THE COWARD
The curtains were so thick, and were drawn so close, that in the
recess it was nearly pitch dark. Only in one place did the lights of
the room shine through. That was where the stuff had worn so thin that
only a few threads remained. But for some seconds Dorothy was
unconscious both of the darkness and the light; she was conscious of
nothing. She scarcely dared to breathe; she did not dare to move;
though she trembled so that she had to lean against the side of the
recess to keep herself from collapsing in a heap upon the floor. Each
moment she expected that the curtains would be drawn aside and her
hiding-place discovered. She felt sure that Mr Emmett's sharp eyes
must have seen them moving as he entered the room. As the moments
passed and the curtains remained untouched, she began to wonder. Was
he playing with her? Knowing well where she was, had he seated himself
at the table; proposing to sit there drinking, till she was tired of
pretending to hide, or till it pleased him to drag her out? She was
sufficiently acquainted with his disposition to be aware that that
kind of sport amused him. If he thought that she was shivering behind
those curtains, he would let her go on shivering, ever more and more,
until it suited him to play some sudden trick which might cause her to
tumble in a nerveless heap on the floor. If he could succeed in
bringing her to that pitch, his sense of humour would be tickled; he
would enjoy the joke.
Thinking that might be the meaning of his non-interference she had
half made up her mind to reveal herself, and so spoil his sport, when,
on a sudden, she became conscious that a voice was speaking--a strange
voice, which was not Mr Emmett's. Then Mr Emmett spoke. Then the voice
again. What did it mean? She listened. It is a sufficient commentary
upon her mental and physical condition to state that until that
instant she had heard nothing. Yet, so soon as she began to listen, it
became obvious that the speakers must have been talking together for,
at anyrate, some little time; and that in tones which, to say the
least, were audible.
Dorothy presumed that, after all, Mr Emmett had not noticed the
quivering curtains, and had taken her disappearance for granted. If he
had made a remark on it, it had been a passing one; clearly she was
not the subject of the conversation which he was carrying on with the
stranger. What they were talking about she did not know, but it became
each second plainer that it was a matter on which they were both of
them very much in earnest. If they were not actually quarrelling they
were very near to it. The language which was being used on both sides
was warm; the stranger was addressing Mr Emmett in terms which were
the reverse of complimentary, and which Mr Emmett was vigorously
resenting. His resentment seemed to add flame to the stranger's anger.
All at once there came something into his tone which struck the unseen
listener's ear. She had become conscious of the ray of light which
penetrated her hiding-place. Moving gingerly, so as to avoid coming
into contact with the hangings, she approached her face to the worn
place in the curtains. It was worn so bare that the few threads which
remained formed scarcely any obstruction to the view; she could see
through quite easily. The scene on the other side was clearly
revealed; she saw the two actors in it as well as if the curtain had
not been there. The stranger was a young man, possibly a year or two
on the shady side of forty. He was tall, and held himself straighter
than some tall men are apt to do. His chest was broad; he held his
shoulders well back; about the whole man there was a suggestion of
strength. His head was square, and was poised easily upon a rounded
throat. He had an odd, clever-looking face, a fine, open brow. His
eyes, which were rather small, were wide apart. His mouth was large,
but his lips were thin, and shut so closely that when, in silence, he
looked at Mr Emmett, only a slender red line was visible to show that
a mouth was there. His black hair, parted on one side, was a little in
disorder, some of it straggled over his forehead. Disorder, indeed,
was the dominant note of the man. As she watched him the girl had a
feeling that he was too much moved by some inward excitement to be
over-particular about the small niceties of his attire. His tie was a
little crooked; his jacket had a lopsided air.
Ordinarily the expression of his queer-looking face was probably a
pleasant one; there was that about it which hinted that, in a general
way, the man's outlook on to life was that of a humorist. But there
was little pleasant about it then, or humorous either. It was not
likely that his complexion ever was his strongest feature--at that
moment it had a peculiar pallor which was singularly unattractive.
