LEIGH CARTER had attained the dignity of his eighteenth birthday a few
days before the arrival of his brother’s bride. He had done fairly
well at the high school, and was preparing now, during vacation, for a
preliminary examination for the university which had educated the male
Carters for generations.
Leigh had some mental gifts and a taste for poetry, which seemed to
indicate a literary career, and his fond mother regarded him as a
budding genius. There was a wide gap in age between the two younger and
the two older Carters, occasioned by the death of three intervening
children, and Mrs. Carter’s affections had always centered on her baby
boy, as she still called Leigh--to his great indignation. Her pride had
been in William, her sympathy for poor Dan, but her doting fondness was
for Leigh.
Mr. Carter did not approve of it. He had warned her more than once that
she couldn’t bring up anything but an incubator chicken in that way and
make a success of it.
Leigh wasn’t exactly a success. The latent manhood in him had scarcely
stirred. He was a tall, lanky youth with a handsome, boyish face and
the eyes of a girl. He had been a dreamer, too, and had spent much time
in reading romances from the news-stands; but he was a good boy, he
had cultivated no vices, and “milksop” was the worst charge that other
youths of his set could make against him.
He had reached the impressionable age without falling deeply in love,
and his mind and heart happened to be in a peculiarly receptive state
when Fanchon suddenly burst upon his vision. Her beauty, the subtle
charm and mystery of those fawn-like eyes, and her caressing voice,
captured his youthful fancy. He could understand why William loved her,
and he became at once her slave and worshiper. Then, when he saw the
attitude of the family revealed in pitiless criticism, he became her
still more devoted champion. Fanchon saw it, and she coaxed the boy
into still deeper infatuation. It was her triumph to secure at least
one ally in a hostile family, and she used him as a buffer. She always
had a kind word for Leigh, a soft pat of the hand, an errand which she
conferred as a favor. Leigh, immersed in romantic visions, saw her as
the loveliest and most persecuted of beings, and he was ready to give
battle to the entire family in her behalf. As Emily expressed it, he
would have made himself into Sir Walter Raleigh’s cloak for Fanchon to
tread upon.
The storm that had followed upon her disappearance on horseback had
beaten upon Leigh’s nerves. He had lashed himself into a dumb fury in
the solitude of his room because his father and mother dared to doubt
his paragon, and William, her husband, merely sat and waited for her to
come back. William’s supineness was the last straw. Leigh had been in
a frenzy when Fanchon finally returned, and the meeting on the stairs
and her soft kiss of gratitude had gone to his head. He had refused to
join a game of baseball that afternoon because he wanted to go home and
complete a poem to his sister-in-law.
Fanchon had sent him on an errand to the nearest chemist. She had given
him a prescription for some headache powders, she said, and Leigh did
not know that he was returning with a peculiarly effective preparation
of “bloom” that she usually applied at night. He carried the package
with something of the air and feeling with which _Sir Lancelot_ might
have worn the colors of _Elaine_.
It happened that his way led him past a corner of the main street,
where Mr. Bernstein had just made special arrangements for showing
Rosamond Silvertree’s feature pictures at the little local theater.
Mr. Bernstein himself, in a new plaid suit with a diamond scarf-pin,
was viewing a poster of Rosamond in the effective, if rather startling,
costume of “A Belle from Borneo.” He had encountered Leigh on one or
two previous occasions, and knew him to be the youngest son of Johnson
Carter. As the boy approached, looking a little pale from his night’s
vigil, Mr. Bernstein eyed him shrewdly.
“Looks like a regular moon-calf,” he thought; “but I guess he’s got
gumption enough to take a warnin’ to the rest of ’em. Hello, young
man!” he called out. “Been in to see this picture? Greatest picture on
the screen! There’s a matinee to-day and two showings to-night.”
Leigh shook his head, stopping to gaze in some amazement at the highly
colored portrait of the fair Rosamond.
“Gee!” he remarked. “She’s fat!”
“Fat?” Mr. Bernstein blew his cheeks out and stared at him with a
kindling eye. “Fat, boy? Why, she’s superb! That’s Rosamond Silvertree,
the most beautiful star on the screen!”
Leigh giggled. He giggled like a girl, a faint pink color coming into
his beardless cheeks, and his girlish eyes dancing.
“How much do you suppose she weighs?” he asked gleefully. “Looks to me
like four hundred pounds--and some spangles!”
“Miss Silvertree’s a lady, young man!” retorted Mr. Bernstein
reprovingly. “She’s got one of the finest figures I ever saw. Spangles?
I want you to know that there’s one scene where she’s got on the
fetchingest costume--five yards of chiffon and fifteen pounds of
crystal spangles! It’s beauty, classic beauty, on the screen.”
Leigh suppressed a giggle this time, and only smiled inanely, edging
away.
“Looks kinder foolish,” Mr. Bernstein reflected, but he laid a
detaining hand on Leigh’s arm. “See here, you’re Leigh Carter, ain’t
you?”
Leigh nodded. He half expected an offer for the screen, and he
lingered, coloring like a girl.
“Then I guess I can say a word to you--confidential, you understand?”
