THE PLEDGE
The violent slam of the front door jarred through the house, then came
the sound of rapid footsteps up the staircase and down the hall. Colonel
Julian Hull hesitated at his bedroom door, stood in thought for fully
three minutes, then continued on his way to a room at the back of the
house which he designated as his “den.” His wife looked up at his
entrance. Her mild blue eyes widened at his disheveled appearance.
“Why, Julian! Is anything wrong?” she asked.
“Wrong?” Colonel Hull flung himself into his desk chair. “Wrong? Is
anything right?”
His wife’s only answer was a patient smile. Thirty years of married life
had accustomed her to his explosive tendencies. She wisely changed the
subject.
“Did Lucille get you on the telephone?” she inquired.
Colonel Hull brought his revolving chair back to its upright position
with a jerk.
“No. Why didn’t you tell me at once that she called up?” He reached for
the instrument resting on his desk. “Just like a woman. Central,”
switching the hook up and down, “Central, Cleveland 64. What’s that?
Special operator—I don’t need her—the number is correct. What? Service
discontinued. Well, I’ll be—” He banged up the receiver and turned,
red-faced, to his wife. “They have cut off their telephone at Ten
Acres.”
“I am not surprised,” replied Mrs. Hull. “They were probably pestered
with calls.”
“But how am I going to reach Lucille?” he demanded.
“Why not motor out there after dinner?”
Colonel Hull’s good looks were marred by a scowl. “I had to leave the
car at the shop—burned out a bearing,” he admitted.
“Julian—your new car!”
“Yes, yes, I know; but I had to get to”—leaving the sentence unfinished
he picked up the evening paper and turned the sheets swiftly until he
came to the financial page, read its quotations, and then flung it down
on the flat-top desk. “Jove, Claire, John’s death has been a frightful
shock. It’s—it’s”—holding out a hand which shook slightly—“it’s unnerved
me.”
Mrs. Hull laid aside her embroidery and looked directly at her husband,
her eyes full of tears.
“John Meredith was a good man,” she said, “and the soul of honor.” She
hesitated, then added in an awe-struck whisper, “Lucille said on the
telephone that the authorities believe he was murdered.”
Her startling news did not have the effect she had anticipated; instead
of the intense excitement she had expected, Colonel Hull nodded his head
solemnly and remained absolutely silent. Mrs. Hull scanned him in
surprise.
It was from her father that Lucille inherited her finely chiseled
features and brilliant coloring, also her tendency to “nerves.” Mrs.
Hull’s phlegmatic disposition matched her colorless appearance. There
was nothing original about Mrs. Hull; she led a parrot-like existence,
taking her ideas of life from her husband and depending upon Lucille for
style in dress and deportment. Her kitchen and housewifely duties
bounded her horizon. A woman of independent means, she had married
Julian Hull at a time when his fortune was at low ebb and in spite of
the fact that he was some five years her junior in age, and, prophecies
to the contrary, the match had turned out most happily. Mrs. Hull had
not shone in society, and it was with inward thanksgiving that she had,
upon Lucille’s debut, laid the reins of entertaining in her daughter’s
clever hands, and retired to her charities and her garden.
“Do you realize what I said, Julian?” she asked finally. “It is thought
that your Cousin John was murdered.”
“I heard you the first time,” he said testily, brushing a hand across
his gray mustache. “I am horrified, yes, but scarcely surprised.”
Catching his wife’s startled look, he added: “John wasn’t the caliber to
commit suicide.”
“But—but why should any one murder him?” she demanded. “He never harmed
any one.”
Hull stirred uneasily in his seat. “It was a shocking crime,” he
answered. “Let us hope the murderer will be caught at once and meet the
punishment he deserves. Did Lucille speak of Anne and her mother?”
“Only to say that Belle was wonderfully calm and collected,” replied
Mrs. Hull. “She did not mention Anne. I gathered that the household was
demoralized—”
“Small wonder,” broke in her husband. “We must go there to-night; I’ll
engage a taxi. What’s the matter?” observing the change in Mrs. Hull’s
expression as he reached again for the telephone.
“I—must I go?” she asked timidly. “You know how scenes distress me.”
Colonel Hull leaned over and patted her gently on the shoulder. “I think
it best, dear,” he said. “We will not stay long.”
Submissive always to his slightest wish, Mrs. Hull rose.
“I will tell Jane to serve dinner as soon as it is ready,” she said.
“You look very tired, Julian; you will feel better after you have had a
good meal,” and, not waiting for an answer, Mrs. Hull sought her
waitress.
Colonel Hull remained in his chair for over five minutes, then rousing
himself he walked to the mantel and lifted down a large silver mirror.
He stared at his reflection with critical eyes.
