ONE of the drawbacks of Arcadia is that everybody knows everybody
else’s business--and the possibility of this added to Pembroke’s
extreme mortification. He thought with dread of the Colonel’s elaborate
pretense of knowing nothing whatever about the affair, Mrs. Peyton’s
sly rallying, Mr. Cole’s sentimental condolence--it was all very
exasperating. But solely to Olivia’s tact and good sense both escaped
this. Not one soul was the wiser. Olivia, however she felt, and however
skillfully she might avoid meeting Pembroke alone, was apparently
so easy, so natural and self-possessed, that it put Pembroke on his
mettle. Together they managed to hoodwink the whole county about their
private affairs--even Colonel Berkeley, who, if he suspected anything,
was afraid to let on, and Miles, whose devotion to Olivia became
stronger every day.
Luckily for Pembroke, he could plunge into the heat of his canvass.
After he had lost Olivia, the conviction of her value came to him
with overpowering force. There was no girl like her. She did not
protest and talk about her emotions and analyze them as some women
did--Madame Koller, for example--but Pembroke knew there was “more
to her,” as Cave said, “than a dozen Eliza Peytons.” Perhaps Cave
suspected something, but Pembroke knew he had nothing to fear from his
friend’s manly reticence. But to have lost Olivia Berkeley! Pembroke
sometimes wondered at himself--at the way in which this loss grew upon
him, instead of diminishing with time, as the case usually is with
disappointments. Yet all this time he was riding from place to place,
speaking, corresponding, as eager to win his election as if he were the
happiest of accepted lovers--more so, in fact.
And then, there was that Ahlberg affair to trouble him. Like all the
men of his race and generation, he firmly believed there were some
cases in which blood must be shed--but a roadside quarrel, in which
nothing but personal dislike figured, did not come under that head.
Pembroke was fully alive to the folly and wickedness of fighting
Ahlberg under the circumstances--but it was now impossible for him to
recede. He could only hope and pray that something would turn up to
prevent a meeting so indefinitely fixed. But if Ahlberg’s going away
were the only thing to count upon, that seemed far enough out of the
question, for he stayed on and on at the village tavern, playing cards
with young Hibbs and one or two frequenters of the place, riding over
to play Madame Koller’s accompaniments, fishing for invitations to
dine at Isleham--in short, doing everything that a man of his nature
and education could do to kill time. Pembroke could not but think that
Ahlberg’s persistence could only mean that he was really and truly
waiting for his revenge. So there were a good many things to trouble
the “white man’s candidate,” who was to make such a thorough and
brilliant canvass, and whose readiness, cheerfulness and indomitable
spirit was everywhere remarked upon.
One night, as Pembroke was riding home after a hard day’s work in the
upper part of the county, and was just entering the long straggling
village street, his horse began to limp painfully. Pembroke dismounted,
and found his trusty sorrel had cast a shoe,--a nail had entered his
foot, and there was a job for the blacksmith. He led the horse to the
blacksmith’s shop, which was still open, although it was past seven
o’clock, and on the promise of having the damage repaired in half an
hour, walked over to the village tavern.
It was in September, and the air was chilly. The landlord ushered him
into what was called the “card room”--the only place there was a fire.
A cheery blaze leaped up the wide old-fashioned chimney, and by the
light of kerosene lamps, Pembroke saw a card party at a round table in
the corner. It was Ahlberg, young Hibbs, his political opponent, and
two or three other idle young men of the county.
According to the provincial etiquette, Pembroke was invited to join
the game, which he courteously declined on the ground that he was much
fatigued and was only waiting for the blacksmith to put his horse’s
shoe on before starting for home. The game then proceeded.
Pembroke felt awkward and ill at ease. He knew he was in the way, as
the loud laughter from Hibbs and his friends, and Ahlberg’s subdued
chuckle had ceased when he came in. They played seriously--it was
écarté, a game that Ahlberg had just taught his postulants. Young Hibbs
had a huge roll of bills on the table before him, which he somewhat
ostentatiously displayed in the presence of his opponent, whose lack
of bills was notorious. Also, Pembroke felt that his presence induced
young Hibbs to bet more recklessly than ever, as a kind of bravado--and
Ahlberg always won, when the stake was worth any thing.
The waiting seemed interminable to Pembroke seated in front of the
fire. The conversation related solely to the game. Presently Pembroke
started slightly. Ahlberg was giving them some general views on the
subject of écarté. Pembroke himself was a good player, and he had never
heard this scheme of playing advocated.
Over the mantel was an old-fashioned mirror, tilted forward. Although
his back was to the players, Pembroke could see every motion reflected
in the glass. He saw Hibbs lose three times running in fifteen minutes.
Pembroke’s sight was keen. He fixed it on the glass and a curious look
came into his dark face. Once he made a slight movement as if to rise,
but sat still. A second time he half rose and sat down again--nobody in
the room had seen the motion. Then, without the slightest warning, he
suddenly took three strides over to the card table and, reaching over,
seized Ahlberg by the collar, and lifted him bodily up from the table
into a standing position.
“Produce that king of spades,” he said.
If he had shot Ahlberg no greater surprise could have been created.
Hibbs jumped up, dashing the cards and money in a heap on the floor,
and nearly upsetting the table. One of his companions grabbed the lamp
to save it.
Ahlberg turned a deathly color, and made some inarticulate effort to be
heard, and tried to wrest himself from Pembroke’s grasp. But it was in
vain. Pembroke shook him slightly, but never relaxed his hold.
“The king of spades, I say.”
