Читать книгу The Veiled Man - Ambrose Pratt - Страница 5

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The more Simon thought the matter over, the more puzzled he became. The cousin of an earl had helped him to evade justice—why? It was impossible to take Mr. Deen at the foot of the letter and attribute his peculiar kindness to a hypersensitive repugnance to confide his misfortune to a second strange servant. Simon was too old and experienced a world's Genizen to swallow so flimsy an excuse? He rejected it with contempt, in fact. But he looked for an answer to his question in vain. The veil, too, troubled him greatly. He was willing to believe his master's face unutterably hideous, but he shrunk from accepting mere ugliness as an explanation of such absolute retirement as Mr. Deen indulged in. It was beyond all reason. Men are gregarious animals. Moreover, Mr. Deen professed no hatred of this kind. Simon's instincts were mostly parasitical. Since early manhood, he had preyed furtively and constantly upon his fellow-beings, without rage, but also without pity and without remorse. He was a born spy, an accomplished blackmailer, and a gambler to the soles of his feet. He possessed an unlimited faith in the wickedness of human nature. Immediately he felt safe, and within a week he felt safe, his instincts prompted him to seek a victim whose blood he could devour. He discovered two—the Earl of Cawthorne and his cousin, the veiled man, John Deen.

It may be objected, why the Earl? But if Simon had been asked why the veiled man, he could not have answered. As well ask a blind leech travelling in a certain direction through a forest whither he proceeds. Like such a leech, Simon smelt blood, and to pursue the simile, like the leech Simon followed his nose. That is to say, he watched and he waited. Whenever he could he watched through the keyhole of Mr. Deen's door; but he never saw his master without his veil. Mr. Deen appeared to be a book worm. Except during meal hours, and when exercising with the dumb-bells, as he did for half an hour both morning and evening, he was always reading. His literary tastes were Catholic. His library embraced Tolstoi, Paul de Cock, Balzac, and Herbert Spencer.

As time passed Simon wondered at him more and more. He seemed so contented with his solitude, so happily reconciled to his oblivion, that it was hard to conceive that he had ever been acquainted with another fate. Moreover; his temper was extraordinarily placid. Sometimes he admitted feeling unwell, and the more frequently as the steamer approached the tropics, but he did not complain; he merely mentioned his illness as an excuse for lack of appetite, it seemed that he was incapable of being irritated or put out. Simon tried to annoy him without success. One day as a final experiment, he spilt a cup of hot tea upon Mr. Deen's knees.

"It is quite a relief, Simon," said the veiled man, "to find that you can be clumsy at times." Simon was, in fact, an almost perfect servant. But on that occasion he left the cabin in white fury at his failure. In despair he began to watch the Earl. Lord Cawthorne repaid his efforts, however, scarcely less poorly than Mr. Deen. The young man's life was as simple and as open as the sunlight. He was easily the most popular person aboard the boat. Whenever he appeared men and women clustered round him, and, as if on a preconcerted signal, there arose the sounds of gay talk and merry laughter. Apparently he had no vices. He did not drink, he never gambled, it was very seldom that he smoked. Twice a day he visited his cousin, but his visits were short, and his conversation related only to details of the daily run, or jesting remarks about the other passengers. Simon was sure of that, because he had reduced eavesdropping to an exact science.

It was all very puzzling, very exasperating; for although Simon could discover nothing wherewith to foster his suspicions, he smelt a mystery more acutely with the passing of each day. Before the steamer reached Capetown he felt convinced that he was dealing with a pair of the deepest and most consummate scoundrels in existence, and his desire to fathom the secret had developed into an absorbing passion.

The crisis came, near Teneriffe, on one evening of those balmy days for which the Canaries are famous the wide world over.

The veiled man, throughout the day, had evinced a strangely restless mood. Instead of reading he had paced the floor of his shadowy cabin for hour on hour, and since the fall of dark he had stood before his open porthole, peering out from a narrow slit in his parted curtains, at the thoughtless folk who walked the deck. Simon had come and gone, watching and wondering. The Earl had bidden his cousin good-night, with but a curt response. At 11 o'clock, however, Mr. Deen drew back and closed the shutter of his port. He set his electric fan going, rang the bell, and sat down upon a canvas chair.

Simon entered, discreet servility personified. "Bed, sir?" he asked, after bolting the door.

The veiled man in his own peculiar fashion was lighting a cigar.

"Presently," he replied. "Sit down. I wish to speak to you."

Simon having complied, Mr. Deen leaned back in his chair and fixed the cabin steward with his vizor. Simon had endured many such stares, but had never grown quite accustomed to them nor lost in their infliction an uncanny sense of being measured by unearthly eyes.

