UNSPOKEN ANTAGONISM
Garrison crossed the room with an active stride and closed the door
firmly.
Dorothy was pale when he turned. She, too, was standing.
"You can see that I've got to be posted a little," he said quietly.
"To err has not ceased to be human."
"You have made no mistakes," said Dorothy in a voice barely above a
whisper. "I didn't expect them. When I found they had come I hardly
knew what to do. And when they declared I had no husband I had to
request you to come."
"Something of the sort was my conclusion," Garrison told her. "I have
blundered along with fact and fiction as best I might, but what am I
supposed to have done that excites them both to insult me?"
Dorothy seemed afraid that the very walls might hear and betray her
secret.
"Your supposed marriage to me is sufficient," she answered in the
lowest of undertones. "You must have guessed that they feel themselves
cheated out of this house and other property left in a relative's will."
"Cheated by your marriage?" said Garrison.
She nodded, watching to see if a look of distrust might appear in the
gaze he bent upon her.
"I wouldn't dare attempt to inform you properly or adequately to-night,
with my uncle in the house," she said. "But please don't believe I've
done anything wrong--and don't desert me now."
She had hardly intended to appeal to him so helplessly, but somehow she
had been so glad to lean upon his strength, since his meeting with her
relatives, that the impulse was not to be resisted. Moreover she felt,
in some strange working of the mind, that she had come to know him as
well within the past half-hour as she had ever known anyone in all her
life. Her trust had gone forth of its own volition, together with her
gratitude and admiration, for the way he had taken up her cause.
"I left the matter entirely with you this afternoon," he said. "I only
wish to know so much as you yourself deem essential. I feel this man
is vindictive, cowardly, and crafty. Are you sure you are safe where
he is?"
"Oh, yes, I'm quite safe, even if it is unpleasant," she told him,
grateful for his evident concern. "If need be, the caretaker would
fight a pack of wolves in my defense."
"This will?" asked Garrison. "When is it going to be settled--when
does it come to probate?"
"I don't quite know."
"When is your real husband coming?" he inquired, more for her own
protection than his own.
She had not admitted, in the afternoon, that she had a husband. She
colored now as she tried to meet his gaze.
"Did I tell you there was such a person?"
"No," said Garrison, "you did not. I thought---- Perhaps that's one
of the many things I am not obliged to know."
"Perhaps." She hesitated a moment, adding: "If you'd rather not go
on----"
She lowered her eyes. He felt a thrill that he could not analyze, it
lay so close to jealousy and hope. And whatever it was, he knew it was
out of the bargain, and not in the least his right.
"It wasn't for myself I asked," he hastened to add. "I'll act my part
till you dismiss me. I only thought if another man were to come upon
the scene----"
The far-off sound of a ringing house-bell came indistinctly to his
ears. Dorothy looked up in his face with a startled light in her great
brown eyes that awoke a new interest within him.
"The bell," she said. "I heard it! Who could be coming here to-night?"
She slipped to the door, drew it open an inch, and listened there
attentively.
Garrison was listening also. The door to the outside steps, in the
hall below, was opened, then presently closed with a slam. The
caretaker had admitted a caller.
"Good! I'd like to see him!" said the voice of a man. "Upstairs?"
Dorothy turned to Garrison with her face as white as chalk.
"Oh, if you had only gone!" she said.
"What's the trouble?" he asked. "Who's come?"
"Perhaps you can slip in my room!" she whispered. "Please hurry!"
She hastened across the apartment to a door, with Garrison following.
The door was locked. She remembered she had locked it herself, from
the farther side, since the advent of her uncle in the house.
She turned to lead him round, by the hall. But the door swung open
abruptly, and a tall, handsome young man was at the threshold. His hat
was on. He was dressed, despite the season, in an overcoat of
extraordinary length, buttoned close round his neck. It concealed him
from his chin to his heels.
"Why, hello, Dot!" he said familiarly, advancing within the room. "You
and your Jerold weren't trying to run away, I hope."
Dorothy struggled against her confusion and alarm.