Without a word Ahlberg reached down, and from some unknown depths
produced the card. He was no coward, but he was overmastered physically
and mentally. He knew in an instant that Pembroke had seen it all, and
there was no shadow of escape for him.
Pembroke let go of Ahlberg’s collar, and, taking out a white
handkerchief, wiped his hands carefully. Ahlberg had sunk back,
panting, in a chair. The grip of a hand like Pembroke’s in the
neighborhood of the wind-pipe is calculated to shorten the breath.
Hibbs looked dazed, from one to the other, and then to the floor, where
the cards had fallen. The one damning card lay on the table.
“I saw it twice before this, in the glass,” said Pembroke to Hibbs.
“Each time I tried to catch him, but he did it so well I couldn’t. But
the last time it was perfectly plain,--you see. I could see under the
table in the glass. You had better pick up your money, Hibbs.”
At this, Ahlberg spoke up.
“All of it is Monsieur Hibbs’,” he said with elaborate politeness,
recovering his breath a little, “except two fifty-dollar notes, which
are mine.”
Pembroke picked out the two fifty-dollar notes and dashed them in
Ahlberg’s face, who very cleverly caught them and put them in his
pocket.
“Mr. Pembroke,” said Hibbs, stammering and blushing, “I--I--hope you
won’t say anything about this, sir. It would ruin me--I don’t mean in
the canvass, for I tell you truly, sir, I hope you’ll be elected, and
if it wasn’t for the party, I’d give up the fight now. But my mother,
sir, don’t approve--don’t approve of playing for money--and--”
“You are perfectly safe,” answered Pembroke, “and quite right in your
idea of duty to your party, and your dislike to wound your mother is
creditable. But as for this dog, he must leave this county at once.”
Ahlberg said not a word. He did not lack mere physical courage, but
cheating at cards was, to him, the most heinous offense of which
he could be convicted. He had been caught--it was the fortune of
war--there was nothing to be said or done. At least, it happened in
this out-of-the-way corner of the world, where it could never be known
to anybody--for he did not count his acquaintances in the country as
anybody, unless--perhaps--Madame Koller. At that he grew pale for the
first time. He really wanted Madame Koller’s money. But, in fact,
he was somewhat dazed by Pembroke’s way of settling the trouble. It
really shocked his ethics to see one gentleman punish another as if he
were a bargeman or a coal heaver. These extraordinary Anglo-Saxons!
But one thing was plain with him--if he did not remain perfectly
quiescent Pembroke was quite capable of throwing him bodily out of the
window--and if he had lost his honor, as he called it, there was no
reason why he shouldn’t save his bones.
Pembroke, however, although he would have sworn that nothing Ahlberg
could do in the way of rascality could surprise him, was as yet
amazed, astounded, and almost puzzled by the promptness with which
Ahlberg acquiesced in the status which Pembroke established. Ahlberg
made no protest of innocence--he did not bluster, or grow desperate,
or break down hysterically, as even a very bad man might under the
circumstances. He simply saw that if he said anything, he might feel
the weight of Pembroke’s arm. Nothing that he could have said or done
was as convincing of his thorough moral obtuseness as the way in which
he accepted his own exposure.
Just then the landlord opened the door. “Mr. Pembroke, your horse is
at the door. It’s going to be a mighty bad night though--there’s a
cloud coming up. You’d better stay and join them gentlemen in their
game.”
“No, I thank you,” replied Pembroke, and turning to Ahlberg. “Of
course, after what has passed, it is out of the question that I
should fight you. Good God! I’d just as soon think of fighting a jail
bird! Don’t take too long to get out of this county. Good night, Mr.
Hibbs--good night--good night.”
Hibbs accompanied him out, and stood by him while he mounted.
“Mr. Pembroke,” he said, holding his hat in his hand, “I’m very much
obliged for what you have done for me, and what you have promised. I
promise you I’ll never touch a card for money again as long as I live.”
“And don’t touch a card at all with such an infernal rascal as
Ahlberg,” answered Pembroke, altogether forgetting sundry agreeable
games he had enjoyed with Ahlberg in Paris, and even in that very
county--but it had been a good while ago, and Ahlberg had not tried any
tricks on him.
This relieved Pembroke of a load of care--the folly of that quarrel was
luckily escaped. But he debated seriously with himself whether he ought
not to tell Madame Koller of Ahlberg’s behavior, that she might be on
her guard against him. In a day or two he heard, what did not surprise
him, that Ahlberg was about to leave the country--but at the same time
that Madame Koller and her mother were to leave The Beeches rather
suddenly. Mrs. Peyton met him in the road, and stopped her carriage to
tell him about Eliza Peyton’s consummate folly in allowing that Ahlberg
to stick to her like a burr--they actually intended crossing in the
same steamer. That determined Pembroke. He rode over to The Beeches,
and sitting face to face with Madame Koller in her drawing-room, told
her the whole story. Pembroke was somewhat shocked to observe how
little she seemed shocked at Ahlberg’s conduct. It was certainly very
bad, but--but--she had known him for so long. Pembroke was amazed
and disgusted. As he was going, after a brief and very business-like
visit, Madame Koller remarked, “And it is so strange about Louis.
The very day after it happened, he was notified of his appointment
as First Secretary in the Russian diplomatic service--or rather his
re-appointment, for he was in it ten years--and he has come into an
excellent property--quite a fortune in fact for a first secretary.”
Pembroke rode back home slowly and thoughtfully. He had never before
realized how totally wanting Madame Koller was in integrity of mind.
Olivia Berkeley now--