"You suit me very well, Simon," said the veiled man.

"I am glad to hear you say so, Mr. Deen."

"And I am glad that you are glad; and if you are sincerely glad, your gladness and my gladness may continue."

"I—I beg your pardon, sir." Simon looked puzzled.

"The faculty of adapting yourself to circumstances is your forte, Simon. My genius lies in the opposite direction. I propose that we join forces."

"Sir—I——"

"I don't need to be informed that you have failed to understand me, Simon. Permit me to be more explicit. I am offering you £10 a month, and a yearly holiday of fourteen days to enter my service. S—s—h, man, don't be in a hurry to accept. I should require you to devote your time to me, and I cannot deny that you will lead a gay life as my servant. When we get to England I intend to shut myself up in a wing of my cousin's castle. Your duties there will be the same as here, with this difference—here I have imposed no bridle on your tongue; there I shall insist upon directing the course of your imagination. In other words, you may lie about me as much as you please, but I must be your fiction editor."

Simon had told so many highly-colored stories to his brother stewards about the veiled man that, although he believed in his heart that Mr. Deen was only guessing brilliantly, he could not repress a guilty start nor prevent his cheeks from coloring.

"I—I assure you, sir——" he began.

"Quite so," interrupted the other. "You are incapable of falsehood, eh? But one of these days, Simon, you will recognise at all events the futility of lying to me."

"Mr. Deen—I——"

"One moment, Simon. Hear me to the end. You have a peculiar talent which I have been delighted to remark—and—and (the veiled man laughed) baffle, Simon. You are a born sp—— No, no; we must not be uncharitable; let us say a born detective, Simon."

Simon's mouth gaped open, but he did not speak. He was utterly confounded.

"I have no idea," resumed the veiled man, "of permitting so choice and rare a gift to run to seed. You shall spy to your heart's content, Simon, but understand me fully—for me, not against me."

Simon had nothing to say.

The veiled man sighed. "A Sydney heart specialist has given me two years to live," he said slowly. "If, during those two years, you serve me faithfully, Simon, you will be the richer by one thousand pounds."

Simon found his tongue. "Oh, sir," he cried, "I shall serve you to the death."

"Say unto death, Simon." The voice cut the air like a sweeping blade. "Let me but suspect you of seeking to forestall your legacy, and I shall destroy you."

Simon was very properly indignant. "If you think me so base——" he angrily commenced.

"I do not, Simon. But since I have warned you—take care!"

"It is true that I am a forger, Mr. Deen. All the same you have no right——"

A cold laugh checked his flow of words, but at the same time it made Simon really enraged; so angry, indeed, that he lost his self-control.

"Anyway, what are you?" he grated out. "Birds of a feather, flock together."

"Thank you, Simon," replied the veiled man, very softly. "You have done me a real kindness. For weeks past I have been vainly endeavoring to read your mind concerning me."

"You're so mighty clever. All of us can't have earls for cousins, though, and wear masks."

"Poor Simon, how mad you look!"

Simon gnashed his teeth, and altogether reckless now, cast behind him the last shred of caution. Bending forward, and sneering like a caged wolf, he hissed—

"Fair play's a jewel, Mister Deen. You have my secret. What is yours?"

"I'll tell you to-morrow, Simon."

"Why not now? Is it murder?"

"No, the reverse."

"What?"

"I saved a man's life to the ruin of my own."

"Tell that yarn to the marines!"

The veiled man stood up. So did Simon. The veiled man put his hands up to the back of his head, and for a moment or two fumbled with the fastenings of his mask. Of a sudden the veil slipped, and Mr. Deen's arms fell to his sides.

As Simon gazed at the smiling face revealed to him a strange idea flashed into his mind. Simon was an imaginative man. He fancied that he listened to a demon choir, who, stationed at some inestimable distance, sang a laughing song whose echoes by some magic filtered to his ears through space and time. The meaning of their song he could not fathom, but he knew well that they laughed at their own pain.

"More closely, Simon," said Mr. Deen. "You are a cynic, but look your fill."

The smiling face approached him, slowly and steadily. Simon watched it with a growing sense of peace, for although he could not move, the fire in his heart was rapidly mounting to his brain. "Thomas put his fingers into Christ's wounds," said Mr. Deen.

Simon sighed and swooned.

Mr. Deen caught the senseless body as it reeled and laid it gently on the couch. He stood erect, his eyes rolling wildly in their sockets.

"Oh, God! Oh, God!" he said. Then, he threw out his hands and laughed.