Like many dark men, evidently nature had meant him to have a strong
beard. His cheeks and chin and upper lip were shaven, but apparently
that day they had not known the razor. In consequence they were of a
bluish tint, which was in ghastly harmony with the almost unnatural
colour of his skin. The appearance of the man fascinated the girl who
was peeping at him from behind the curtain, as if he realised some
picture which, in some occult fashion, had unwittingly been present in
her mind, of a man in a rage. His pose; his attitude; his disordered
attire; something which looked out of his eyes; the obvious mental
agitation which caused his countenance to wear that singular hue; the
gleam of scarlet which was all that marked his tightly closed mouth;
the ominous fashion in which, while standing perfectly still, he never
took his glance from off the man in front of him--although she might
not have been able to put the thing into words, everything about him
spoke to the sensitive imagination of the girl of one who, for a very
little, would throw everything aside in the fullness of his desire to
gratify the lust of his rage.
The man in front of him was angry too; but with him anger took a
different form: his was rather bad temper than genuine passion. It had
about it a suggestion of bluster, of effort; as if he would have liked
to be more angry than he actually was. Beyond doubt he was
sufficiently annoyed with the stranger; so annoyed that he was quite
willing to do him a mischief; to knock him down, for instance; even to
throw him from the room. Yet, disposed as he evidently was to be as
disagreeable as he could be, his rage altogether lacked that quality
of intensity, of white heat, which marked the other; the something
which caused the girl, when she appreciated, though only vaguely, the
scene which was being enacted before her, to feel that it would be
well that, at the earliest possible moment, she should make her
presence known, for Mr Emmett's protection.
There, in those last four words, was the barrier which held her back.
Had it been borne in upon her, in even the faintest degree, that, for
the stranger's sake, it would be well that she should step out from
behind that screen, she might have done it on the instant. But for Mr
Emmett--no! In some odd way the stranger's rage communicated itself to
her. The terror with which her guardian had imbued her began to change
into resentment. As she observed the stranger his fury fired hers. As
surely as she believed herself to have a just cause for anger, so
surely was she persuaded of the justice of the stranger's anger also.
She was convinced that Emmett was in the wrong. That she arrived at
this conclusion from very inadequate premises was nothing; from what
she had seen of Mr Emmett she was prepared to assert, offhand, without
knowing anything of the facts, that in nine disputes out of ten he was
in the wrong--that this was one of those nine she did not for an
instant doubt.
What they were talking about she did not understand. When she began
really to listen there was nothing in their conversation to give her a
definite clue; they had reached that stage when, like two dogs, they
were disposed to do little but bark at each other. The stranger
informed Mr Emmett, after a brief pause, as if for reflection,
that he was a thief. Mr Emmett paused, in his turn; then assailed the
stranger with a flood of vituperation which was characteristic of the
man--there was such a redundance of offensive suggestions. Dorothy
felt as if each one of them had been aimed at her; with each her
choler rose; just, as she was sure, the stranger's rose also. An
uncanny desire came to the tips of her fingers to grip the speaker by
the throat and choke an apology out of him. She would have liked to
see the stranger do it; with all her might she longed to inspire him
with her feeling. Presently she realised that he had it on his own
account, without any urging from her. When Emmett had finished he
remained still, motionless; never once removing his eyes from the
other's inflamed features. Then he said, more quietly than he had
spoken before--there was something in his lowered tone which pleased
the girl behind the curtain--
"Would you mind repeating those observations?--or, if that is not
convenient, the substance of them?"
Dorothy heard the threat which the words conveyed more clearly than if
he had yelled it out. It is possible, since he was not dull-witted,
that Mr Emmett heard it too. If such was the case then it seemed that,
at least, he was no coward; for, with complete sincerity, he treated
the other with contempt which was even more galling than his words.
Thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets; holding his great head a
little on one side; looking at the other as if he were something
altogether beneath his notice; laughing that brutal laugh of his,
which had hurt the girl more than speech could do; he began at him
again. He poured forth on him a stream of abusive epithets, with a
lavish copiousness which showed how truly great was the wealth of his
resources; he surpassed himself. There was not a vice which he did not
attribute both to him and to his progenitors; if the tenth of what he
said was true then this man was a wretch indeed. When he had finished,
at least for the moment, he laughed--a second time. The laugh did what
his insults had failed to do--it moved the other to action. He
remained quiescent before the opprobrious torrent; but that laughter
surpassed the limit of his endurance. Still with his eyes fixed on the
other's face he reached out towards the champagne bottle which stood
beside him on the table. Mr Emmett, perceiving his intention, made
haste to intercept it. He too moved towards the table.
"No, you don't!" he cried. But already the other's fingers were round
the bottle's neck. "By----, you'll be sorry if you try that, you----!"
While he still was vomiting adjectives the bottle swung into the air;
Dorothy saw that as it was turned upside down some of its contents
went down the stranger's sleeve. Mr Emmett tried to stop it, and did,
with his head. As he endeavoured to grab the other's arm, the
stranger, swerving, brought the heavy bottle down upon his unprotected
head with murderous force. The head and the bottle were smashed
together; even then Dorothy was struck by the difference there was
between the two sounds, the breaking of the bottle, and the breaking
of the head. Mr Emmett and the bottle vanished together, with
something of the effect of a conjuring trick. Mr Emmett disappeared
behind the table; all that was left of the bottle was an inch or two
of splintered glass, which the stranger still gripped. The result
appeared to surprise him. He looked down at the floor on the side of
the table which was hidden from Dorothy, and continued to look, as if
he saw something there which was beyond his comprehension. Then he
looked at the splinter of glass, which was all that was left of the
bottle; approaching it to his face, as if to enable him to see it
better. As he looked at it he smiled; and he said, as if he were
speaking to himself, though his words were distinctly audible to
Dorothy:
"My word! if it hadn't smashed!" His glance returned to the floor. He
spoke again. "Emmett!" None replied. Something in the silence seemed
to tickle him, because he both smiled and spoke again. "It seems it
held out long enough." He observed the broken splinter with what
appeared to be amused curiosity. After seeming to hesitate what to do
with it he placed it carefully on the table, splintered end upwards.
Then again he spoke. "Emmett!" When there was still no answer he bent
over what he saw lying on the floor. Presently he kneeled. Dorothy
could not see what he was doing with his hands; she did not need to
see; she knew. When he rose it was with difficulty; his arms were
about Mr Emmett; he raised him with them. As Mr Emmett did nothing to
raise himself, since he was such a heavy man, the stranger had not an
easy task. When he had regained his own feet he was holding his burden
closer to him than could have been quite convenient. It was with
curious sensations that the unseen witness observed how limp her
guardian was; his head waggled with the stranger's every movement, as
if the muscles of the neck refused to hold it up. Staggering forward,
the stranger deposited Mr Emmett on the chair on which he had been
seated at dinner. The effect was singular. It was an old wooden
arm-chair, with a capacious seat, and a high back. Mr Emmett could
not be induced to sit up straight. The stranger made one or two
well-meaning efforts; but the results were not so satisfactory as his
labours deserved. Mr Emmett would persist in assuming a lop-sided
attitude: his chin on his chest, his body in a variety of curves, his
arms hanging anyhow. Realising that it was futile to try to induce him
to take up a more dignified position, apparently the stranger decided
to let him stop as he was. He drew back a little, as if the better to
observe the effect. The spectacle he offered seemed to move him to
reflection, and reflection to speech. He said, out loud: "If ever
there was a scoundrel----" and then stopped, leaving the sentence
unfinished; possibly recalling the old school tag, which recommends us
to say objectionable things of our friends only while they are living.
A cloth cap, a cane, and a pair of gloves were lying on a side table.
Turning away, taking up these three articles, the stranger moved
briskly towards the door, and out of the room, never once looking back
at what was on the chair.
And Dorothy was left alone with her guardian.