THE LAWYER
He was dismally confident that he would be arrested and thrown into
jail on Friday. It was always an unlucky day for him. The fact that
Nellie had aided and abetted in his undignified flight down the
slippery back steps did not in the least minimise the peril that still
hung like a cloud over his wretched head. Of course, he understood:
she was sorry for him. It was the impulse of the moment. When she had
had time to think it all over and to listen to the advice of Fairfax
and the others, she would certainly swear out a warrant.
As a measure of precaution he had slyly tossed the revolver from a car
window somewhere north of Spuyten Duyvil, and, later on at home,
stealthily disposed of the box of cartridges.
All evening long he sat huddled up by the fireplace, listening with
all ears for the ominous sound of constabulary thumpings at the front
door. The fierce wind shrieked around the corners of the house,
rattling the shutters and banging the kitchen gate, but he heard
nothing, for his own heart made such a din in response to the
successive bursts of noise that all else seemed still by comparison.
His efforts to amuse the perplexed Phoebe were pitiful. The child took
him to task for countless lapses of memory in his recital of oft-told
and familiar fairy tales.
But no one came that night. And Friday, too, dragged itself out of
existence without a sign from Nellie or the dreaded officers of the
law. You may be sure he did not poke his nose outside the door all
that day. Somehow he was beginning to relish the thought that she
would be gone on Sunday, gone forever, perhaps. He loved her, of
course, but distance at this particular time was not likely to affect
the enchantment. In fact, he was quite sure he would worship her a
great deal more comfortably if she were beyond the border of the
State.
The thought of punishment quite overshadowed a previous dread as to
how he was going to provide for Phoebe and himself up to the time of
assuming the job in Davis' drug store. He had long since come to the
conclusion that if Nellie persisted in carrying out her plan to
divorce him he could not conscientiously accept help from her, nor
could he expect to retain custody of the child unless by his own
efforts he made suitable provision for her. His one great hope in the
face of this particular difficulty had rested on the outcome of the
visit to her apartment, the miserable result of which we know. Not
only had he upset all of his fondest calculations, but he had heaped
unthinkable ruin in the place he had set aside for them.
There was nothing consoling in the situation, no matter how he looked
at it. More than once he regretted the emptiness of that confounded
cylinder. If there had been a single bullet in the thing his troubles
would now be over. Pleasing retrospect! But not for all the money in
the world would he again subject himself to a similar risk.
It made him shudder to even think of it. It was hard enough for him to
realise that he had had the monumental courage to try it on that never
to be forgotten occasion. As a matter of fact, he was rather proud of
it, which wouldn't have been at all possible if he had succeeded in
the cowardly attempt.
Suppose, thought he with a qualm--suppose there had been a bullet! It
was now Saturday. His funeral would be held on Saturday. By Saturday
night he would be in a grave--a lonesome, desolate grave. Nellie would
have seen to that, so that she could get away on Sunday. Ugh! It was
most unpleasant!
The day advanced. His spirits were rising. If nothing happened between
then and midnight he was reasonably secure from arrest.
But in the middle of the day the blow fell. Not the expected blow, but
one that stunned him and left him more miserable than anything else in
the world could have done.
There came a polite knock at the door. Annie admitted a
pleasant-faced, rather ceremonious young man, who said he had business
of the utmost importance to transact with Mr.--Mr.--He glanced at a
paper which he drew from his pocket, and supplying the name asked if
the gentleman was in.
Harvey was tiptoeing toward the dining-room, with Phoebe at his heels,
when the stranger entered the library.
"Pardon me," called the young man, with what seemed to Harvey
unnecessary haste and emphasis. "Just a moment, please!"
Harvey stopped, chilled to the marrow.
"It was all a joke," he said, quickly. "Just a little joke of mine.
Ha! Ha!" It was a sepulchral laugh.
"I am John Buckley, from the offices of Barnes & Canby, representing
Miss Duluth, your wife, I believe? It isn't a pleasant duty I have to
perform Mr.--Mr--er--but, of course, you understand we are acting in
the interests of our client and if we can get together on this----"
"Can't you come some other day?" stammered Harvey, holding Phoebe's
hand very tightly in his. "I'm--I'm not well to-day. We--we are
waiting now for the health officer to--to see whether it's smallpox or
just a rash of----"
The pleasant young gentleman laughed.
"All the more necessary why we should settle the question at once. If
it is smallpox the child would be quarantined with you--that would be
unfortunate. You don't appear to have a rash, however."
