A DOG AND HIS MASTER.
For a long moment after this announcement, Radwalader stared at the
speaker curiously. Vicot had straightened himself, and met his eyes with
a kind of boldness which he had never shown before.
"He is my son!" he repeated presently. "Sit down, Radwalader. You may as
well hear the whole story. My name's no more Vicot than yours is. It's
John Vane, and twenty-five years ago it was as respected as any in
Boston. I'd everything to live for, as the saying is, and I might have
realized it all; but, except for about a year, just after I left
college, I never seemed to get a grip on things. I had money--perhaps
that was the trouble. Everything came my way for a time, but I mixed
myself up in speculation, and it wasn't long before I found myself
ruined. I--I was married. My wife stuck to me, even after I began to
drink, but after the liquor'd had a chance to make me about what I've
been ever since you've known me, and I saw that she was beginning to
despise me, I grew--or thought I grew--to hate her. We were living in a
wretched little house in Kingsbridge, the drink was gaining on me every
day, and things got worse and worse. I expect I was brutal to her,
though half the time I didn't know what I was saying. Anyhow, she drew
farther and farther away from me, till after a few months the fact that
we were man and wife was nothing more than a hideous burlesque. She
wouldn't let me touch her, she'd hardly answer when I spoke to her, and
that made me furious. The conditions were intolerable, maddening: and
when another woman came into my life, who flattered me and seemed fond
of me and had enough money for us both, I saw a way of escape. I
deserted my wife, soothing what little conscience I had left, with the
thought that she'd go back to her father, be cared for, and think
herself well rid of me. I sailed for Liverpool with the other. That was
twenty-one years ago--on Thanksgiving Day, 1879. For a little, I
reformed, but the old habits came back, of course, and, the first I
knew, I was done by as I'd done. My--my companion left me, with a small
monthly allowance and the information that this would be continued so
long as I made no attempt to see her. She knew me pretty well by then,
you see! And she was right. I accepted, and for fifteen years I managed
to live on this pittance, drifting all over Europe and turning my hand
to whatever job came my way. Then she died, and the allowance came to an
end. I was here in Paris, strapped; and it was then you caught me in
what was, for me, too bold an attempt at swindling--the case of Mr.
Rutherford, of course. You knew me for a thief and a forger, and I was
fully prepared to have you turn me over to the police, when I discovered
that you were no better than myself, and that your knowledge was to be
used not to betray, but merely to intimidate me. You know the rest--up
to the moment when you told me that I was to become the servant of Mr.
Vane.
"All this time I had never so much as heard of his existence.
Indirectly, I'd learned of my wife's death, but that it was because of
the birth of a child--that I never knew. Even when I heard the name I
wasn't more than momentarily startled. It's not an uncommon one, and
nothing was farther from my mind than the thought that I might have a
son. But it was only a few days before I guessed. The name 'Andrew' gave
me the first clue. It's his grandfather's. Then, when I began to probe
into his letters, as you'd told me to, I soon learned the truth. And,
from the moment I was sure, my mind was made up. I'd made a botch of my
own life, and here I was engaged in an attempt to make a botch of his.
Well, then, I wouldn't. The time didn't seem right for saying anything
to you. I thought I could do more good by keeping mum, and watching. If
you'll look back--" and Vicot's voice took on a new note of
pride--"you'll find that I haven't given you a scrap of information
which would tend to damage him in any way, or put him in your power."
"That," observed Radwalader, "appears, from my knowledge of the case,
to have been simply because you didn't know anything worth telling. I
thought I was going to need your services, but, as it happened, I
didn't. Things went very well by themselves."
"But it was only last night," continued Vicot, after a moment, "that I
realized what this boy meant to me. After you'd gone out to dinner, I
picked up what was lying on that table. I'd never seen it before. Either
it had just come, or else he's kept it locked up. Do you remember what
it was? It was that picture--there!"
He flung out one hand passionately, pointing at the miniature on the
mantel behind Radwalader.
"Look! I found _that_--the picture of my wife and the mother of my son!"
Radwalader rose slowly, turned, walked across to the mantel, and bent
forward to examine the picture. As Vicot continued, the vague expression
of interest on the other's face deepened to one of eager scrutiny. His
eyebrows came together, as of one who strives to recollect, and then a
small, sneering smile began to curl the corners of his lips.
