A NEW ENEMY
One evening in April, returning with a few brace of trout, they found
the mail-bag awaiting them on the hall table; and Portlaw distributed
the contents, proclaiming, as usual, his expectation of a letter from
Malcourt.
There was none. And, too peevish and disappointed to even open the
heterogeneous mass of letters and newspapers, he slumped sulkily in his
chair, feet on the fender, biting into his extinct cigar.
"That devilish Louis," he said, "has been away for several of the most
accursedly lonely weeks I ever spent.... No reflection on you,
Hamil--Oh, I beg your pardon; I didn't see you were busy--"
Hamil had not even heard him. He was busy--very busy with a
letter--dozens of sheets of a single letter, closely written, smeared in
places--the letter that had come at last!
In the fading light he bent low over the pages. Later a servant lighted
the lamps; later still Portlaw went into the library, drew out a book
bound in crushed levant, pushed an electric button, and sat down. The
book bound so admirably in crushed levant was a cook-book; the bell he
rang summoned his cook.
In the lamplit living-room the younger man bent over the letter that had
come at last. It was dated early in April; had been written at Palm
Beach, carried to New York, but had only been consigned to the mails
within thirty-six hours:
"I have had all your letters--but no courage to answer. Now you
will write no more.
"Dear--this, my first letter to you, is also my last. I know now
what the condemned feel who write in the hour of death.
"When you went away on Thursday I could not leave my room to say
good-bye to you. Gray came and knocked, but I was not fit to be
seen. If I hadn't looked so dreadfully I wouldn't have minded
being ill. You know that a little illness would not have kept me
from coming to say good-bye to you.
"So you went away, all alone with Gray. I remained in bed that
day with the room darkened. Mother and Cecile were troubled but
could not bring themselves to believe that my collapse was due to
your going. It was not logical, you know, as we all expected to
see you in a week or two in New York.
"So they had Dr. Vernam, and I took what he prescribed, and
nobody attached any undue importance to the matter. So I was left
to myself, and I lay and thought out what I had to do.
"Dear--I knew there was only one thing to do; I knew whither my
love--our love--was carrying me--faster and faster--spite of all
I'd said. _Said_! What are words beside such love as ours? What
would be my affection for dad and mother beside my love for you?
Would your loyalty and your dear self-denial continue to help me
when they only make me love you more intensely?
"There is only one thing clear in all this pitiful confusion;
I--whom they took and made their child--cannot sacrifice them!
And yet I _would_!--oh, Garry!--I would for you. There was no
safety for me at all as long as there was the slightest chance to
sacrifice everything--everybody--and give myself to you.
"Listen! On the second day after you left I was sitting with
mother and Cecile on the terrace. We were quietly discussing the
closing of the house and other harmless domestic matters. All at
once there swept over me such a terrible sense of desolation that
I think I lost my mind; for the next thing I knew I was standing
in my own room, dressed for travelling--with a hand-bag in my
hand.
"It was my maid knocking that brought me to my senses: I had been
going away to find you; that was all I could realise. And I sank
on my bed, trembling; and presently fell into the grief-stricken
lethargy which is all I know now of sleep.
"But when I woke to face the dreadful day again, I knew the time
had come. And I went to mother that evening and told her.
"But, Garry, there is never to be any escape from deception, it
seems; I had to make her think I _wanted_ to acknowledge and take
up life with my husband. My life is to be a living lie!...
"As I expected, mother was shocked and grieved beyond words--and,
dearest, they are bitterly disappointed; they all had hoped it
would be _you_.
"She says there must positively be another ceremony. I don't know
how dad will take it--but mother is so good, so certain of his
forgiving me.
"It wrings my heart--the silent astonishment of Cecile and
Gray--and their trying to make the best of it, and mother,
smiling for my sake, tender, forgiving, solicitous, and deep
under all bitterly disappointed. Oh, well--she can bear that
better than disgrace.
"I've been crying over this letter; that's what all this blotting
means.
"Now I can never see you again; never touch your hand, never look
into those brown eyes again--Garry! Garry!--never while life
lasts.
"I ask forgiveness for all the harm my love has done to you, for
all the pain it has caused you, for the unhappiness that, please
God, will not endure with you too long.
"I have tried to pray that the pain will not last too long for
you; I will try to pray that you may love another woman and
forget all this unhappiness.
"Think of me as one who died, loving you. I cling to this paper
as though it were your hand. But--
"Dearest--dearest--Good-by.
"SHIELA CARDROSS."
When Portlaw came in from his culinary conference he found Hamil
scattering the black ashes of a letter among the cinders.
"Well, we're going to try an old English receipt on those trout," he
began cheerfully--and stopped short at sight of Hamil's face.
"What's the matter?" he asked bluntly.
"Nothing."
Hamil returned to his chair and picked up a book; Portlaw looked at him
for a moment, then, perplexed, sorted his mail and began to open the
envelopes.
