my senses are becoming duller--fear along
with the rest. You have tried to cheat me of the money I have demanded,
and it has tried my patience. In fact, it has set my nerves quite on
edge. Pray do not irritate me again. I know you must have that paper, and
I know why. The price I offer is a moderate one compared with the
unpleasantness that may occur to you if you do not get it. Never mind
what occurrence. I know that you have come here prepared to pay that
price. The morning is getting on. You have the money in your inside
pocket. Bring it out and count it--twenty-five thousand dollars."
Hesitatingly my uncle produced a packet that crackled pleasantly.
"There! I said you had them," remarked my father serenely. "All perfectly
negotiable I hope, Jason, in case you should change your mind."
I stood helplessly beside him, beset with a hundred useless impulses.
Silently I watched Jason Hill hold out the notes.
"And now the paper," said my uncle.
My father, examining the packet with a minute care, waved his
request aside.
"First you must let me see what you are giving me. I fear your hands are
trembling too much, Jason, for you to do justice to it. Twenty-five
thousand dollars! It seems to me I remember that a similar sum once
passed between us. In which direction? seem to have forgotten--Yes,
strangely enough they are quite correct. A modest little fortune, but
still something to fall back on."
"And now the paper!" demanded my uncle.
"Ah, to be sure, the paper," said my father, and he swung from the table
where he had been sitting, and smiled brightly.
"I have changed my mind about the paper, Jason, and business presses. I
fear it is time to end our interview."
"You mean you dare--"
"To accept a sum from you in payment of damage you have done my
character? I should not dare to refuse it. Or let us put it this way,
Jason. The paper is merely drawing interest. Positively, I cannot afford
to give it up."
The red had risen again to my uncle's face, giving his features the color
of ugly magenta. For a moment I thought he was going to leap at the
slighter man before him, but my father never moved a muscle, only stood
attentively watching him, with his hand folded behind his back.
"Show him the door, Brutus," he said briskly, "and as you go, Jason,
remember this. I know exactly what dangers I am running without your
telling me. For that reason I have ordered my servant to keep a fire
burning in every room I occupy in this house. I make a point of sitting
near these fires. If you or any of your friends so much as raise a finger
against me, the paper is burned. And as for you--"
With a quick, delicate motion, he raised a hand, and drew a finger
lightly across his throat.
"And as for you, Jason, even the slightest suspicion that you, or your
paid murderers, are interfering in any way with my affairs, will give me
too much pleasure. I think you understand. Pray don't make me overcome
with joy, Jason; and now I wish you a very good morning."
But Uncle Jason had recovered from the first cold shock of his surprise.
He drew himself up to his full height. His jaw, heavy and cumbersome
always, thrust itself forward, and I could see the veins swell
dangerously into a tangled, clotted mass on his temples. His fingers
worked convulsively, as though clawing at some unseen object close
beside him, and then his breath whistled through his teeth.
"You fool," he shouted suddenly, his temper bursting the weakened
barriers of control. "You damned, unregenerate fool!"
And then, for an instant, my father's icy placidity left him. His lips
leapt back from his teeth. There was a hissing whir of steel. His small
sword made an arc of light through the yard of space that parted them.
His body lunged forward.
"So you will have it, will you?" His words seemed to choke him. "Take it,
then," he roared, "take it to hell, where you belong."
It was, I say, the matter of an instant. In a leaden second he stood
poised, his wrist drawn back, while the eyes of the other stared in
horror at the long, thin blade. And then the welts of crimson that had
mounted to his face, disfiguring it into a writhing fury, slowly effaced
themselves. His lips once more assumed a thin, immobile line. Again his
watchful indolence returned to him, and slowly, very slowly, he lowered
the point to the floor's scarred surface. His voice returned to its
pleasant modulation, and with his words returned his icy little smile.
"Your pardon, Jason," he said. "I fear I have been too much myself this
morning. Thank your God, if you have one, that I was not entirely
natural. Take him away, Brutus, he shall live a little longer."
But Brutus had no need to obey the order. My father stood, still smiling,
watching the empty doorway. Then I realized that I was very cold and
weak, and that my knees were sagging beneath me. I walked unsteadily to
the table and leaned upon it heavily. Thoughtfully my father sheathed his
small sword.