“Tired—bah!” he muttered, half aloud. “It’s age—and ghosts.” Putting
down the mirror he unlocked a lower section of his desk and took out a
decanter and glass. The cordial brought back his color and relieved his
sense of depression. He was whistling cheerily when, after sending his
telephone message, he went to his room and dressed for dinner.
Eight o’clock came all too soon for Mrs. Hull’s peace of mind. With his
dinner jacket Colonel Hull acquired good humor, and not for many a day
had his wife found him so entertaining. The dinner itself was
particularly appetizing, and it was with a sigh of regret that Mrs. Hull
left the table and went to her bedroom for her wrap.
Ten years before they had given up their old home on Capitol Hill and
moved to a more pretentious house on Wyoming Avenue. The change had
proved more agreeable to Lucille than to her mother, who loved the old
garden and the quaint house, with its air of bygone grandeur. In her
eyes electric lights and English basements did not compensate for homely
comfort and the peace of a street not frequented by automobiles.
When Mrs. Hull reached the reception hall on the ground floor she heard
voices coming from the little room which opened from it. At her approach
a young man brushed by Colonel Hull and came to meet her. Under the soft
glow of the shaded hall lights she recognized her husband’s junior
partner.
“Why, Gerald,” she exclaimed in pleased greeting, “I am so glad that you
are here. I understood Lucille to say that you were out of town.”
“I am on my way to the train now,” answered Gerald Armstrong. “I
stopped, thinking that Lucille might be home. The Colonel tells me,
however, that she has remained at Ten Acres.”
“Yes, Cousin Belle asked her to stay—”
“I don’t know why Belle feels called upon to act as chatelaine,”
interrupted her husband. “I suppose she will feel her oats now more than
ever.”
“She is _grande dame”_. Armstrong’s smile only partly covered a sneer.
“John Meredith’s suicide was a frightful thing.”
“But it wasn’t suicide,” broke in Mrs. Hull in her turn. “Lucille said
it was a case of murder.” Armstrong’s step backward brought him under
one of the bracket lights and Mrs. Hull noted with concern his pallor
and the haggard lines in his face. He flushed hotly on meeting her gaze,
and to cover his confusion stroked his fair mustache, which hid the
weakness of his mouth.
“Murder!” he repeated. “It can’t be. Why, John Meredith was beloved, not
hated.”
“That is just what I told Julian,” declared Mrs. Hull. “Lucille said it
wasn’t a burglar, but it _must_ have been.”
“Of course it was.” Armstrong’s voice of conviction pleased Mrs. Hull,
confirming her high opinion of him. It was his custom to side with her
in any family discussion. Swiftly he turned to Colonel Hull. “Did
Lucille tell you that John Meredith left her a million dollars?”
“Good gracious!”
“Well, by Jove!”
The simultaneous exclamations brought a smile to Armstrong’s lips, but
his eyes remained hard and watchful.
“Have you seen Lucille?” he asked.
“No, we are on our way to Ten Acres now,” Mrs. Hull spoke as a person in
a daze, and her husband, immersed in a large silk handkerchief, blew his
nose with vigor. “To think of John leaving such a sum of money to
Lucille! I knew he was fond of the child, but”—she drew a long
breath—“it passes belief!”
“Here is your car,” exclaimed Armstrong, as a taxi puffed its way to the
door and stopped. “Let me help you in, Mrs. Hull,” and taking her firmly
by the elbow he piloted her down the few steps leading to the driveway
which cut across the sidewalk and led to their front door and the garage
in the rear of the house. Colonel Hull followed them more slowly. He did
not speak to Armstrong until the latter had tucked a light lap robe over
his wife’s expensive gown.
“Will you come out with us, Gerald?” he asked, one foot on the running
board. “I am sure Lucille and Anne will be glad to see you.”
Armstrong shook his head. “I haven’t time to make it, Colonel,” he
answered. “Thanks, just the same.” He partly closed the door. “About
Anne,” his voice changed, “there’s a chap out at Ten Acres—David Curtis.
Ever met him?”
Colonel Hull dropped heavily on the seat by his wife’s side.
“David Curtis,” he repeated. “N-on, I can’t say that I have. A banker?”
“A surgeon—and blind at that.” Armstrong shrugged his shoulders. “Anne
is to marry him. Good night,” and he slammed the door shut.
His parting salutation met with no response. Both Colonel Hull and his
wife were temporarily bereft of speech.
Lucille was stifling a yawn when Herman ushered her mother and father
into the drawing-room at Ten Acres. She was unaffectedly glad to see
them.
“I hoped that you would come,” she said, as her father kissed her. “Why
didn’t you get here for the inquest this afternoon, Dad?”