"That settled the question. As I say, I've made a rotten failure of
everything, but there's one chance left! When I saw her picture, I saw
my duty, and I was glad--my God! how glad I was! So now I'm resolved.
You can do as you please. You can say what you will. You can flay me
alive, if you like, or send me to the galleys, or ruin me in any
fashion in your power. I've seen the picture of the woman I wronged,
and I've seen my way to make good. From somewhere, perhaps, she'll see
and understand. He's my son! Do as you think best--you'll never harm
him. He shall marry this girl he loves, and that without a word out of
your mouth--curse you! I'm not afraid for myself. My life's over. But
the sins of the fathers shall _not_ be visited upon the children! God
Almighty Himself won't deny me this chance. And _there_ is my highest
trump, Master Radwalader. Can you take the trick?"
"_Yes_, by God!" exclaimed Radwalader, wheeling full upon him, "and with
the ace! I knew that face last night, though at the time I couldn't
place it. So _that_ is the woman you deserted at Kingsbridge twenty-one
years ago--your wife--the mother of Andrew Vane! Oh, don't assure me!
_I_ know you're telling the truth, right enough, but I know more than
that. Shall I tell you? Well, then, what _you_ rejected _I_ picked up;
what _you_ were fool enough to desert _I_ was wise enough to appreciate.
_Your wife_--ho! You tell me that she wouldn't answer you when you spoke
to her, that for months she wouldn't let you touch her, that your
marriage was a farce. Here is what _I_ tell _you_. I found no such
difficulty. She answered me readily enough she took my hand before I'd
known her five minutes, and everything she denied you, she gave to me!
Do you understand what _that_ means? It means that if the father of
Andrew Vane is alive to-day, he's not alive in the person of Jules
Vicot or of John Vane, but in that of Thomas Radwalader!"
He threw himself violently into the chair again, and his nervous tension
snapped in a shrill laugh. As the last words left his lips, it was as if
an unseen hand had snuffed out the light in the eyes of the man who had
been John Vane. His exaltation left him, and he braced himself rigidly
against the desk, leaning far back, and staring, staring through the
singular, dull film which had come across his pupils. He gave no audible
evidence, until Radwalader had spoken again, that he had understood or
even heard.
"What a witch Fate is! What hands she deals! A moment since, you were
nearer to having me in a tight place, Jules--er--Mr. Vane, than you ever
have been, or than you're ever likely to be again. There's just one
thing against which I've never been able to secure myself, and that is
the possibility of some sudden, overmastering emotion in those whom I'm
forced to trust. I've never been so unfortunate as to run foul of it
before, but when you were trumpeting remorse, and self-sacrifice, and
atonement, and so forth, a moment ago, I confess I thought you had the
odd trick. With hysteria, all things are possible, and a majority
probable. If Andrew Vane had been in reality your son, and you'd not
chosen to believe that I'd no further plans in regard to him, you might
have done me an infinite deal of harm. You disturbed me--you disturbed
me considerably, Mr. Vane. But, lo and behold! a turn of the wheel, a
throw of the dice, a deal of the cards, and I am able, with extreme
relish, to snap my fingers in your face--because, since he is _not_ your
son, but mine, you're going to keep your mouth shut even more tightly in
the future than you have in the past! If you'd not been an idiot, as
well as a coward, you'd have known long ago that my hold over you hasn't
been worth the paper on which it was written. My very silence about what
I knew of the Rutherford swindle made me an accessory after the fact.
Strange you didn't think of that! But now--things are very different.
You'll keep your mouth shut, my dear Mr. Vane, because, while nothing
but shame could have come to the boy by the revelation that he was your
son, the shame would be multiplied a thousand-fold by the public
admission that he is mine!"
As he paused, the other blinked, and strove in vain for an instant
before he could find his voice.
"A lie!" he murmured hoarsely. "All a damned lie!"
"Let's see if it is," answered Radwalader. "I don't deal in that
dangerous commodity if I can avoid it. There never was a lie yet which
it wasn't possible, sooner or later, to nail: and that in itself is
enough to make me fight shy. I never take unnecessary risks. Besides, in
the present instance, the truth fits my needs to a nicety. So I think
you'll believe what I'm going to tell you."
Vicot gave a short, bewildered nod, seeming to ask him to continue.