"It hasn't got up to my face yet," explained Harvey, feebly. "You
ought to see my body. It's----"
"I've had it," announced the young man, glibly; "so I'm immune." He
winked.
"What do you want?" demanded Harvey, bracing himself for the worst.
"Out with it. Let's see your star."
"Oh, I'm not a cop. I'm a lawyer."
The other swallowed noisily.
"A lawyer?"
"We represent Miss Duluth. I'll get down to tacks right away, if
you'll permit me to sit down." He took a chair.
"Tacks?" queried Harvey, a retrospective grin appearing on his lips.
"Gee! I wish I'd thought to put a couple----But, excuse me, I can't
talk without my lawyer being present."
The visitor stared. "You--do you mean to say you have retained
counsel?"
"The best in New York," lied Harvey.
Buckley gave a sigh of relief. He knew a lie when he heard one.
"I'd suggest that you send the little girl out of the room. We can
talk better if we are alone."
After Phoebe's reluctant departure, the visitor bluntly asked Harvey
which he preferred, State's prison or an amicable adjustment without
dishonour.
"Neither," said Harvey, moistening his lips.
Thereupon Mr. Buckley calmly announced that his client, Miss Duluth,
was willing to forego the pleasure of putting him behind the bars on
condition that he surrendered at once the person of their child--their
joint child, he put it, so that Harvey might not be unnecessarily
confused--to be reared, educated, and sustained by her, without let or
hindrance, from that time forward, so on and so forth; a bewildering
rigmarole that meant nothing to the stupefied father, who only knew
that they wanted to take his child away from him.
"Moreover," said Mr. Buckley, "our client has succeeded in cancelling
the lease on this cottage and has authorised the owner to take
possession on the first of the month--next Wednesday, that is. Monday
morning, bright and early, the packers and movers will be here to take
all of her effects away. Tuesday night, we hope, the house will be
quite empty and ready to be boarded up. Of course, Mr.--Mr.--er--, you
will see to it that whatever trifling effects you may have about the
place are removed by that time. After that, naturally, little Miss
Phoebe will be homeless unless provision is made for her by--er--by
the court. We hope to convince you that it will be better for her if
the question is not referred to a court of justice. Your own good
sense will point the alternative. Do I make myself quite clear to
you?"
"No," said Harvey, helplessly.
"Well, I'll be a little more explicit," said the lawyer, grimly. "A
warrant will be issued for your arrest before two o'clock to-day if
you do not grasp my meaning before that hour. It is twelve-ten now. Do
you think you can catch the idea in an hour and fifty minutes?"
Harvey was thoughtful. "What is the smallest sentence they can give me
if I--if I stand trial?"
"That depends," said Mr. Buckley, slightly taken aback, but without
submitting an explanation. "You don't want to bring disgrace on the
child by being branded as a jailbird, do you?"
"Nellie won't have the heart to put me in jail," groaned the unhappy
little man. "She--she just can't do it. She knows I'd die for her.
She----"
"But she isn't the State of New York," explained her counsel, briskly.
"The State hasn't anything in the shape of a heart. Now, I'm here to
settle the matter without a contest, if that's possible. If you want
to fight, all right. You know just what you'll get. Besides, isn't it
perfectly clear to you that Miss Duluth doesn't want to put you in
jail? That's her idea, pure and simple. I don't mind confessing that
our firm insisted for a long time on giving you up to the authorities,
but she wouldn't have it that way. She wants her little girl, that's
all. Isn't that perfectly fair?"
"She's--she's going to give up the house?" murmured Harvey, passing
his hand over his eyes.
"Certainly."
"It's a mighty inconvenient time for us to--to look for another
place----"
"That's just what I've been saying to you," urged Buckley. "The
Weather Bureau says we'll have zero weather for a month or two. I
shudder to think of that poor child out in----"
"Oh, Lord!" came almost in a wail from the lips of Phoebe's father. He
covered his face with his hands. Mr. Buckley, unseen, smiled
triumphantly.
At four o'clock Phoebe, with all her childish penates, was driven to
the station by Mr. Buckley, who, it would appear, had come prepared
for the emergency. Before leaving he gave the two servants a month's
wages and a two weeks' notice dating from the 18th of December and
left with Harvey sufficient money to pay up all the outstanding bills
of the last month--with a little left over.
We draw a curtain on the parting that took place in the little library
just before the cab drove away.
Phoebe was going to Reno.
Long, long after the departure her father lifted his half-closed blue
eyes from the coals in the grate and discovered that the room was
ice-cold.