"Bills, bills," he muttered, "appeals for some confounded foundlings'
hospital--all the eternal junk my flesh is heir to--and a letter from a
lawyer--let them sue!--and a--a--hey! what the devil--what the--"
Portlaw was on his feet, startled eyes fairly protruding as he scanned
incredulously the engraved card between his pudgy fingers.
"O Lord!" he bellowed; "it's all up! The entire bally business has gone
up! That pup of a Louis!--Oh, there's no use!--Look here, Hamil! I tell
you I can't believe it, I can't, and I won't--_Look_ what that fool card
says!"
And Hamil's stunned gaze fell on the engraved card:
"Mr. and Mrs. Neville Cardross have the honour of announcing the
marriage of their daughter Shiela to Mr. Louis Malcourt."
The date and place followed.
Portlaw was making considerable noise over the matter, running about
distractedly with little, short, waddling steps. Occasionally he aimed a
kick at a stuffed arm-chair, which did not hurt his foot too much.
It was some time before he calmed enough to pout and fume and protest in
his usual manner, appealing alternately to Heaven as witness and to
Hamil for corroboration that he had been outrageously used.
"Now, who the devil could suspect him of such intention!" wailed poor
Portlaw. "God knows, he was casual with the sex. There have been dozens
of them, Hamil, literally dozens in every port!--from Mamie and Stella
up to Gladys and Ethelberta! Yes, he was Harry to some and Reginald to
others--high, low--and the game, Hamil--the game amused him; but so help
me kings and aces! I never looked for this--never so help me; and I
thought him as safe with the Vere-de-Veres as he was with the Pudding
Sisters, Farina and Tapioca! And now"--passionately displaying the
engraved card--"look who's here!... O pip! What's the use."
Dinner modified his grief; hope bubbled in the Burgundy, simmered in the
soup, grew out of gravy like the sturdy, eternal weed she is, parasitic
in the human breast.
"He's probably married a million or so," suggested Portlaw, mollified
under the seductive appeal of a fruit salad dressed with a mixture
containing nearly a hundred different ingredients. "If he has I don't
see why he shouldn't build a camp next to mine. I'll give him the
land--if he doesn't care to pay for it," he added cautiously. "Don't say
anything to him about it, Hamil. After all, why shouldn't he pay for the
land?... But if he doesn't want to--between you and me--I'll come within
appreciable distance of almost giving him what land he needs.... O gee!
O fizz! That damn Louis!... And I'm wondering--about several matters--"
After dinner Portlaw settled down by the fire, cigar lighted, and began
to compose a letter to Malcourt, embodying his vivid ideas concerning a
new house near his own for the bridal pair.
Hamil went out into the fresh April night. The young grass was wet under
the stars; a delicate fragrance of new buds filled the air.
He had been walking for a long time, when the first far hint of thunder
broke the forest silence. Later lightning began to quiver through the
darkness; a wind awaking overhead whispered prophecy, wailed it,
foreboding; then slowly the woods filled with the roar of the rain.
He was moving on, blindly, at random, conscious only of the necessity of
motion. Where the underbrush halted him he sheered off into the open
timber, feeling his way, falling sometimes, lying where he fell for a
while till the scourge of necessity lashed him into motion again.
About midnight the rain increased to a deluge, slackened fitfully, and
died out in a light rattle of thunder; star after star broke out through
the dainty vapours overhead; the trees sighed and grew quiet. For a
while drumming drops from the branches filled the silence with a musical
tattoo, then there remained no sound save, far away in the darkness, the
muffled roar of some brook, brimming bank-high with the April rain. And
Hamil, soaked, exhausted, and believing he could sleep, went back to the
house. Toward morning sleep came.
He awoke restless and depressed; and the next morning he was not well;
and not quite as well the next, remaining in his room with a headache,
pestered by Portlaw and retinues of servants bearing delicacies on
trays.
He had developed a cold, not a very bad one, and on the third day he
resumed his duties in the woods with Phelps and Baker, the surveyors,
and young Hastings.
The dull, stupid physical depression hung on to him; so did his cold;
and he found breathing difficult at night. The weather had turned very
raw and harsh, culminating in a flurry of snow.
Then one morning he appeared at breakfast looking so ghastly that
Portlaw became alarmed. It seemed to be rather late for that; Hamil's
face was already turning a dreadful bluish white under his host's
astonished gaze, and as the first chill seized him he rose from the
table, reeling.
"I--I am sorry, Portlaw," he tried to say.
"What on earth have you got?" asked Portlaw in a panic; but Hamil could
not speak.
