A CONFESSION.
It is hardly necessary to relate that Douglas took the part Bob Gordon
should have played, and gave the burly Dan Mosely the trouncing of
his life. That followed, as a matter of course. The fellow had to be
punished for insulting the singer, and if Gordon would not do the work,
why, Mackenzie Douglas was only too pleased to take on the job.
But Bob Gordon did not wait to see the battle.
“Coward!”
The hateful, ignominious word seemed to pursue him, as, with bent head,
he forced his way through the crowd to escape from the garden. Once
clear of the lights and jeering faces, he strode rapidly to a remote
part of the extensive grounds that were all part of the Savoy premises.
What should he do? He could not stay up in the woods and work as a
lumberman any longer. The men would make life unbearable for him—unless
he were to fight a few of them.
“No, I cannot do that!” he moaned. “I cannot do that!”
It was as he uttered this lament in an incoherent wail that was somehow
like the cry of a wounded animal, that a white figure came bounding
toward him among the trees.
“Oh, Mr. Gordon!” she panted. “I had to come and thank you for taking
my part so nobly!”
“Nobly?” he echoed bitterly. “Don’t you know that there was more of it
after that, and that I was anything but noble then?”
“I know,” she answered. “And I think you were quite right. You’d done
enough.”
“They call me a coward!”
“What of that?” demanded the girl, her eyes sparkling in her anger as
she thought of the attack on Gordon. “You’re not a coward! You’ve given
too many proofs that you are just the reverse. Just because you would
not fight that big ruffian! Call you a coward! Why, I saw his head
towering far above yours. He is a giant!”
Bob Gordon flushed. He knew that the girl’s excuse for him was well
meant. But it hardly soothed him or helped to restore his self-respect.
“It wasn’t that,” he assured her hastily. “I was not afraid of him—not
of him! I wish you would believe that, Bessie, although I’m afraid no
one else ever will.”
“What was it, then?”
“Just this: I once—in a fight—killed a man!”
She recoiled a little. It was an involuntary movement, but Gordon saw
it, and it caused him to continue quickly:
“I never meant to do it, Heaven knows. But we’d quarreled, and it came
to a fight. I remember that. But I swear I do not recall striking a
blow hard enough to kill him. It was on the point of the jaw, and he
fell senseless. But he should have recovered in a few seconds. It was
not a deadly blow, ordinarily. We had both been drinking. That—that is
why I never touch liquor now, Bessie.”
“Perhaps you didn’t kill him,” she whispered. “Perhaps he was not
really dead.”
“Yes, he was. A doctor was in the room—a friend of mine. He examined
him, and pronounced him quite dead. Then I ran away.”
“And that is all you know about it?”
“I heard afterward that the coroner’s jury found a verdict of
‘Accidental death.’”
“Then you have nothing to fear.”
“My own conscience. And, if I were to go back home, there are persons
who know that I killed Richard Jarvis. My father is a wealthy,
influential man, and he may have hushed it up. But _I know_. So does
he.”
“Haven’t you had any letters from your father, or anybody at your home,
since you left?”
“No. It was two years ago that I left, and nobody knows where I am.
I have been up in the back country ever since, and I have changed my
name, too. I won’t tell you my real name. It would not do any good.
But you and I have been friends, and I don’t want you to think I’m a
coward. That’s why I’ve told you my story.”
“I understand.”
“I’m sure you do. When I knew that Richard Jarvis was dead, I made
a solemn vow never to fight again, no matter what might be the
circumstances. It has been a hard vow to keep, but I’ve done it
somehow. I never had to be called a coward on account of it until
to-night, however. That is why I’m going away.”
“I should advise you to go home,” she murmured. “You say your father
is wealthy. I always felt sure that you were not the sort of man you
have allowed yourself to be regarded out here. You are not an ordinary
laborer. Your manners are those of a gentleman. That shows in so many
little ways.”
“I’m a murderer!”
“No, no. Don’t use such a word as that. It was not murder—if it
happened in a fair fight. Any of the men about here would say you had a
right to do it.”