* * * * *
He understood the habits of astute theatrical managers so well by this
time that he did not have to be told that the company would journey to
Chicago by one of the slow trains. The comfort and convenience of the
player is seldom considered by the manager, who, as a rule, when there
is time to spare, transports his production by the least expensive
way. Harvey knew that Nellie and the "Up in the Air" company would
pass through Tarrytown on the pokiest day train leaving New York over
the Central. There was, of course, the possibility that the affluent
Nellie might take the eighteen-hour train, but it was somewhat
remote.
Sunday morning found him at the Tarrytown station, awaiting the
arrival or the passing of the train bearing the loved ones who were
casting him off. He was there early, bundled in his ulster, an old
Blakeville cap pulled down over his ears, a limp cigarette between his
lips. A few of the station employés knew him and passed the time of
day.
"Going in rather early, ain't you, Mr.--Mr.--" remarked the station
master, clapping his hands to generate warmth.
"No," said Harvey, leaving the inquirer in the dark as to whether he
referred to a condition or a purpose.
A couple of hours and a dozen trains went by. Harvey, having exhausted
his supply of cigarettes, effected the loan of one from the ticket
agent.
"Waiting for some one, sir?" asked that worthy. "Or are you just down
to see the cars go by?"
"What time does the Chicago train go through?" asked Harvey.
"Any particular one?"
"No; I'm not particular."
"There's one at eleven-forty."
"I'm much obliged."
He was panic-stricken when the train at last appeared and gave
unmistakable signs of stopping at Tarrytown. Moved by an inexplicable
impulse, he darted behind a pile of trunks. His dearest hope had been
that Phoebe might be on the lookout for him as the cars whizzed
through, and that she would waft a final kiss to him. But it was going
to stop! He hadn't counted on that. It was most embarrassing.
From his hiding place he watched the long line of sleepers roll by,
slower and slower, until with a wheeze they came to a full stop. His
eager eyes took in every window that passed. There was no sign of
Phoebe. Somewhat emboldened, he ventured forth from shelter and
strolled along the platform for a more deliberate scrutiny of the
windows.
The feeling of disappointment was intense. He had never known
loneliness so great as this which came to him now. The droop to his
shoulders became a little more pronounced as he turned dejectedly to
re-enter the waiting-room. The train began to move out as he neared
the corner of the building. The last coach crept by. He watched it
dully.
A shrill cry caught his ear. His eyes, suddenly alert, focussed
themselves on the observation platform of the private car as it picked
up speed and began the diminishing process. Braced against the garish
brass bars that enclosed the little platform was Phoebe, in her white
fur coat and hood, her mittened fingers clutching the rail, above
which her rosy face appeared as the result of eager tiptoeing. The
excellent Rachel stood behind the child, cold and unsmiling.
"Hello, daddy!" screamed Phoebe, managing to toss him a kiss, just as
he had hoped and expected.
The response cracked in his throat. It was a miserable croak that he
sent back, but he blew her a dozen kisses.
"Good-bye, daddy!" came the shrill adieu, barely audible above the
clatter of the receding train.
He stood quite still until the last coach vanished up the track. The
tears on his cheeks were frozen.
Some one was speaking to him.
"Ain't you going West with 'em, Mr.--, Mr.--?" queried the baggage
master.
Harvey gazed at him dumbly for a moment or two. Then he lifted his
chin.
"I--I've got to wait over a few days to see to the packing and storing
of my household effects," he said, briskly. Then he trudged up the
hill.
Sure enough, the packers appeared "bright and early" Monday morning,
just as Buckley had said they would. By nine o'clock the house was
upside down and by noon it was full of excelsior, tar paper, and
crating materials. The rasp of the saw and the bang of the hammer
resounded throughout the little cottage. Burly men dragged helpless
and unresisting articles of furniture about as if they had a personal
grudge against each separate piece, and pounded them, and drove nails
into them, and mutilated them, and scratched them, and splintered
them, and after they were completely conquered marked their pine board
coffins with the name "Nellie Duluth," after which they were ready for
the fireproof graveyard in Harlem.
Dazed and unsteady, Harvey watched the proceedings with the air of one
who superintends. He gave a few instructions, offered one or two
suggestions--principally as to the state of the weather--and was on
the jump all day long to keep out of the way of the energetic workmen.
He had seen Marceline at the Hippodrome on one memorable occasion.
Somehow he reminded himself of the futile but nimble clown, who was
always in the way and whose good intentions invariably were attended
by disaster.