They got him to the gardener's cottage as a precautionary measure, and
telephoned to Utica for trained nurses, and to Pride's Fall for a
doctor. Meanwhile, Hamil, in bed, was fast becoming mentally
irresponsible as the infection spread, involving both lungs, and the
fever in his veins blazed into a conflagration. That is one way that
pneumonia begins; but it ought not to have made such brutally quick work
of a young, healthy, and care-free man. There was not much chance for
him by the next morning, and less the following night when the oxygen
tanks arrived.
Portlaw, profoundly shocked and still too stunned by the swiftness of
the calamity to credit a tragic outcome, spent the day in a heavily
bewildered condition, wandering, between meals, from his house to the
cottage where Hamil lay, and back again to the telephone.
He had physicians in consultation from Utica and Albany; he had nurses
and oxygen; he had Miss Palliser on the telephone, first in New York,
then at Albany, and finally at Pride's Fall, to tell her that Hamil was
alive.
She arrived after midnight with Wayward. Hamil was still breathing--if
it could be called by that name.
Toward dawn a long-distance call summoned Portlaw: Malcourt was on the
end of the wire.
"Is Hamil ill up at your place?"
"He is," said Portlaw curtly.
"Very ill?"
"Very."
"How ill?"
"Well, he's not dead."
"Portlaw, is he dying?"
"They don't know yet."
"What is the sickness?"
"Pneumonia. I wish to heaven you were here!" he burst out, unable to
suppress his smouldering irritation any longer.
"I was going to ask you if you wanted me--"
"You needn't ask such a fool question. Your house is here for you and
the servants are eating their heads off. I haven't had your resignation
and I don't expect it while we're in trouble.... Mrs. Malcourt will come
with you, of course."
"Hold the wire."
Portlaw held it for a few minutes, then:
"Mr. Portlaw?"--scarcely audible.
"Is that you, Mrs. Malcourt?"
"Yes.... Is Mr. Hamil going to die?"
"We don't know, Mrs. Malcourt. We are doing all we can. It came
suddenly; we were caught unprepared--"
"Suddenly, you say?"
"Yes, it hit him like a bullet. He ought to have broken the journey
northward; he was not well when he arrived, but I never for a moment
thought--"
"Mr. Portlaw--please!"
"Yes?"
"Is there a chance for him?"
"The doctors refuse to say so."
"Do they say there is _no_ chance?"
"They haven't said that, Mrs. Malcourt. I think--"
"Please, Mr. Portlaw!"
"Yes, madam!"
"Will you listen very carefully, please?"
"Certainly--"
"Mr. Malcourt and I are leaving on the 10.20. You will please consult
your time-table and keep us informed at the following stations--have you
a pencil to write them down?... Are you ready now? Ossining, Hudson,
Albany, Fonda, and Pride's Fall.... Thank you.... Mr. Malcourt wishes
you to send the Morgan horses.... If there is any change in Mr. Hamil's
condition before the train leaves the Grand Central at 10.20, let me
know. I will be at the telephone station until the last moment.
Telegrams for the train should be directed to me aboard "The
Seminole"--the private car of Mr. Cardross.... Is all this clear?...
Thank you."
With a confused idea that he was being ordered about too frequently of
late Portlaw waddled off bedward; but sleep eluded him; he lay there
watching through his window the light in the window of the sick-room
where Hamil lay fighting for breath; and sometimes he quivered all over
in scared foreboding, and sometimes the thought that Malcourt was
returning seemed to ease for a moment the dread load of responsibility
that was already playing the mischief with his digestion.
A curry had started it; a midnight golden-buck superimposed upon a
miniature mince pie had, to his grief and indignation, continued an
outrageous conspiracy against his liver begun by the shock of Hamil's
illness. But what completed his exasperation was the indifference of the
physicians attending Hamil who did not seem to appreciate the gravity of
an impaired digestive system, or comprehend that a man who couldn't
enjoy eating might as well be in Hamil's condition; and Portlaw angrily
swallowed the calomel so indifferently shoved toward him and hunted up
Wayward, to whom he aired his deeply injured feelings.
"What you need are 'Drover's Remedies,'" observed Wayward, peering at
him through his spectacles; and Portlaw unsuspiciously made a memorandum
of the famous live-stock and kennel panacea for future personal
emergencies.
The weather was unfavourable for Hamil; a raw, wet wind rattled the
windows; the east lowered thick and gray with hurrying clouds; volleys
of chilly rain swept across the clearing from time to time.
Portlaw and Wayward sat most of the time in the big living-room playing
"Canfield." There was nothing else to do except to linger somewhere
within call, and wait. Constance Palliser remained near whichever nurse
happened to be off duty, and close enough to the sick-room to shudder at
what she heard from within, all day, all night, ceaselessly ominous,
pitiable, heart-breaking.
At length Wayward took her away without ceremony into the open air.