"Why, no," she faltered. "Cousin Ted, you've never met Mr. Fairfax.
Jerold, this is my cousin, Mr. Theodore Robinson."
"How do you do?" said Garrison, nodding somewhat distantly, since none
of the Robinson group had particularly appealed to his tastes.
"How are you?" responded Dorothy's cousin, with no attempt to conceal
an unfriendly demeanor. Crossing to Dorothy with deliberate intent to
make the most of his relationship, he caught her by the arms.
"How's everything with you, little sweetheart?" he added in his way of
easy intimacy. "What's the matter with my customary kiss?"
Dorothy, with every sign of fear or detestation upon her, seemed wholly
unable to move. He put his arm roughly about her and kissed her twice.
Garrison, watching with feelings ill suppressed, beheld her shrink from
the contact. She appeared to push her cousin off with small effort to
disguise her loathing, and fled to Garrison as if certain of protection.
"What are you scared of?" said young Robinson, moving forward to catch
her again, and laughing in an irritating way. "You used not to----"
Garrison blocked him promptly, subconsciously wondering where he had
heard that laugh before.
"Perhaps that day has passed," he said quietly.
The visitor, still with his hat on, looked Garrison over with anger.
"Jealousy already, hey?" he said. "If you think I'll give up my rights
as a cousin you're off, understand?"
Garrison stifled an impulse to slap the fellow's face.
"What are your rights as a cousin, if I may ask?" he said.
"Wait and see," replied Robinson. "Dot was mighty fond of me
once--hey, Dot?"
Garrison felt certain of his ground in suppressing the fellow.
"Whatever the situation may have been in the past," he said, "it is
very much altered at present."
"Is that so?" demanded Theodore. "Perhaps you'll find the game isn't
quite finished yet."
Dorothy, still white and overwrought, attempted to mediate between the
two.
"I can't let you men start off like this," she said. "I--I'm fond of
you both. I wish you would try to be friendly."
"I'm willing," said her cousin, with a sudden change of front that in
no wise deceived Garrison, and he held forth his hand. "Will you
shake?"
That Dorothy wished him to greet the fellow civilly, and not incur his
ill-feeling. Garrison was sure. He took the proffered hand, as cold
as a fish, and dropped it again immediately.
Theodore laughed, and stepped gracefully away, his long coat swinging
outward with his motion. Garrison caught a gleam of red, where the
coat was parted at the bottom--and he knew where he had heard that
laugh before. The man before him was no other than the one he had seen
next door, dressed in red fleshings as Satan.
It was not to be understood in a moment, and Theodore's parents had
returned once more to the door. Indeed, the old man had beheld the
momentary hand-clasp of the men, and he was nettled.
"Theodore!" he cried; "you're not making friends with a man who's
sneaked off and married Dorothy, I hope! I wouldn't have believed it!"
"Why not?" said his son. "What's done is done."
His mother said: "Why have you got on an overcoat such a night as this?"
"Because I like it," said Theodore.
Garrison knew better. He wondered what the whole game signified.
The old man was glaring at him sharply.
"I should think for a man who has to leave at nine your time is getting
short," he said. "Perhaps your story was invented."
Garrison took out his watch. The fiction would have to be played to
the end. The hour lacked twenty minutes of nine. He must presently
depart, yet he felt that Dorothy might need protection. Having made up
his mind that a marriage had doubtless been planned between Dorothy and
Theodore--on the man's part for the purpose of acquiring valuable
property, probably veiled to Dorothy--he felt she might not be safe if
abandoned to their power.
He had found himself plunged into complications on which it had not
been possible to count, but notwithstanding which he meant to remain by
Dorothy with the utmost resolution. He had not acknowledged that the
charm she exercised upon him lay perilously close to the tenderest of
passions, but tried to convince himself his present desire was merely
to see this business to the end.
It certainly piqued him to find himself obliged to leave with so much
of the evening's proceedings veiled in mystery. He would have been
glad to know more of what it meant to have this cousin, Theodore,
masquerading as the devil in one house, and covering all the signs here
at home. He was absolutely helpless in the situation. He knew that
Dorothy wished him to depart. She could not, of course, do otherwise.