"The facts, then, are these: After having disgraced, and, presumably,
maltreated, the woman who had the misfortune to be your wife, you
deserted her, by your own confession, and thereby, as no doubt you will
concede, relinquished whatever claim you had upon her, and all right of
supervision or control over what she chose to do. You left her in
poverty and wretchedness--and I found her. You sought escape and
consolation: she did the same. You found them in the company of another
woman: she found them in the company of another man. I was so happy as
to be that man. _Voila!_ It's quite simple."
"Lies--all lies!" broke in Vicot passionately. "She was not that kind.
She was a saint on earth!"
"Ah, you've learned to appreciate her!"
"Never in God's world would she have stooped to you--unless you brought
deceit to bear."
Vicot was picking feverishly at the edge of the desk, his filmed eyes
shifting and shifting in their sockets.
"Well, then--yes!" said Radwalader. "If I'm nothing else, at least I'm
loyal to the women who--er--have, as you courteously put it, stooped to
me. I _did_ bring deceit to bear. I was interested in mesmerism in those
days, and highly adept. When I came upon her, by merest chance, she was
desperate, unstrung, and, I think, on the point of collapse. In a very
natural attempt to calm her, I put forth an influence which had already
been proved considerable. To my surprise she yielded completely to it,
and passed, almost before I realized what I'd done, into a state of
profound trance, in which I found her wholly subject to my will. Up to
that moment--believe me or not, as you choose--I had no ulterior motive.
But when I found her walking, talking as I desired, interest led me on.
I directed her back to the town--we met on a hill-road back of
it--willing her to lead me to her home. I'd some thought of explaining
matters to her family, but when I found that she apparently had none,
when I saw the squalor and dreariness in which she lived, curiosity
impelled me to question her, and from her unconscious answers I gained
enough to confirm my present knowledge of who she was. Then--I was but
human--she was very beautiful--the circumstances--"
"Stop!" broke in Vicot. "I understand what you're going to say."
"So much the better: we're saved the necessity of going into unpleasant
details. Suffice it to say that what happened, happened. Already, as we
walked together, I'd said enough to impress my mentality upon hers, to
make her mind my property, and her will subject to mine. When I left her
I meant to go back, to help and uplift her, to marry her, perhaps. Who
knows? I was very young then and a good deal of a pedant."
"So you never went back," said Vicot. "You left her--_like that_!"
"Just as you'd left her, the same day," retorted Radwalader, his
complacency quite restored. "Don't let's get to recriminations. I fancy
it's a case of pot and kettle."
"All this doesn't prove that the boy's not mine," exclaimed the other,
with sudden energy.
Radwalader rose, came quite close to him, and said with a little sneer:
"Do you think it's likely? It's a question of the simplest arithmetic.
Vane's not yet twenty-one--and what have you told me? Look
back--calculate."
Vicot made no reply. He was peering at Radwalader's face, and presently
he whispered:
"My God! _He's even got your eyes!_"
"From the sublime to the ridiculous," said Radwalader. "A moment since,
you were spouting heroic sentiments, and had me so obviously at a
disadvantage that I--yes, I was almost afraid of you. Now we're parties
to a _denouement_ which would seem to have come from the pen of Alfred
Capus."
"What do you mean to do?" asked Vicot lifelessly.
"Do? Why, nothing. What is there to do, except to be thankful that a
discerning Providence has put it out of your power to injure me. The
boy's mine--there can't be a doubt of it--and if you so much as open
your lips on the subject, you not only disgrace yourself and me, but
Andrew as well, and, most of all, the memory of your wife. That's
enough: I'm satisfied. Sheer common-sense will show you, as it shows
me, that silence is the only course. Andrew believes, as does every one
else, that his father is dead. We alone, of all men, know the truth--and
we agree to hold our tongues."
"If I could trust you!" exclaimed Vicot, "but I can't--I _can't_! You've
laid a trap for him--you know you have!--just as you did for the others,
because he's young, and reckless, and rich! You called me in to help
you, and probably the Tremonceau girl as well. Oh, I know how it's
worked! Well, that's why I must stick by him, and guard him, and see to
it that he can marry the girl he wants to--"
Suddenly Radwalader laughed.