The foreman of the gang, doubtless with a shrewd purpose in mind,
opened half the windows in the house, thus forcing his men to work
fast and furiously or freeze. Harvey almost perished in the icy
draughts. He shut the front door fifty times or more, and was
beginning to sniffle and sneeze when Bridget took pity on him and
invited him into the kitchen. He hugged the cook stove for several
hours, mutely watching the two servants through the open door of their
joint bedroom off the kitchen while they stuffed their meagre
belongings into a couple of trunks.
At last it occurred to him that it would be well to go upstairs and
pack his own trunk before the workmen got to asking questions. He
carried his set of Dickens upstairs, not without interrogation, and
stored the volumes away at the bottom of his trunk. So few were his
individual belongings that he was hard put to fill the trays compactly
enough to prevent the shifting of the contents. When the job was done
he locked the trunk, tied a rope around it and then sat down upon it
to think. Had he left anything out? He remembered something. He untied
the knots, unlocked the trunk, shifted half of the contents and put in
his fishing tackle and an onyx clock Nellie had given him for
Christmas two years before.
Later on he repeated the operation and made room for a hand saw, an
auger, a plane, and a hatchet; also a smoking-jacket she had given
him, and a lot of paper dolls Phoebe had left behind. (Late that
night, after the lights were out, he remembered the framed motto, "God
Bless Our Home," which his dear old mother had worked for him in yarns
of variegated hues while they were honeymooning in Blakeville. The
home was very cold and still, and the floor was strewn with nails, but
he got out of bed and put the treasure in the top tray of the trunk.)
Along about four in the afternoon he experienced a sensation of
uneasiness--even alarm. It began to look as if the workmen would have
the entire job completed by nightfall. In considerable trepidation he
accosted the foreman.
"If it's just the same to you I'd rather you wouldn't pack the beds
until to-morrow--that is, of course, if you are coming back
to-morrow."
"Maybe we'll get around to 'em and maybe we won't," said the foreman,
carelessly. "We've got to pack the kitchen things to-morrow and the
china."
"You see, it's this way," said Harvey. "I've got to sleep somewhere!"
"I see," said the foreman, and went on with his work, leaving Harvey
in doubt.
"Have a cigar?" he asked, after a doleful pause. The man took it and
looked at it keenly.
"I'll smoke it after a while," he said.
"Do the best you can about the bed in the back room upstairs," said
Harvey, engagingly.
An express wagon came at five o'clock and removed the servants'
trunks. A few minutes later the two domestics, be-hatted and cloaked,
came up to say good-bye to him.
"You're not leaving to-day?" he cried, aghast.
"If it's just the same to you, sor," said Bridget. "We've both got
places beginnin' to-morry."
"But who'll cook my----"
"Niver you worry about that, sor; I've left a dozen av eggs, some
bacon, rolls, and----"
"All right. Good-bye," broke in the master, turning away.
"Good luck, sor," said Bridget, amiably. Then they went away.
His dismal reflections were broken by the foreman, who found him in
the kitchen.
"We'll be back early in the morning and clean up everything. The van
will be here at ten. Is everything here to go to the warehouse? I
notice some things that look as though they might belong to you
personally."
There were a few pieces of furniture and bric-à-brac that Harvey could
claim as his own. He stared gloomily at the floor for a long time,
thinking. Of what use were they to him now? And where was he to put
them in case he claimed them?
"I guess you'd better store everything," he said, dejectedly.
"They--they all go together."
"The--your trunk, sir; how about that?"
"If you think you've got room for it, I----"
"Sure we have."
"Take it, too. I'm going to pack what clothes I need in a suitcase. So
much easier to carry than a trunk." He was unconsciously funny, and
did not understand the well-meant guffaw of the foreman.
It was a dreary, desolate night that he spent in the topsy-turvy
cottage. He was quite alone except for the queer shapes and shadows
that haunted him. When he was downstairs he could hear strange
whisperings above; when he was upstairs the mutterings were below.
Things stirred and creaked that had never shown signs of animation
before. The coals in the fireplace spat with a malignant fury, as if
blown upon by evil spirits lurking in the chimney until he went to bed
so that they might come forth to revel in the gloom. The howl of the
wind had a different note, a wail that seemed to come from a child in
pain; forbidding sounds came up from the empty cellar; always there
was something that stood directly behind him, ready to lay on a
ghostly hand. He crouched in the chair, feeling never so small, never
so impotent as now. The chair was partially wrapped for crating. Every
time he moved there was a crackle of paper that sounded like the
rattle of thunder before the final ear-splitting crash. As still as a
mouse he sat and listened for new sounds, more sinister than those
that had gone before; and, like the mouse, he jumped with each
recurring sound.
