AFTER Constance had gone, Jeffard had an exceedingly bad half-hour. For
a time he tramped up and down the deserted corridor, calling himself
hard names and likening his latest obliquity to whatsoever unpardonable
sin has been recorded against the most incorrigible of mankind. Love
had its word, also--outraged love, acknowledged only to be openly
flouted and spat upon; for one may neither do violence to a worthy
passion, nor give rein to an unworthy, without paying for it, blow for
blow. What would she think of him? What could she think, save that she
had wasted her sympathy on a shameless vagabond who had sought to palm
himself off on her and her friends as a gentleman?
The thought of it was stifling. The air of the musty hallway seemed
suddenly to grow suffocating, and the muffled drumming of the
sewing-machine in Margaret Gannon's room jarred upon him until it drove
him forth to wander hot-hearted and desperate in the streets.
Without remembering that he had crossed the viaduct or ascended the
hill, he finally found himself wandering in the Highlands. Drifting
aimlessly on beyond the fringe of suburban houses, he came to the
borders of a shallow pond what time the sun was poising for its plunge
behind the upreared mountain background in the west. It was here, when
he had flung himself down upon the warm brown earth in utter weariness
of soul and body, that his good angel came once more and wrestled with
him.
Looking backward he saw that the angle of the inclined plane had grown
suddenly precipitous within a fortnight. Since the night of his quarrel
with the well-meaning miner, the baize door at the head of the carpeted
stair had been closed to him. In consequence he had been driven to the
lair of a less carefully groomed but more rapacious wild beast whose
keeper offered his patrons a choice between the more serious business
of the gaming-tables, and the lighter diversions of a variety theatre.
Jeffard had seen the interior of the Bijou on the earliest of his
investigative expeditions in Denver, and had gone away sick at heart
at the sight of it. Wherefore it was a measure of the depths to which
he had descended that he could become an habitue of the place, caring
nothing for the misery and depravity which locked arms with all who
breathed its tainted atmosphere.
It was at the Bijou that he had lost the better part of the winnings
rescued by the miner's bit of charitable by-play; and it was there,
also, that he had thrown away the major portion of a second gift from
Lansdale. For two nights in succession the lack of money had kept him
away.
He took out Connie's offering and stared at it with lack-lustre eyes.
With heedful manipulation here was the fuel to feed the fire of
his besetting passion for some hours. Having permitted her to give
and himself to take it, why should he quibble at the manner of its
spending? When he saw that hesitancy implied another attempt to turn
back at the eleventh hour, he felt that this was no longer possible.
Try as he might, the shame of this last infamous thing would reach out
and drag him back into the mire.
The alternative disposed of, the matter simplified itself. He had only
to determine whether he should end it all before or after he had flung
away this bit of yellow metal. The decision was so nicely balanced
that he let it turn upon the flipping of the coin--heads for a sudden
plunge into the pond, tails for a final bout with chance and the plunge
afterward.
He spun the gold piece, and went down on his hands and knees to read
the oracle in the fading light. It was the misshapen eagle that stared
back at him from the face of the coin, and he took his reprieve
sullenly, calling his evil genius a usurer.
He got upon his feet stiffly and turned his face toward the city. Then
it occurred to him that it would be well to make his preparations while
he could see. There was a house building on the little knoll above the
pond; a brick and the binding-string from a bundle of lath would serve;
and when he had secured them he sounded the pond around the edges with
a stick. It was too shallow; but from a plank thrown across to the head
of the drainage flume it proved deep enough, and here he left the brick
and the bit of tarred twine.
Half an hour later he entered the Bijou. On the threshold he met the
proprietor; and when he would have passed with a nod, Grim barred the
way.
"Been layin' for you," announced the man of vice, sententiously. "Come
into the box-office."
Jeffard obeyed mechanically. He was in the semi-stupor which
anticipates the delirium of the gaming fever, and the man's voice
sounded afar off. Grim led the way behind the bar to a windowless den
furnished with a roll-top desk and two chairs. Closing the door, he
waved Jeffard to a seat.