"Why, what an ass it is!" he said. "Look here, you mountebank! The only
person who has brought Andrew Vane into trouble, from the very beginning
of all this, is _you_! I couldn't _make_ him compromise himself: I could
only set the bait. He nibbled at it, to be sure, but he was never in my
power or Mirabelle Tremonceau's for a moment. He loved another girl. He
went to her and asked her to marry him, and she refused him, but he'd no
sooner left her than she thought better of it and sent for him. If that
message had reached him, he would never have seen Mirabelle again; but
it didn't reach him, and, quite naturally, he took the next best thing.
Now she's his mistress, and he's just where I've wanted to have him all
along. For all this, Mr. Vane, I have only you to thank!"
"I?" repeated Vicot. "What have I to do with it?"
"This much: that, while you've been planning to keep him out of my
power, the very thing that would have done so once and for all has been
lying in your pocket. A moment ago you laid a telegram upon the table.
It's still there. Open it!"
Slowly, wonderingly, Vicot tore the blue paper open and read aloud the
five words which it contained:
"Come back to me. MARGERY."
Radwalader slipped his hands into his pockets.
"Exactly," he said. "Do you see?"
"But you said, only a little while ago," stammered Vicot, "that the game
was up--that you wouldn't do anything more."
"Only by way of shutting your mouth," said Radwalader coolly. "Since
then there've been developments. When I said that, I was, as I've
already told you, anxious to get rid of you. Now--well, you won't blab
in any event, because the small sum of money which it will cost Vane to
get rid of Mirabelle is nothing compared with what it would mean to him
if you forced me into pitting my knowledge of his origin against your
accusations of me."
"And so," cried Vicot furiously, "you're determined to hold this over
him. You'll hound him and hound him--damn you!--till perhaps you'll
drive him desperate--till you drive him to kill himself--and end up in
the Morgue, like young Baxter--and then you'll go and look at him,
staring out through the glass--and you'll smile and light a cigarette
and whistle 'Au Clair de la Lune'! You hell-hound!"
He flung himself forward, as if he would have seized the other by the
throat, halted suddenly as Radwalader's right hand came from his pocket,
and stooped, staring cross-eyed into the shining mouth of a revolver,
held without a tremor six inches from his contorted face.
"Get back, you dog!" said Radwalader; and at the words, as if he had
been a dog indeed, Vicot shuddered, went limp, and sank whimpering at
his master's feet.
"Now listen to me as well as you're able," continued Radwalader. "If you
stir hand or foot in this matter, you're a lost man. It's no longer the
old story: you know what's at stake _now_! I don't know what this
madness of yours may lead you to, but I've myself to protect, and you
may rest assured I'll do that, no matter at what cost. If, through some
distorted and drunken idea of protecting him, you betray me, I'll hound
you--since you talk of hounding--as never was a man hounded before. I'd
sacrifice not only you, not only Vane, not only the memory of his
mother, but myself into the bargain. If I pull down all Paris about my
ears, I'll beat you, do you hear?--I'll beat you, my man--I'll beat
you!"
As he finished, Vicot dragged himself to his elbows and looked up. His
face was ghastly, and wet with ridiculous insensate tears.
"All right, Radwalader," he whined. "Do as you please, only for God's
sake don't let this get out. If you must have the money, get it from
him, but don't ruin his life--don't let him know. I won't breathe a
word--I swear I won't--and I'll do whatever else you ask of
me--anything--God knows I will!"
He was on his knees now, clutching at Radwalader's coat.
"Now it's all right, isn't it?" he asked. "It's all right between us?
You won't tell, and I won't tell. We understand each other, Radwalader,
don't we?--ha, yes, we understand each other, you and I!"
"_God!_" said Radwalader, flinging him off. "Is it a man or a worm?"
Briefly he stood, looking down at the thing which writhed and whimpered
before him, and then touched it curiously with his foot. A moment later,
the outer door closed behind him with a sullen slam.
For a long time--for five hours and more--Vicot lay where he had fallen.
At first he choked and sobbed, repeating fragments of his miserable
appeal, but gradually even this incoherent murmur died down to silence.
The long summer afternoon stole by; and from the street outside came the
commingled sounds of a busy thoroughfare--the rattle of wheels, the
cries of venders, the clamour of children playing: and still he lay, as
motionless as one dead. It was only when the sunlight swung in
horizontally through the window on the Rue Boissiere, and the bell of a
neighbouring church was striking six, that he stirred, rose, and went
slowly across to stare down into the street. A cab was standing at the
corner--a cab of the Compagnie Urbaine.
Suddenly Vicot smiled.