“That may be. But it would not be looked at in that way in my home near
New York. I am convinced that if I were to go back I should be arrested
and have to go through all the horrors of a trial for murder. The end
would be, very likely, the electric chair in Sing Sing. My blood turns
to water and my heart to ice when I think of such a possibility. I am a
coward about that. I am not afraid of death, I believe—of death itself.
But to die in that way! The shame of it!”
He shuddered and covered his face with his hands. She touched him
gently on the arm.
“Don’t, Mr. Gordon! You torment yourself needlessly. Take my advice
and go back home. I must leave you now. My father is going on to play
his violin solo. He does a trick act, you know—plays the violin in
all sorts of curious ways. Uses only one string, imitates cries of
animals and birds, and so on. He doesn’t like to do it, for he is an
accomplished musician, and he feels that he is degrading his art. But
the audience demands it, and he is such a master of his instrument that
he can do anything.”
“Good-bye, Bessie. I am going away from this place. I hope I shall see
you again. You and your father travel about, and you’re quite likely to
come to some camp where I am. Good-bye! Remember me to your father, Mr.
Silvius.”
Before the girl could reply, Bob Gordon—or Howard Milmarsh, which, of
course, was his real name—had dashed away into the darkness.
Bessie Silvius made her way slowly to the back of the stage.
It was not until the girl and Bob Gordon had both gone that a man came
out from behind a large bush where he had been crouching, listening
to the conversation. He was in evening dress, but his shirt front was
crumpled and bore stains from the bush, while his whole suit looked as
if it needed pressing.
The man was none other than the monologuist who had been hailed by his
noisy admirers as “old Joe Stokes.”
He had taken himself off when the row started, because he did not care
to be in a battle if it could be helped. Moreover, he had seen the girl
following Bob Gordon into the darkness, and he had curiosity to see
what there might be between them—if anything. Joe Stokes had a sort of
liking for Bessie Silvius himself.
“Well, if this isn’t luck!” was Joe Stokes’ self-addressed remark, as
he found himself alone, and ventured to stand up and stretch. “I’ve
always had my suspicions about that Bob Gordon. He never seemed to me
to be like the other lumbermen. I’ve lived in cities too long, and
mixed too much with classy people, not to know a man who has been a
gentleman, no matter what kind of clothes he wears. And now this turns
out to be—I’ll get into the hotel. I’ll have to work quickly if I’m
going to make anything of all this.”
It was easy for him to get to the hotel without being seen by the
audience in the garden. They were some distance away from the house,
and were at the back of it, besides.
Joe Stokes went around to the front of the long, rambling frame
structure, and soon was in his own small bedroom on the third-story.
Opening a shabby but strong trunk—it was the sort of iron-bound thing,
built to stand rough usage, which is known as a “theatrical trunk”—he
took out a newspaper.
The paper was folded small, so that one particular paragraph was
turned outward. The paper was old and dirty, bearing marks of much
handling. It was not easy to make out the print, but Stokes had read it
before, and he managed to read it without trouble:
“If this should meet the eye of H.M., late of Westchester and New York,
he is urgently requested to return home. His father is dead, and he is
the heir to the estate.”
Joe Stokes sat on the side of his bed and considered: “‘H.M.’ means
‘Howard Milmarsh,’ of course. It must, for see how the description
fits him. And there is five thousand dollars reward for anybody
who finds the young man, or gives satisfactory proof of his death.
‘Communications should be sent to Johnson, Robertson & Judkins,
attorneys at law, Pine Street, New York,’” he read, from the
advertisement. “Good!”
He considered for some minutes. Then he muttered slowly:
“The worst of it is that I’m afraid to go to New York. If the police
were to know I was there, it would be the Tombs for mine, and a trip up
the river for a few years afterward. I’ll have to think this out.”
He lighted an old pipe, with strong tobacco, and composed himself to
study out the problem of getting hold of the five thousand dollars
without giving the police a chance to get hold of himself.