Towering crates seemed on the verge of toppling over upon him, boxes
and barrels appeared to draw closer together to present a barrier
against any means of escape; cords and ropes wriggled with life as he
stared at them, serpentine things that kept on creeping toward him,
never away.
Oh, for the sound of Phoebe's voice!
"Quoth the raven, nevermore!" That sombre sentence haunted him. He
tried to close his ears against it, but to no purpose. It crept up
from some inward lurking place in his being, crooning a hundred
cadences in spite of all that he could do to change the order of his
thoughts.
Far in the night he dashed fearfully up to his dismantled bedroom, a
flickering candle in his hand. He had gone about the place to see that
all of the doors and windows were fastened. Removing his shoes and his
coat, he hurriedly crawled in between the blankets and blew out the
light. Sleep would not come. He was sobbing. He got up twice and
lighted the candle, once to put away the motto, again to take out of
the trunk the cabinet size photograph of himself and Nellie and the
baby, taken when the latter was three years old. Hugging this to his
breast, he started back to bed.
A sudden thought staggered him. For a long time he stood in the middle
of the room, shivering as he debated the great question this thought
presented. At last, with a shudder, he urged his reluctant feet to
carry him across the room to the single gas jet. Closing his eyes he
turned on the gas full force and then leaped into the bed, holding the
portrait to his heart. Then he waited for the end of everything.
When he opened his eyes broad daylight was streaming in upon him. Some
one was pounding on the door downstairs. He leaped out of bed and
began to pull on his shoes.
Suddenly it occurred to him that by all rights he should be lying
there stiff and cold, suffocated by the escaping gas. He sniffed the
air. There was no odour of gas. With a gasp of alarm he rushed over
and turned off the stopcock, a cold perspiration coming out all over
him.
"Gee, I hope I'm in time!" he groaned aloud. "I don't want to die.
I--I--it's different in the daytime. The darkness did it. I hope
I'm----" Then, considerably puzzled, he interrupted himself to turn
the thing on again. He stood on his toes to smell the tip. "By jingo,
I remember now, that fellow turned it off in the meter yesterday. Oh,
Lord; what a close call I've had!"
He was so full of glee when he opened the door to admit the packers
that they neglected, in their astonishment, to growl at him for
keeping them standing in the cold for fifteen or twenty minutes.
"Thought maybe you'd gone and done it," said the foreman. "Took poison
or turned on the gas, or something. You was mighty blue yesterday,
Mr.--Mr. Duluth."
With the arrival of the van he set off to pay the bills due the
tradespeople in town, returning before noon with all the receipts, and
something like $20 left over. The world did not look so dark and
dreary to him now. In his mind's eye he saw himself rehabilitated in
the sight of the scoffers, prospering ere long to such an extent that
not only would he be able to reclaim Phoebe, but even Nellie might be
persuaded to throw herself on his neck and beg for reinstatement in
his good graces. With men like Harvey the ill wind never blows long or
steadily; it blows the hardest under cover of night. The sunshine
takes the keen, bitter edge off it, and it becomes a balmy zephyr.
Already he was planning the readjustment of his fortunes.
At length the van was loaded. His suitcase sat on the front porch,
puny and pathetic. The owner of the house was there, superintending
the boarding up of the windows and doors. Harvey stood in the middle
of the walk, looking on with a strange yearning in his heart. All of
his worldly possessions reposed in that humble bag, save the cotton
umbrella that he carried in his hand. A cotton umbrella, with the
mercury down to zero!
"Well, I'm sorry you're leaving," said the owner, pocketing the keys
as he came up to the little man. "Can I give you a lift in my cutter
down to the station?"
"If it isn't too much bother," said Harvey, blinking his eyes very
rapidly.
"You're going to the city, I suppose."
"The city?"
"New York."
"Oh," said Harvey, wide-eyed and thoughtful, "I--I thought you meant
Blakeville. I'm going out there for a visit with my Uncle Peter. He's
the leading photographer in Blakeville. My mother's brother. No, I'm
not going to New York. Not on your life!"
All the way to the station he was figuring on how far the twenty
dollars would go toward paying his fare to Blakeville. How far could
he ride on the cars, and how far would he have to walk? And what would
his crabbed old uncle say to an extended visit in case he got to
Blakeville without accident?
He bought some cigarettes at the newsstand and sat down to wait for
the first train to turn up, westward bound.