Читать книгу In the Onyx Lobby - Carolyn Wells - Страница 8

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But, as it turned out, Dorcas hadn't "done it" at all. Bates on reaching his aunt's apartment found no one at home. But very soon Sir Herbert Binney appeared.

"Look here, Richard," he began, "I've taken a fancy to that little girl of yours——"

"She isn't mine."

"You'd like her to be?"

"Very much; in conditions that would please us both."

"Meaning Bunless conditions. I can't offer you those, but I do say now, and, for the last time, if you will take hold of my Bun proposition, I'll give you any salary you want, any interest in the business you ask, and make you my sole heir. I've already done the last, but unless you fall in with my plans now, I'm going to make another will and your name will be among the missing."

"But, Uncle Herbert——"

"I've no time for discussion, my boy; I've to dress for dinner,—I'm going out,—but this thing must be settled now, as far as you're concerned. You've had time enough to think it over, you've had time to discuss it with that pretty little girl of yours,—my, but her eyes flashed as she called me Uncle Bunny! It was a slip,—I saw that, and I pretended to be annoyed, but I liked her all the better for her sauciness. Well, Richard,—yes or no?"

"Can't you give me another twenty-four hours?"

"Not twenty-four minutes! You've hemmed and hawed over this thing as long as I'll stand it! No. You know all the details, all the advantages that I offer you. You know I mean what I say and I'll stand by every word. I'm going to meet the head of a big American concern to-night, and if you turn me down, I shall probably make a deal with him. I'd rather keep my business and my fortune in the family, but if you say no, out you go! So, as a countryman of yours expressed it to-day, you can put up or shut up!"

"All right, sir,—I'll shut up!" and Richard Bates turned on his heel, while Sir Herbert Binney went out of the apartment and slammed the door behind him.

Almost immediately Miss Gurney came in.

"My stars, Ricky!" she exclaimed, "I met Sir Binney Bun in the hall and he looked as if somebody had broken his heart! Has his pet chorus girl given him the mitten?"

"No; I gave it to him. He wants me to sell his precious pies over a counter,—and I can't see myself doing it."

"I should say not! It's a mystery to me how the aristocracy of England go into trade, and if it's a big enough deal, they think it's all right. If it's tea or bread or soap, it doesn't matter, so they sell enough of it. Well, young man, what about your escapade in the Park? Shall I tell your aunt?"

"You said you intended to,—do as you like."

"I won't tell her, if——"

"Oh, you'd better tell me—what is it?"

The cool, incisive tones of Miss Prall interrupted the speakers and Richard's aunt calmly gazed at him and then at Miss Gurney, as she came into the room, seated herself, and began drawing off her gloves.

"I'll tell you myself, Aunt Letitia," said Bates. "I'm old enough not to be bossed and ballyragged by you two women! Forgive me, Aunt Letty, but, truly, Eliza makes me so mad——"

"Go out, Eliza," said Miss Prall, and Eliza went.

"Now, Ricky boy, what is it? About Sir Herbert of course. And I'll stand by you,—if you don't want to go into his business, you shan't——"

"It isn't that at all, Aunt Letitia. Or, at least, that is in the air, too,—up in the air, in fact,—but what Eliza is going to tell you,—and I prefer to tell you myself,—is that I'm in love with——"

"Oh, Richard, I am so glad! You dear boy. I've felt for a long time that if you were interested in one girl—some sweet young girl,—you'd have a sort of anchor and——"

"Yes, but wait a minute,—you don't know who she is."

"And I don't care! I mean, I know you'd love only a dear, innocent nature,—but tell me all about her."

Miss Prall's plain face was lighted with happy smiles of interest and eager anticipation, and she drew her chair nearer her nephew as she waited for him to speak.

Bates looked at her, dreading to shatter her hopes,—as he knew his next words must do.

"Well, to begin with,—she is Dorcas Everett."

Miss Prall's eyes opened in a wide, unbelieving stare, her face paled slowly, her very lips seemed to grow white, so intense and concentrated was her anger.