"Look here, Constance, your sitting there and hearing such things isn't
helping Garry. Lansdale is doing everything that can be done; Miss Race
and Miss Clay are competent. You're simply frightening yourself sick--"
She protested, but he put her into a hooded ulster, buckled on her feet
a pair of heavy carriage boots, and drew her arm under his, saying: "If
there's a chance Garry is having it, and you've got to keep your
strength.... I wish this mist would clear; Hooper telephoned to Pride's
for the weather bulletin, but it is not encouraging."
They walked about for an hour and finally returned from the wet woodland
paths to the bridge, leaning on the stone parapet together.
A swollen brook roared under the arches, carrying on its amber
wave-crests tufts of green grass and young leaves and buds which the
promise of summer had tenderly unfolded to the mercy of a ruthless
flood.
"Like those young lives that go out too early," murmured Constance. "See
that little wind-flower, Jim, uprooted, drowning--and that dead thing
tumbling about half under water--"
Wayward laid a firm hand across hers.
"I don't mean to be morbid," she said with a pathetic upward glance,
"but, Jim, it is too awful to hear him fighting for just--just a chance
to breathe a little--"
"I think he's going to get well," said Wayward.
"Jim! Why do you think it? Has any--"
"No.... I just think it."
"Is there any reason--"
"None--except you."
His voice within the last month or two had almost entirely lost its
indistinct and husky undertone; the clear resonant quality, which had
always thrilled her a little as a young girl, seemed to be returning;
and now she felt, faintly, the old response awaking within her.
"It is very sweet of you to believe he'll live because I love him," she
said gently.
Wayward drew his hand from hers and, folding his arms, leaned on the
parapet inspecting the turbid water through his spectacles.
"There are no fights too desperate to be won," he said. "The thing to do
is to finish--still fighting!"
"Jim?"
"Yes."
This time her hand sought his, drew it toward her, and covered it with
both of hers.
"Jim," she said tremulously, "there is something--I am horribly
afraid--that--perhaps Garry is not fighting."
"Why?" he asked bluntly.
"There was an--an attachment--"
"A what?"
"An unfortunate affair; he was very deeply in love--"
"Not ridiculously, I hope!"
"I don't know what you mean.... He cared more than I have believed
possible; I saw him in New York on his way here and, Jim, he must have
known then, for he looked like death--"
"You mean he was in love with that Cardross girl?"
"Oh, yes, yes!... I do not understand the affair; but I tell you, Jim,
the strangest part was that the girl loved him! If ever a woman was in
love with a man, Shiela Cardross was in love with Garry! I tell you I
know it; I am not guessing, not hazarding an opinion; I _know_ it....
And she married Louis Malcourt!... And, Jim, I have been so
frightened--so terrified--for Garry--so afraid that he might not care to
fight--"
Wayward leaned there heavily and in silence. He was going to say that
men do not do such things for women any longer, but he thought of the
awful battle not yet ended which he had endured for the sake of the
woman beside him; and he said nothing; because he knew that, without
hope of her to help him, the battle had long since gone against him. But
Garry had nothing to fight for, if what Constance said was true. And
within him his latent distrust and contempt for Malcourt blazed up,
tightening the stern lines of his sun-burnt visage.
"Portlaw says that Louis is coming to-night, and that young Mrs.
Malcourt is with him," he observed.
"I know it.... I was wondering if there was any way we could use
her--make use of her--"
"To stir up Garry to fight?"
"Y-yes--something like that--I am vague about it myself--if it could be
done without anybody suspecting the--O Jim!--I don't know; I am only a
half-crazed woman willing to do anything for my boy--"
"Certainly. If there's anything that might benefit Garry you need not
hesitate on account of that little beast Malcourt--"
She said in her gentle, earnest way: "Louis Malcourt is so very strange.
He has treated Virginia dreadfully; they were engaged--they must have
been or she could not have gone all to pieces the way she has.... I
cannot understand it, Jim--"
"What's Louis coming here for?"
"Mr. Portlaw begged him to come--"
"What for? Oh, well, I guess I can answer that for myself; it's to save
Portlaw some trouble or other--"
"You are very hard on people--very intolerant, sometimes--"
"I have no illusions concerning the unselfishness of Billy Portlaw. Look
at him tagging after the doctors and bawling for pills!--with Garry
lying there! He hustled him into a cottage, too--"
"He was quite right, Jim, Garry is better off--"
"So's William. Don't tell _me_, Constance; he's always been the same;
he never really cared for anybody in all his life except Louis Malcourt.
But it's a jolly, fat, good-humoured beast, and excellent company aboard
the _Ariani!_" ... He was silent a moment, then his voice deepened to a
clear, gentle tone, almost tender: "You've been rained on enough, now;
come in by the fire and I'll bring you the latest news from Garry."
But when he returned to the fire where Constance and Portlaw sat in
silence, the report he brought was only negative. A third doctor from
Albany arrived at nightfall and left an hour later. He was non-committal
and in a hurry, and very, very famous.