“Couldn’t leave the office—Armstrong didn’t show up—stocks a bit
critical,” Colonel Hull replied jerkily as Mrs. Meredith came toward
them. She had heard the arrival of the taxi when in her boudoir and had
paused only long enough to inspect herself in her mirror before going to
the drawing-room. Hull successfully concealed a frown as he bowed to the
handsome widow; outwardly friends, their mistrust was mutual and of long
duration.
“We expected you earlier in the day, Julian,” she said. “Didn’t Sam
Hollister reach you on the telephone?”
“No.” Hull followed her to the sofa and sat down. “I was told by
‘Central’ that your phone was disconnected.”
“For outsiders, yes, but we can still send calls from here.” She looked
at Lucille and her mother and lowered her voice. “Would you care to see
John?”
Colonel Hull’s ruddy complexion paled. “No,” he answered, with
unnecessary vehemence; then, catching her surprised expression, modified
his tone. “I can do John no good, poor lad! And—and—viewing the body
would be—ah—harrowing. I would like to remember him as I last saw him.”
“And when was that?” asked a quiet voice at his elbow.
Twisting around Hull found himself confronted by a stranger whose
presence had been partly concealed by the wing chair in which he was
seated. Mrs. Meredith viewed Hull’s astonishment with some amusement.
She broke the pause.
“Julian, this is Doctor David Curtis,” she explained. “Doctor Curtis, my
cousin, Colonel Julian Hull.”
Curtis’ long, nervous fingers closed over Colonel Hull’s flabby hand
with a force which made the latter wince. Hull mumbled a greeting and
continued to stare at the sightless man before him. Curtis felt the
scrutiny as he wheeled his chair around so as to make one of the group.
“I am sorry,” he began apologetically. “I thought that you were aware of
my presence. I have been sitting here talking to Miss Hull, and she left
me for a few minutes to find Mr. Hollister. You say”—and Hull was struck
by the way Curtis located without apparent hesitancy each speaker. It
seemed as if his blindness had sharpened his other faculties abnormally.
“You say, Colonel Hull, that you would like to remember John Meredith as
you last saw him. Exactly when were you with him last?”
“What is that to you?” demanded Hull aggressively.
Curtis took time, before answering, to light the cigarette which Mrs.
Meredith, an interested listener, handed to him.
“Mr. Hollister, at the request of Miss Anne Meredith, is acting as her
attorney.” Curtis’ speech was deliberation itself. “And he has asked me
to aid him in clearing up the mystery surrounding John Meredith’s
death—”
“Therefore you try to implicate me,” broke in Hull.
“On the contrary, I asked a very simple question with a view to finding
out how Meredith looked when you last saw him. If I bungled my meaning
you must not take offense,” replied Curtis.
Colonel Hull covered his anger with bluff heartiness, while inwardly
registering a score to settle with the surgeon at some future date.
“Certainly, I’ll answer any questions,” he exclaimed, with a broad
smile. “But you must admit your meaning was a bit obscure—and from a
total stranger; well, we’ll let it go, eh, Belle?” with a sidelong look
at Mrs. Meredith. “What is it you wish to know?”
“When you last saw Meredith, was he agitated or his normal self?”
questioned Curtis.
“Oh, he was a bit excited,” Hull admitted, with an air of candor. “He
called at my office one day last week and got uneasy over stock
quotations. He had been dabbling in oil, against my advice.”
“And that was the last time you saw him?” At Curtis’ polite persistency
Hull’s color deepened, but he was saved reply.
“Dad!” Lucille tapped him on his shoulder. “Mother is waiting in the
hall. She isn’t feeling well,” turning to Mrs. Meredith, who had risen
also, “so don’t keep her waiting, Dad.”
“I’ll come at once.” Colonel Hull waited courteously for Curtis to
precede him. “I am told, little girl, that John left you a very handsome
fortune.”
“In a codicil to his will,” Mrs. Meredith replied for Lucille who, a
step or two ahead, had not caught her father’s remark. “Unfortunately
the codicil cannot be found.”
Colonel Hull stopped dead in his tracks and glared at Mrs. Meredith.
“What’s that?” he demanded. “Do you mean the codicil has been
suppressed—stolen, if you like it better?” meeting Mrs. Meredith’s stony
look with angry eyes.
“Dad!” Lucille laid a restraining hand on his arm and pressed it
warningly. “Don’t excite yourself. You will alarm mother.”
Mrs. Hull, who had been too nervous to keep still, stopped her aimless
wandering about the square hall and waited for their arrival. Lucille,
in advance of the others, turned to Curtis.
“Mother,” she said, “let me introduce Doctor David Curtis,” she
hesitated before adding, “Anne’s fiance.”