Mr. Bernstein winked slowly. “Entirely confidential--between gentlemen,
see?” he added with a stroke of inspiration.
Leigh, flattered in spite of himself, nodded. Mr. Bernstein linked an
arm in his.
“Step this way,” he said casually. “Don’t want to attract attention.
Now, Mr. Carter----” He paused, allowing the formal address to sink in.
It did. Leigh straightened up. “There’s a fellow over at the inn named
Corwin. Heard of him?”
Leigh’s color deepened.
“I think so,” he said stiffly.
Mr. Bernstein nodded.
“He’s Caraffi’s manager. Caraffi’s up at the Hot Springs, taking baths
to reduce his flesh, or to make his hair grow, and Corwin’s killing
time down here. Now I ain’t meaning any offense. I’m speaking as a
friend, you understand? This man, Corwin, he ain’t a gentleman. He’s a
sport an’ a gambler an’ a loafer. He ain’t any nearer being a gentleman
than that there lamp-post’s near being a brindled cow. He gets full,
too, and when he does he talks, see?”
Leigh, beginning to suspect the drift of the talk, was becoming furious.
“I take no interest in Mr. Corwin,” he said sharply. “If that’s all
you’ve got to say, Mr. Bernstein----”
“Hold on!” said Mr. Bernstein impatiently. “I’ve got to tell one of
your family--for the sake of the lady. If you want to protect your
sister-in-law from scandal, Mr. Leigh Carter, you’d better listen. I
ain’t believing the talk myself, but it ain’t my business. If it was,
I’d lam the feller good an’ plenty!”
Leigh stared at him. He did not want to listen, but he was boy enough
to want to hear. He breathed rather short.
“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Bernstein,” he cried excitedly. “I
won’t hear talk of my sister-in-law!”
“Say!” Bernstein tapped his shoulder with a fat forefinger. “Ain’t it
better for you Carters to hear it than the whole town? I ask you that?
Ain’t it up to you Carters to shut his mouth?”
Leigh faltered, then he set his young teeth hard and flung his head
back.
“What does he dare to say about Mrs. William Carter?” he demanded
fiercely.
“I ain’t telling you all he says,” Mr. Bernstein replied meaningly.
“I ain’t soiling my mouth with it--he’s a bad one! But he’s saying
now--to-day--that she started to run away with him yesterday, and then
got scared an’ come back at one o’clock in the mornin’--”
“That’s a lie!” cried Leigh. “A black lie! Where is he?”
“Shucks!” said Mr. Bernstein. “You’re a boy. Don’t you go lookin’
for him. You tell your father, Leigh Carter. He had oughter know it,
he--say!”
Leigh had torn himself away and dashed off at a pace that left Mr.
Bernstein gasping.
“Well, I’m darned!” he exclaimed. Then he relaxed, and stood looking
after Leigh with something like satisfaction. “I guess he’ll tell ’em.
They wouldn’t listen to me, and that Corwin--something oughter be done
to him. He ain’t no gentleman!”
Mr. Bernstein walked slowly and thoughtfully back to the “Belle from
Borneo” poster. He felt that he had done his duty. He bore no ill-will
to little Fanchon la Fare, and he hated Corwin.
Leigh, meanwhile, turned off the main street into the quiet lane behind
the church and stopped to think. He stopped, panting, on the very step
where Virginia had stood talking with Dan. His hot young blood was
beating in his head with a noise like a sledge-hammer. Fury choked him.
He remembered his own hours of anguished suspense last night, Fanchon’s
return after her accident, and her light kiss on his cheek. Her knight
had received his accolade; he would not fail her!
Sitting under the old tree where the scarlet-headed woodpecker had
bored a neat hole, Leigh made up his mind. Bernstein had told the truth
about Corwin--that he knew. He couldn’t doubt Bernstein. The little
man’s earnestness had been apparent.
Corwin must be dealt with. Leigh Carter would deal with him, too, at
once. He was no child to run to his father. Besides, his father didn’t
like Fanchon. Lately he had thought his father an unjust man.
As for William--Leigh remembered William’s supine waiting last night.
Leigh did not mean to wait now. He would carry out the thing he had in
mind.
He had read once of a man like Corwin slandering a noble lady. The
hero--Leigh’s favorite hero, by the way--had seized a horse-pistol,
ridden fifty miles on a mustang, confronted the villain, held his
pistol to his head, and forced him to write and sign a retraction that
made the lady’s character shine out as clear as noonday. Getting his
breath on the old stone step of the church where he had been baptized,
Leigh made up his mind as swiftly as the mustang had galloped. He took
off his hat, wiped the drops of perspiration from his boyish forehead,
and, straightening his collar and tie, rose and went straight home.
It happened at the moment that there was no one in the house but
Miranda and his mother. As he entered, he heard his mother’s voice in
the kitchen.
“Miranda, get me those pitted cherries. I’m going to make a pie for
dinner. Leigh loves cherry pie!”
He paused with his hand on the banister, thrilled with that poignant
moment. Unknown to Mrs. Carter, her son was about to act a man’s great
part, to avenge the honor of the family, and she--oh, grotesque
thought--she was making cherry pie for him!