"No!" she said, at last, in a low tense voice, "you don't mean that. Richard! you can't mean it,—after all I've done for you, after all I've hoped for you,—and,—I've loved you so——"

"Now, auntie, listen; just you forget and forgive all this old feud business,—for my sake,—and Dorcas'; be noble, rise above your old, petty quarrel with Mrs Everett, and give us your bond of peace as a wedding present."

His pleading tones, his hopeful smile held Miss Prall's attention for a moment, and then she blazed forth:

"Richard Bates, I cannot believe it. Ingrate! Snake in the grass! To deceive me,—to carry on an affair like this, for you must have done so,—under my very nose, and keep it all so sly! Dorcas Everett! daughter of my enemy,—my long time foe,—the most despicable woman in the world! And, knowing all about it, you deliberately cultivate the acquaintance of her daughter and secretly go on to the point of wanting to marry her! I can't believe it! It's too monstrous! Were there no other girls in the world,—in your life,—that you must choose that one? You can't have been so diabolical as to have done it purposely to break my heart!"

"Oh, no, Auntie, I didn't do that! I chanced to meet Dorcas,—one day at Janet Fayre's,—and, somehow, we both fell in love at once!"

"Stop! don't tell me another word! Get out, Eliza!" as Miss Gurney reappeared at the door. "I told you to get out! Now, stay out! Get away from me, Richard; you can't help any by trying to fawn around me! You don't know what you've done,—I grant you that! You don't know—you can't know,—how you've crucified me!"

Springing up from her chair, Miss Prall darted from the room, and out into the hall. Down one flight of stairs she ran, and furiously pealed the bell of Mrs Everett's apartment on the floor below.

The maid who opened the door was startled at the visitor's appearance, but the angry caller asked for no one; she pushed her way past the servant, and faced Mrs Everett in her own reception room.

"Do you know what's going on, Adeline Everett? Do you know that your daughter is—is interested in my nephew? Answer me that!"

"I don't know it, and I don't believe it," returned Mrs Everett, a plump, blonde matron, whose touched-up golden hair was allowed to show no gray, and whose faintly pink cheeks were solicitously cared for.

"Ask her!" quivered Letitia Prall's angry voice, and she clenched her long thin fingers in ill-controlled rage.

"I will; she's in the next room. Come in here, Dorcas. Tell Miss Prall she is mistaken,—presumptuously mistaken."

The haughty stare with which the hostess regarded her guest continued until Dorcas, coming in, said, with a pretty blush and smile, "I'm afraid she isn't mistaken, Mother."

"Just what do you mean?" Mrs Everett asked, icily, transferring her gaze to her daughter.

Very sweet and appealing Dorcas looked as she realized the crucial moment had arrived. Now she must take her stand for all time. Her big, dark eyes turned from one furious face to the other as the two women waited her response. Her face paled a little as she saw their attitude, their implacable wrath, their hatred of each other, and their momentarily suspended judgment of herself. Yet she stood her ground. With a pretty dignity, she spoke quietly and in a calm, steady voice:

"I heard what Miss Prall said," she began, "I couldn't help it, as I was so near, and all I can say is, that it is true. I am not only interested in Richard Bates, but I love him. He loves me,—and we hope—oh, mumsie,—be kind!—we hope you two will make up your quarrel for our sakes!"

"Go to your room, Dorcas," her mother said, and in those words the girl read her doom. She knew her mother well, and she saw beyond all shadow of doubt that there was no leniency to be hoped for. She sensed in her mother's expression as she pronounced the short sentence, an absolute and immutable decision. She might as well plead for the moon, as for her mother's permission to be interested in Letitia Prall's nephew.

"Wait a minute," countermanded Miss Prall. "Answer me this, Dorcas. Are you and my nephew engaged? Has it come to that?"

"Yes," the girl answered, thinking quickly, and deciding it best to force the issue.

"Hush!" commanded her mother; "go to your room!"