“I am very pleased to meet you.” _Savoir faire_ was not Mrs. Hull’s
strong point, and that she was ill at ease was as apparent to Curtis,
sensitive of his surroundings, as it was to his companions. She shook
his hand listlessly, then dropped it and pulled her evening cloak up
about her shoulders.
“The taxi is at the door,” announced Colonel Hull. “Come, Claire.” But
she lingered a moment to address Mrs. Meredith.
“When will John be buried?” she asked in an undertone.
“We will hold funeral services to-morrow morning in the chapel at Oak
Hill,” responded Mrs. Meredith. “Only the family will be present. I
thought Sam Hollister had told you of the arrangements; he has them in
charge.”
“I haven’t seen Sam.” Mrs. Hull kissed Lucille warmly, and then shook
hands with Curtis before she moved toward the front door. “Good night,
doctor. Oh, Belle,” with a change of tone, “it does make me feel so
badly to come here and not find John. He was so genial, so kind. Only
the last time I talked with him about Julian’s career, he said I was my
husband’s lodestar.”
Mrs. Meredith did not answer in words. After administering a cold kiss
on Mrs. Hull’s flushed cheek, and with a wave of her hand to the
Colonel, she turned back to Curtis, who stood waiting near the entrance
to the library.
“Lodestar is good, only spell it ‘load’” she commented, caustically, but
keeping her voice lowered so that it would not reach the Hulls. “John
had quite a sense of humor.”
Curtis smiled. “Are you going upstairs, Mrs. Meredith?” he asked.
“Yes—and you?” pausing on the lower step.
“I’ll smoke awhile in the library; it is only nine o’clock,” as the
clock chimed the hour. “Good night.”
“Good night,” she echoed, and continued up the staircase.
Curtis listened until her soft footfall faded away in the distance, then
turned thoughtfully and entered the library. The servants had spent but
scant time after the inquest in replacing the furniture in its
accustomed places, and Curtis found some difficulty in moving about.
“Oh, do be careful,” exclaimed a soft voice to his right, and a hand
touched his. “This way. I,” her dignity sat quaintly upon her, “I am
Anne.”
“As if it could be any one else!” Curtis spoke with involuntary fervor,
and Anne laughed shyly, then recollection returned to her, and her
expression grew serious.
“I came downstairs hoping to find you,” she explained, her color
mounting. “When I heard Cousin Claire and Cousin Julian talking in the
drawing-room I came in here to wait until they left. I want,” she
hesitated, selecting her words carefully, “to speak of Uncle John’s plan
for—for our marriage.” The last words came with a rush, then she paused,
tongue-tied.
Curtis Came to her rescue. “I understand,” he began gravely. “We will
call the whole affair off. In other words,” striving to spare her
embarrassment, “I release you from your promise.”
She plucked nervously at her gown. “It is you who do not understand,”
she said. “I don’t wish to be released.”
Curtis raised his head. Had his ears played him false?
“You mean,” he asked slowly, “that you wish to go on with the marriage
ceremony?”
“Yes.” The affirmative was little more than a whisper.
“But,” it was his turn to hesitate, “it seems now that you are very
wealthy; it is not necessary to carry out the bargain your uncle wished
to force upon you.”
She did not answer at once. “I gave my word to him,” she murmured. “I
cannot break faith with the dead.”
The ticking of the mantel clock was distinctly audible in the silence.
Suddenly she spoke again, a catch in her voice.
“You hesitate—you do not wish to—to marry me?” she asked.
The hot color mounted to his brow and then receded.
“I only hesitate on your account,” he said. “In marrying me you will be
tied to a blind man—a failure.”
She did not reply at once. Instead, Curtis heard her move backward a few
steps and then a slight click sounded as an electric lamp was switched
on. Anne turned and regarded Curtis gravely under its direct rays. There
was none too much flesh even yet on the tall, straight figure, but the
air of alertness and poise which had formerly been characteristic had
returned to him. His face still bore traces of mental suffering,
although its unyouthful sadness had been effaced.
“Because it is a bargain,” Curtis’ voice startled her from her
contemplation of him, “I wish it to be a fair one. You are offering me
the wherewithal to live. I can offer you nothing—”
“Perhaps,” she broke in swiftly, “I crave your friendship, your aid.”
Curtis felt his heart skip a beat and then race on.
“I will do anything, _anything_ for you,” he replied, a trifle
unsteadily. “And will gladly carry out your uncle’s plan.”
“Thank God!” she whispered.
The portières were thrust back suddenly and Mrs. Meredith stood on the
threshold, with Hollister behind her.
“You may go to your room, Anne,” she said in icy tones.
A second later the portières dropped back into place and Curtis was
alone.