"Been sort o' sizin' you up lately, and I put it up that you're out o'
luck. Does that call the turn?"
"I don't know how that concerns you," said Jeffard, with a sudden
access of dull resentment.
"No more do I; but that's neither here nor yonder. You're down on your
luck, ain't you?"
Jeffard nodded. "Call it that, if you like."
"Thought so. Broke most of the time, I reckon?"
"Yes; most of the time."
"Jes' so. Well, I'm goin' to put you on to a soft snap. I know all
about you--who you are, where you come from, and all the rest. You've
been playin' to lose right along, and now I'm goin' to give you a tip
so you can play to win ever' time. See?"
Jeffard came out of his abstraction sufficiently to wonder what the
man was driving at. "Make it short," he rejoined curtly.
Grim leaned back in his pivot-chair, and his hard face wrinkled under
an evil smile.
"Don't be in a rush. Game runs all night, and you'll have plenty of
time to go and blow in whatever you've got after I get through with
you. Or, if you can't wait, go and blow it first, and we'll talk
business afterwards."
"No," Jeffard objected sullenly. "If you have anything to say to me,
say it now."
"Business before pleasure, eh? All right; here's the lay-out. I'm goin'
to stake you with a suit o' good clothes, pay your board at the Albany
or the Brown, whichever you like, and give you a roll to flash up
that'll make you feel flush ever' time you look at it. Then"--
Jeffard's gesture was of impatience.
"Never mind about the details. What is the price of all this?"
"Mighty nigh nothin' at all. You had plenty o' friends a while back,
and you'll have 'em again, as soon as you're flush. And when any of 'em
feel like proddin' the tagger, why--you know where he's kep'; that's
all."
While one might draw a breath there was murder in Jeffard's heart; in
his weakness a rage that was childish in its vehemence took possession
of him, and he covered his face with his hands to crush back the hot
tears of impotence which sprang up and blinded him. Grim looked on
unpityingly, waiting for what he conceived to be the inevitable. When
Jeffard struggled to his feet, his face was white and he had to steady
himself by the back of the chair.
"I thought I'd got to the bottom when I came here to-night," he began
unsteadily, "but you've shown me my mistake. Thank God, I can yet say
No to you, low as I am. Let me get out of here."
Knowing the strength of the gambler's chain, as well as the length
thereof, Grim held his peace; and Jeffard pushed past the bar-tender
and went out through the small door at the end of the bar. On the
sidewalk a crowd beset the theatre entrance, and out of the midst of it
came two men, striking and clutching at each other as they fought their
way into the clear. Within arm's-length of Jeffard they separated. He
saw the sheen of the electric light on a weapon, and darted between
them in time to spoil the aim of the man who drew first. There was a
flash and a report, a rush on the part of the crowd, and Jeffard found
himself dodging and doubling swiftly through dark alleys and crooked
covered ways, following the lead of the man whose life he had saved.
After a time they came out in a silent street where there was light.
"Didn't know me, did you, pardner?" quoth the fugitive, relaxing his
grasp on Jeffard's wrist. "Like as not you wouldn't 'a' done it if you
had, but that don't saw no wood with me. That greaser had the drop on
me, sure's yer born."
Whereupon Jeffard looked again, and recognizing his friendly enemy of
the winning night, was glad, inasmuch as he had been able to cancel an
obligation. None the less, his reply was ungracious enough.
"Oh, it's you, is it? Well, we're quits now. Good-night."
He turned and walked away, but at the corner the man overtook him.
"Not that-a-way," he forbade, pointing up the street. "Somebody in the
crowd'll be sure to know you, and you'll walk slap back into trouble
after I done drug you out. The p'lice are there by this time, an' they
don't care who, so they get a man 'r two to lock up."