Mrs Everett fairly pushed her daughter through the door, closed it, and then said: "There is little need of further remark on this subject. We might have known it would come,—at least we might have feared it. One of us must leave this house. Will you go or shall I?"

"You take no thought of the young people's heart-break?"

"I do not! Dorcas will get over it; I don't care whether your nephew does or not. I can take care of my child, and that's all that interests me."

"You think you can,—but perhaps you do not know the depth of their attachment or the strength of their wills."

"It is not for you, an unmarried woman, to instruct me in the ways of young lovers! I repeat, Letitia Prall, I can take care of my daughter. Her welfare in no way concerns you. I am only thankful we discovered this state of things before it is too late. Good Heavens! You don't suppose it is too late, do you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You don't suppose those young idiots are—married!"

"Of course not! My Richard is above such clandestine ways!"

"Your Richard isn't above anything! My Dorcas is, but—he might have persuaded her—oh, well, I'll attend to Dorcas. There is no need for you to tarry longer."

The exaggerated courtesy of her manner goaded Miss Prall to rudeness.

"I shall stay as long as I like," she returned, stubbornly sitting still. "There is more to be said, Adeline Everett. There is more to be done. I want your assurance that you will move away,—it doesn't suit my plans to leave this house,—and that you will take your forward and designing daughter far enough to keep her from maneuvering to ensnare my nephew."

"I shall be only too glad to take my daughter away from the vicinity of your crack-brained charge! What has Dick Bates ever done? He has never earned a dollar for himself!"

"He doesn't need to. He is a genius; he will yet astonish the world with his inventions. You know me well enough to know that I speak truth. Moreover, he is his uncle's sole heir!"

"Binney, the Bun man!"

"Yes, Sir Herbert Binney, proprietor of the famous Binney's Buns. But, look here, Adeline," the absorption in her nephew's interest blotted out for the moment her scorn of the other woman, "Uncle Binney favors the match."

"What match?" Mrs Everett was honestly blank.

"Between Richard and Dorcas."

"Why, he doesn't know Dorcas."

"He has seen her, and anyway, he'd approve of any nice girl that Rick cared for. You see, Sir Herbert wanted the boy to marry and settle down and become the American branch of Binney's Buns."

"My daughter the wife of a baker! No, thank you! You know me, Letitia Prall, well enough to know my ambitions for Dorcas. She shall marry the man I choose for her,—and he will not be a baker! Nor," and her face was drawn with sudden anger, "nor will he be Richard Bates!"

"Indeed he will not!" and Miss Prall rose and flounced out of the place.

In his own small but attractive apartment, Sir Herbert Binney was dressing for dinner. Always a careful dresser, he was unusually particular this evening. His man, Peters, thought he had never seen his master so fussed over the minor details of his apparel. Also, Sir Herbert was preoccupied. Usually he chatted cheerily, but to-night he was thoughtful, almost moody.

"A cab, sir?" said Peters, half afraid that he'd be snapped at for asking an unnecessary question, yet not quite certain that a cab was desired.

"Yes," was the absent-minded response, and Peters passed on the word by telephone to the doorman below.

Then, satisfactorily turned out, Sir Herbert left his rooms and touched the elevator bell.

Once in the car, and seeing the pretty elevator girl, his mood brightened.

"Good evening, Daisy," he said, "give me one kiss for good luck. This is my busy day."

He carelessly put an arm round her, and kissed her lightly on the lips, even as he spoke. The girl was taken by surprise, and anger surged up in her soul.

"You coward!" she cried, wrenching herself free with difficulty and mindful of her elevator gear. "Take shame to yourself, sir, for insulting a defenseless girl!"

"Oh, come now, chicken, that didn't hurt you! I'm only a jollier. Forget it, and I'll give you a big box of candy."

"I'll never forget it, sir, and if you try that again——"

The dire threat was not pronounced, for just then the car reached the ground floor, and the girl flung the door open.

