IT would seem that Rachel Corrie had forgotten her own weakness in her
brother’s collapse. He had risen as usual, but it was evident that he
was totally unfit for the business of the day. Crouched in his chair by
the kitchen fire he presented a sad spectacle of human misery and shame.
It was after nine, and Rachel was endeavouring to persuade him to eat
some breakfast.
With scarcely any warning Symington, coming from the shop, was upon them.
His face was like chalk, his eyes were congested.
“Corrie,” he cried hoarsely, “I give you three minutes to produce my
Zenith certificates!”
Corrie seemed to shrink—that was all.
Rachel placed herself in front of him.
“Mr. Symington,” she said steadily, “I took them, and ye can just make up
your mind never to see them again.”
Just for an instant he seemed baulked. Then he said viciously: “Hand
them over, or see your brother go to jail!”
“For what? ’Twas me that fired the postman’s house, but that’s all
settled. Anything else?”
He glared at her, uncertain how to proceed.
She did not wait for him. “Mr. Symington, two gentlemen were here last
night, and I sent them to a house at Richmond, Surrey—”
“What? . . . Devil, you’ve ruined me!” He fairly staggered. He did not
ask how she had learned about the house.
“They’ll be there by now, I should say,” she went on unemotionally. “A
dirty business, Mr. Symington. If I were you, I would make haste to quit
this country. You’re a done man.”
“Corrie,” he shouted, “you’re responsible! You sold me the shares. Find
me the certificates at once, or by—”
“Dinna tell all the neighbours about it,” Rachel said quietly. “I’m
responsible. Do what ye like wi’ me. But mind ye broke your part o’ the
bargain by selling some o’ the shares secretly—”
“You fool, that was no legal bargain! But the law will recognize your
brother’s receipt for—”
“Gang to the law! . . . Man, I can fancy ye sweating at the sight o’ a
policeman!”
He looked death at her then, yet he must still use guile rather than
force. Suddenly he spoke.
“Look here! I’ll make terms with you. I’ll give you a—a third.”
“I’ll keep what I’ve got—for Kitty. So that’s the end, and ye can just
get out o’ this and leave me to give John his breakfast.”
With a snarl he sprang, thrust her aside, and reached the side of
Corrie’s armchair; Corrie leapt, sank back and became rigid, the muzzle
of a revolver against his temple.
“Get me the Zeniths!”
Rachel’s countenance was grey. At last she wet her lips, and said almost
inaudibly—
“I’ll fetch them.” She turned to go.
“No,” whispered the voice of John Corrie. “Let him shoot. Ye’ll keep
your honour, and he’ll be a murderer. I’m no caring.”
In the silence steps were heard approaching. The voice of a girl called:
“Is Mr. Symington there? A wire has come for him.”
Symington went to the door and took the orange envelope. Then closing
the door and putting his back to it—the revolver still in his hand—he
opened the message. As he read he seemed to forget the presence of
others. His face took on a bleak, sickly aspect.
This was the message—
“At Anchor Line Office, Glasgow, fifty pounds and ticket await Mr.
Granton. One hour after dispatch of this, instructions will be sent
local police. Bearer Zeniths are now subject to scrutiny at
Company’s London office before they can be negotiated. John Risk,
Director.”
He read it thrice, and during the third reading he slipped, as if
unconsciously, the revolver into his pocket. For a brief space he stood
motionless, bowed as if in thought.
All at once he turned, opened the door, threw up his head, squared his
shoulders, and went out.
Dunford saw him no more.
John Corrie still carries on business there. His sister’s money, which
turned out to be twice as much as he thought, saved the situation. The
only noticeable change in the man is his open respect for her. She
writes to Kitty a stiff letter twice a year.
Sam, the postman, refused a new house, but accepted from Risk a “soft
job” in London.
* * * * *
On a night, six months after Symington’s disappearance, our five friends
occupied a box at the Planet. The occasion was the 150th performance of
the play, which was going as strong as ever. Anthony West had ceased to
grumble at having to accept a fat cheque every Wednesday. Kitty did not
know what to do with all her money, but, as Risk assured her, she had
still time to think about it. Her marriage day was fixed for a month
thence.
The curtain fell on the last act.
“Don’t wait for me,” said Risk. “I’m going down in a minute to have a
word with Craven. I may look you up later, Hilda,” he added with a more
than usual affectionate glance at his sister.
That afternoon West had called upon him, and made a confession concerning
Hilda.
With leisurely haste the four lovers left the box. None of them had
protested at the idea of not waiting for Risk.
He gazed after them, smiling whimsically, possibly a little sadly.
“And so,” he murmured, “the poor dog got none.”
* * * * *
Printed for ROBERT SCOTT, Publisher, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON. E.C. by
BUTLER & TANNER, FROME.