Jeffard nodded, and made a circuit of the dangerous locality with his
head up and the light of a steadfast purpose in his eyes. Whatever
of vacillation there was in him an hour earlier had been thoroughly
flailed out in the brief interview with Peter Grim. He knew now what he
had to do, and the precise manner of its doing.
Keeping to the quieter streets, he came out in front of the St. James;
and dodging the crowded lobby, made his way to the writing-room. Since
he dare not go to the clerk for stationery, he was compelled to wait
until some one left what he required. The chance befell presently,
but when he came to write his note to Constance Elliott the thing was
harder to do than he had prefigured it. What he finally wrote, after he
had spoiled two of the three sheets of paper left by his predecessor in
the chair at the writing-table, was this:--
"After what happened this afternoon, you will not think worse of me if
I ask you to let me try to explain what must seem to you too despicable
to be remembered. I can't hope to make you understand without being
frank, and when, at some future time, you may learn the circumstances
under which this is written, I shall hope for forgiveness.
"You may remember that I said I couldn't tell you the truth, because
it concerns a woman. When I add that the woman is yourself, you will
understand. I love you; I think I have been loving you ever since that
evening which you said we were to forget--the evening at the theatre.
Strangely enough, my love for you isn't strong in the strength which
saves. I went from you that night when you had bidden me God-speed
at Mrs. Calmaine's, and within the hour I was once more a penniless
vagabond.
"When you were trying to help me this afternoon, I was trying to keep
from saying that which I could never have a right to say. You pressed
me very hard in your sweet innocence and loving sympathy,--you see,
I am quite frank,--and when you finally gave me a chance to make the
impossible thing that I longed to say still more impossible, I took it
in sheer desperation. Nay, more; I purposed in my heart to so desecrate
your gift as to make the thought of my love for you an unhallowed
memory.
"That is all, I think, save, when it came to the brink, I found that
there was still a deeper depth which was yet unplumbed, and which I
trust I shall have the courage to leave unexplored."
When it was finished he wrapped the gold piece in a bit of paper, and,
putting it in the envelope with the note, set out to find the house in
Colfax Avenue. Having seen it but once, and that in daylight, it was
not singular that it eluded him in the night; but it was surely the
very irony of chance which led him to slip the envelope under the front
door of a house two squares beyond that occupied by the Elliotts, and
which kept him from noticing the placard "For Rent" nailed upon the
very door under which he thrust his message to Constance.
This single preliminary set in order, he faced once more toward the
Highlands, lagging a little from sheer weariness as he went, but
finding comfort in the thought that there would be infinite surcease
from hunger and exhaustion at the end of this last pilgrimage.
There was time for reflection on the way, and he marvelled that
his thoughts dwelt so persistently upon the trivial details of the
thing he was about to do. He was a practiced swimmer; would the
weight of a single brick be sufficient to overcome the instinct of
self-preservation which might assert itself at the last moment?
Probably, since he was weak from fasting, and would be encumbered with
his clothing. Then another suggestion came to torment him: If he should
tie the brick to his feet, as he had thought to, the water might not
be deep enough, after all. Consequently, he must fasten it about his
neck. And thereupon he had a fit of creeping horror at the thought of
drowning with his face dragged down into the ooze and slime of the
bottom.
Oddly enough, when he came to the brink of the pool these things ceased
to trouble him; though even there it was impossible to turn the current
of thought into a reflective channel. He made the effort for decency's
sake. It was not meet that a thinking being should go out of life like
the brutes that perish; without a thought for the past with its lacks
and havings, or the future with its untried possibilities. But the
effort returned to him void, and presently he stumbled upon the reason:
the premeditated fact of self-murder shut him off alike from repentance
for what had gone before, and from hope in what should come after.
Very good, he said; and flung himself down to make the most of the
present. He was faint and weary, and it would be ill to drown a tired
body. There was no moon, but the midsummer night was clear and still.