"Thank you," he said to the elder Robinson. "I must leave in fifteen
minutes."
Dorothy looked at him strangely. She could not permit him to stay, yet
she felt the need of every possible safeguard, now that her cousin had
appeared. The strange trust and confidence she felt in Garrison had
given her new hope and strength. To know he must go in the next few
minutes, leaving her there with the Robinsons, afflicted her abruptly
with a sense of desolation.
Yet there was nothing she could say or do to prevent his immediate
retreat.
Young Robinson, made aware that Garrison would soon be departing,
appeared to be slightly excited.
"I'll go down and 'phone for my suit-case," he said, and he left the
room at once.
Aunt Jill and old Robinson sat down. It was quite impossible for
Garrison to ask them again to retire. Dorothy crossed the room and
seated herself before the piano. Garrison followed, and stood there at
her side.
She had no spirit for music, and no inclination to play, nevertheless
she permitted her hands to wander up and down the keys, calling forth a
sweetly sad bit of Hungarian song that took a potent hold on Garrison's
emotions.
"Is there anything I can do but go?" he murmured, his voice well masked
by the melody. "Do you think you may need me very soon?"
"I do not know. I hope not," she answered, for him alone to hear.
"I'm sorry it's been so disagreeable. Do you really have to go away
from town?"
"Yes."
"To-day you said you had no employment."
"It was true. Employment came within ten minutes of your leaving. I
took it. For you know you hardly expected to require my services so
soon."
She played a trifle louder, and asked him:
"Where are you going?"
"To Branchville and Hickwood."
The playing suddenly ceased. She looked up at him swiftly. In nervous
haste she resumed her music.
"Not on detective work? You mentioned insurance."
"It concerns insurance."
She was silent for a moment.
"When do you return?"
"I hardly know," he answered. "And I suppose I've got to start at once
in order to maintain our little fiction."
"Don't forget to write," she said, blushing, as she had before; and she
added: "for appearances." She rose from her seat.
Garrison pulled out his watch and remarked, for the Robinsons to hear:
"Well, I've got to be off."
"Wait a minute, please," said Dorothy, as if possessed by a sudden
impulse, and she ran from the room like a child.
With nothing particularly pleasant to say to the Robinsons, Garrison
approached a center-table and turned the pages of a book.
Dorothy was back in a moment.
"I'll go down to the door," she said.
Garrison said good-night to the Robinsons, who answered curtly. He
closed the door upon them as he left the room.
Dorothy had hastened to the stairs before him, and continued down to
the hall. Her face was intensely white again as she turned about,
drawing from her dress a neat, flat parcel, wrapped in paper.
"I told you to-day that I trust you absolutely," she said, in a nervous
undertone. "I wish you'd take care of this package."
Garrison took it, finding it heavy in his hand. "What is it?" he said.
"Don't try to talk--they'll listen," she cautioned. "Just hurry and
go."
"If you need me, write or wire," he said.
"Good-night!"
She retreated a little way from him, as if she felt he might exact a
husband's right of farewell, which the absence of witnesses made quite
unessential.
"Good-night," she answered, adding wistfully; "I am very grateful,
believe me."
She gave him her hand, and his own hand trembled as he took it.
A moment later he was out upon the street, a wild, sweet pleasure in
his veins.
Across the way a man's dark figure detached itself from the darkness of
a doorstep and followed where Garrison went.
Shadowed to his very door, Garrison came to his humble place of abode
with his mind in a region of dreams.
It was not until he stood in his room, and his hand lay against his
pocket, that he thought again of Dorothy's parcel surrendered to his
keeping. He took it out. He felt he had a right to know its contents.
It had not been sealed.
He removed the paper, disclosing a narrow, shallow box, daintily
covered with leather. It was merely snapped shut with a catch.
He opened it, and an exclamation of astonishment escaped his lips.
It contained two necklaces--one of diamonds and one of pearls, the gems
of both marvelously fine.