Nearby at the telephone switchboard was another girl, who looked up curiously as the Bun man came out of the elevator. She had overheard the angry voice that seemed to be threatening him, and she was not without knowledge of his ways herself.

But Sir Herbert waved his hand gayly at the telephone girl and also at the news stand girl. Indeed all girls were, in Binney's estimation, born to be waved at.

He had recovered his good nature, and he went along the onyx lobby with a quick stride, looking at his watch as he walked.

"Taxi ready?" he said to the obsequious doorman.

"Yes, sir,—yes, Sir Herbert. Here you are."

"And here you are," the Englishman returned, with a generous bestowal of silver.

"To the Hotel Magnifique," he said, and his cab rolled away.

During the evening hours the attendants of The Campanile shifted. The elevator girls were replaced by young men, and the telephone operator was changed. The doorman, too, was another individual, and by midnight no one was on duty who had been on at dusk.

After midnight, the attendants were fewer still, and after two o'clock Bob Moore, the capable and efficient night porter, was covering the door, telephone and elevator all by himself.

This arrangement was always sufficient, as most of the occupants of The Campanile were average citizens, who, if at theater or party, were rarely out later than one or two in the morning.

On this particular night, Moore welcomed four or five theater-goers back home, took them up to their suites and then sat for a long time uninterruptedly reading a detective story, which was his favorite brand of fiction.

At two o'clock Mr Goodwin came in, and Moore took him up to the twelfth floor.

Returning to his post and to his engrossing book, the next arrival was Mr Vail. He belonged on the tenth floor and as they ascended, Moore, full of his story, said:

"Ever read detective stories, Mr Vail?"

"Occasionally; but I haven't much time for reading. Business men like more active recreation."

"Likely so, sir. But I tell you this yarn I'm swallowing is a corker!"

"What's it called?"

"'Murder Will Out,' by Joe Jarvis. It's great! Why, Mr Vail, the victim was killed,—killed, mind you,—in a room that was all locked up——"

"How did the murderer get in?"

"That's just it! How did he? And he left his revolver,——"

"Left his revolver? Then he did get in and get out! Must have been a secret passage——"

"No, sir, there wasn't! That is, the author says so, and all the people,—the characters, you know, try to find one, and they can't! Oh, it's exciting, I'll say! I can't guess how it's coming out."

"I suppose you wouldn't peek over to the last page?"

"No, that spoils a story for me. The fun I get out of it is the trying to ferret out the solution, on my own. That's sport for me. Why, you see, Mr Vail,—but, excuse me, sir, I'm keeping you."

The elevator had stopped at the tenth floor, and Vail had left the car, but he stood waiting till the enthusiastic Moore should pause.

"Oh, well, go on,—what were you saying?"

"Only this, sir. To me, a good detective story is not the one that keeps you guessing,—nor the one that keeps you in fearful suspense as to the outcome, but the one that gives you a chance to solve the riddle yourself. The one that puts all the cards on the table, and gives you a chance at it."

"And you can usually work it out?"

"Sometimes,—not always. But the fun is in trying."

"You ought to have been a detective, Moore. You've the taste for it evidently. Well, good-night; hope you discover the clue and solve the mystery. Shall you finish your book to-night?"

"Oh, yes, sir. I'm more than half way through it."

"Well, tell me in the morning if you guessed right. Good-night, Moore."

"Good-night, Mr. Vail."

The elevator went down, and Bob Moore left the car to return to his book.

But he did not return to the story. A more engrossing one was opened to him at that moment. A glance toward the front doorway showed him a figure of a man, lying in a contorted heap on the floor, about half way between himself and the entrance.

He went wonderingly toward it, his heart beating faster as he drew near.

"Dead!" he breathed softly, to himself, "no, not dead!—oh, my God, it's Sir Herbert Binney!"

In the onyx lobby, at the very foot of one of the tall ornate capitaled columns was the prostrate Binney. Apparently he was a dying man; blood was flowing from some wound, his face was drawn in convulsive agony, from his stiffening fingers he let fall a pencil, but his lips were framing inarticulate words.