The stars burned steadily overhead, and there was a soft light abroad
which seemed to be a part of the atmosphere. Over in the west the black
bulk of the range rose up to meet the sky; and poised above one of the
highest peaks the planet Mars swung to its setting. Jeffard marked it,
saying it should be his executioner; that when the rosy point of light
should touch the black sky-line, he would rise up and go to his place.
Meanwhile it was soothing to lie stretched out upon the warm earth
with no human future to prefigure, and no past insistent enough to
disturb one with its annals. And there was still the present, with its
soft light and its dim hemisphere of sky; its balmy air and its vague
and shadowy horizon. It was good to be alone with nature in these last
few moments; to have done with the tiresome world of man's marring; to
be quit of man's presence.
The thought had scarcely shaped itself when it was made of none effect
by the appearance of a man at the top of the little knoll. The intruder
came straight on, as if in no doubt as to his purpose, and sitting down
on the end of the plank bridge, proceeded to fill and light his pipe
without saying a word. Jeffard caught a glimpse of a bearded face by
the flare of the match, and said, "Oh, it's you again, is it?"
"Right you are, pardner. Hope I ain't intrudin'."
"I suppose you have as good a right here as I have. But I might suggest
that the night is fine and the world large, and that there are times
when a man has no use for his fellows."
The new-comer smoked in silence for a full minute before he removed his
pipe to say:--
"That's a sort of a gilt-edged invitation for me to mog off, ain't it?
All right; I'll go pretty middlin' quick; but I've been fool enough to
tramp somewheres nigh ten mile behind you to-night for to get a show
to say what's on my mind; wher'fore, I'll say it first and vamoose
afte'wards."
Jeffard gave him leave, watching the narrowing margin between the star
and the mountain-top.
"Well, b'iled down, it's just about this: I know what you're out yere
for,--seen it in your eye back yonder on the street corner,--but I
says to myself, 'Jim Garvin, you go kinder slow; it ain't none o' your
business. When a man takes a mill-run o' hisself and finds out the
claim ain't worth workin' no longer, w'y, it's his funeral, and none
o' yourn.' And then again I says to myself, 'Maybe that there feller
hain't got nary 'nother claim--leastwise, not as he knows of,' and so I
follered you, all over the blame' town and out yere."
Jeffard made no reply, and the intruder went on.
"'Course, you understand I ain't a-mixin' up any in your business, not
if I know it. You just listen at what I'm goin' to say, and then if you
want to go ahead, w'y, all right, do it; and I'll loan you my gun so 't
you won't have to get yourself wet in cold water. Is that about right?"
"Go on," said Jeffard.
"Well, it's this-a-way; I'm off on a prospectin' tower to-morrow.
Blowed in ever' last thing I had, and took a grub-stake, same as
heretofore. Now the old man that puts up the grub-stake, he says,
says he, 'Jim, you'll want a pardner. It's gettin' pretty late in the
season, and you won't stand no kind of a chance goin' alone.' 'Right
you are,' says I,' and I'll pick up some feller on the range as I go
in.' 'Good enough,' says he. 'I'll make this here order big enough
to stake the two of you.' That's the whole lay-out, and you're the
pardner, if you say the word. You don't know beans about me, and I
don't know you from Adam's off ox, so that's a stand-off. What do you
say?"
Jeffard did not answer until there was but a bare thread of sky between
the star and the peak. Then he said: "Do you happen to have a coin of
any kind about you?"
Garvin tossed a dollar across to him, and Jeffard spun it. Then he
found that he had no match, and asked the miner to give him one. Garvin
watched him curiously as he bent over the coin and struck the match.
"The luck's against me--it's heads," he announced gravely. "I'll go
with you."
Garvin rose and stretched himself stiffly.
"You're a cool one," he commented. "What if it'd been tails?"
Jeffard got up and kicked the brick into the pond. "In that case I
should have been obliged to ask you to lend me your pistol. Let's go
back to town and get something to eat with that dollar. I haven't had
anything since last night."