But he could not wait even for such thoughts as these. He ran up-stairs
and into his father’s room. In the upper draw of the old mahogany
highboy was a pistol. Mr. Carter kept it loaded as a precaution against
mythical burglars. Leigh found it, thrust it in his pocket, and walked
slowly down the hall.
Fanchon’s door was open. She had gone out, but she had left the room
in sweet confusion. He caught sight of the trailing silk and chiffon
of her tea-gown--one of the family amazements--lying across the bed.
On a chair hung her riding-jacket, left to dry. There was an elusive
fragrance of violets, the same fragrance that always hung about her
person. Evidently she had forgotten her headache, or she had gone out
to walk it off.
Very reverently Leigh laid the chemist’s package on a chair near the
door. Then he saw a small glove lying on the floor. He picked it up,
kissed it solemnly, and thrust it into his pocket. The illusion was
complete--he bore his lady’s glove.
* * * * *
Aristide Corwin was alone in his room at the inn. It happened that his
open windows commanded a clear view of Mr. Carter’s office opposite,
and of the sign over the door--“Johnson Carter, Insurance and Loans.”
Corwin had been staring at it moodily. He hated it for some reason.
Not that he thought much of the Carters. His business was with Fanchon,
not with William Carter. But he hated that office, and he hated the
whole tribe, at the moment, because Fanchon had outwitted him. She had
made a fool of him. He had had his revenge, he was making the town
ring with his talk, but he was not even with her yet--not yet! His
eyes kindled fiercely at the thought of her. He had been drinking. Two
bottles still stood on his table, and his glass was full.
He was a man who had been handsome in his first youth, but his face had
coarsened and his hard eyes lowered. He rose, stripped off his coat,
and sat down again in his shirt-sleeves, his collar unbuttoned from his
big throat. He was hot, but he kept on drinking. It was late now, near
supper-time, and there came a knock at his door.
“Come in!” he said harshly.
The door opened, and Leigh Carter entered. Corwin did not know him, he
did not remember having seen him with Fanchon, but he saw a slender boy
of seventeen or eighteen, well-dressed and deathly pale, with the eyes
of a girl.
“What do you want, kid?” he demanded sharply, setting down his glass.
Leigh walked straight across the room to the table and stood looking
down at him, an image of young scorn and wrath.
“I’m Leigh Carter,” he said, breathing quickly. “I’ve heard the
infamous story you’re telling about a lady--my sister-in-law, Mrs.
William Carter--a story that she ran away with you last night. I’m here
to demand the truth. Did you--did you dare to tell such a story here?”
Corwin’s first stare of surprise gave way to a slow, insulting grin. He
measured Leigh from head to foot. Then he laughed.
“Yes,” he replied truculently. “I did say that--and a damned sight
more, Mr. Leigh Carter--kid. And it’s every bit true!”
Leigh’s hands shook as he grasped the edge of the table.
“You’ll take that back, Mr. Corwin,” he said in a low voice, leaning
forward and looking at the man opposite.
Corwin laughed, tilting his chair and putting his feet on the table.
His very nonchalance stung the boy opposite with a fresh sense of
insult.
“Will I?” he mocked. “Who’s going to make me do it?”
Leigh, white with passion now, flashed scorn upon him.
“I will! You can’t say things like that about my brother’s wife!”
Corwin stared at him, still laughing; then he lowered his feet to the
floor and rose. Standing, he overtopped the slender Carter boy by half
a head.
“Your brother’s wife, eh?” he sneered. “Look here, child, you go
home and eat your supper. Don’t you get worked up over Fanchon.
I’ve known the lady quite a spell. If I whistled”--Mr. Corwin threw
his head back and walked across the room toward Leigh, flushed with
liquor, truculent, intolerable--“if I whistled, she’d run off with me
to-morrow. I don’t because”--he came closer to Leigh now, laughing and
sneering, insult in every line of his coarse, flushed face--“because I
don’t want her!”
Leigh swung around and faced him, shaking with rage.
“You lie!” he cried hoarsely.
Corwin only laughed boisterously.
“You fool kid, you don’t know the lady. She----”
He leaned over, thrust his face close to Leigh’s and whispered. The boy
sprang back.
“Stop!” he almost shrieked. “I’ll fight you! I’m a Carter, and I
challenge you to fight a duel!”
The man laughed loudly again.
“A duel with you? You kid!”
“Yes, with me!” Leigh trembled with passion. “You’ve got to fight--I’ll
send my seconds. You’re a coward, sir, and a liar!”
Corwin caught him suddenly by the shoulder.
“See here, you Carter boy!” said he. “You’ve called me a liar twice
to-day. I’m not a liar--I’ll show you! Fight duels for that woman? Bah!
I don’t fight kids--I box their ears!”
He sneered and slapped Leigh’s face. The boy, with a cry of passion and
shame, wrenched himself free, snatched the pistol from his pocket, and
fired pointblank.
The noise of the report rang in his own ears with a deafening crash,
and there was a little whiff of smoke. Leigh reeled back, his horrified
eyes fixed on the floor.
Corwin had crumpled up like a sack of meal and lay there in a heap,
stone dead.