Читать книгу Who Killed Caldwell? - Carolyn Wells - Страница 5

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“Why doesn’t he come? It’s mid-afternoon. It’s three o’clock. Afternoon is from one to six, and three is half way there.”

“No, it isn’t, Bruce. Half way between one and six is half-past three. But I think afternoon begins at twelve, post meridian, you know.”

“Lorraine, you know too much. Anyway, if you begin the afternoon at twelve, three is its mid, and it’s three now.”

“He’s bound to be late, anyway,” and Vincent turned back to the magazine he was reading.

“No,” his father said, “Archer was always prompt, I remember that about him very well.”

“Oh, it wouldn’t be his fault; but coming on a journey, there are always delays with trains or boats.”

“Why do you think he is coming on a journey?” Marcia asked. “His letter was posted here in the city.”

“Where do you think he’s been, Dad?” Bruce asked. “Let’s all guess.”

“Overseas, I’d say. He was forever reading books of travel or stories of adventure.”

“Maybe he’s a pirate bold, then. But if he’s already in New York, he may come in his own car.”

“He may come in rags,” put in Vincent.

“Not he!” and Marcia smiled at the idea. “Archer was very fussy about his clothes. He used to lecture me about dressing correctly.”

“And you never forgot it,” Lorraine said. “You are the best dressed woman I know.”

Marcia bridled a little. She was a careful dresser and always looked exactly right. Her fair hair was done in the very latest mode of puffs and rolls, and her light make-up was so deftly applied that it changed her pale countenance into a bright, live face.

Her powder blue house dress was smart and becoming, and she felt, complacently, that Archer must admire her appearance.

She had done all she could with her husband, but Perry was careless by nature and seemed incapable of reform. However, he looked all right, if he wouldn’t tousle his hair too much, and would sit up straight.

Lorraine’s little head knew no puffs and rolls, but was covered with soft brown ringlets, that looked to be natural curls whether they were or not. She wore a red dress, because of a dim memory that Archer liked red. Her face was charming when animated, but when she was quietly self-absorbed, as she so often was, it was not strikingly pretty.

Irving Caldwell sat in a happy daze, taking no note of time, merely waiting to see once more his long lost firstborn.

And then the bell did ring, though they did not hear it, Briggs did go through the hall and open the front door, and, as in a dream, they heard him say, “Mr. Archer,” and they looked up.

The big man stood in the hall doorway and looked at the group in the library.

His brown eyes moved from one face to another, his expression of uncertainty giving way to relief and satisfaction, then breaking into a smile of pleasure.

“It’s all right,” he said, “I didn’t know how you were going to receive me—”

Marcia went forward and laid her hand on his arm.

“Dad first,” he said, and crossed the room to the man in the chair.

Years seemed to fall from the man who rose and grasped the offered hand.

“My boy!” he cried; “my son, my Emily’s son—you are so like your mother. Welcome home, Archer, welcome home.”

His strength flagged, and he sank back into his chair. Marcia hovered round him, with a capsule of amyl nitrite ready in a handkerchief. These were always kept near by, in case of an attack of the dread angina.

“Wait, Father, wait! I must say this, first of all. I didn’t shoot Mr. Morton! That strange man that came along just then, he shot him really. He put the gun back in my hands and then he aimed it at Mr. Morton, and he pulled the trigger—I didn’t!”

“Yes, we learned that, later. He pretended you shot Morton and ran away in fear of the consequences—”

“I did do that; he told me I had killed a man and I must run for my life and never come back. I was so frightened, I ran and ran—”

“Dear boy, let’s leave all that for the moment, and just rejoice that you are back here with us. We want to hear your story, we want to know all about your life while away from us, but first, I must just revel in the blessed certainty that you are with us again. Oh, could your mother but have lived—”

“When, Father—when did she—”

“She lived for two years, and then her gentle heart could bear it no longer and she died of her grief.”

“Perhaps I was a coward to run away, but that man told me I would be hanged by the neck till I was dead unless I got out of this country.”

“Out of the country!” cried Bruce. “Where did you go? Oh, Dad, let him tell us that!”

“Where did you go, Archer?” and Caldwell was as eager to hear the answer as were his children.

“I ran to Bridgeport, hopped a trolley to New York. Of course, I knew all the piers—you know how I was always hanging around the ships—and I slipped aboard a freight ship going to Capetown.”

“Africa!” exclaimed Bruce.

“Yes; and so, you see, I could get no news from you or write to you for a long time. But, as Father says, let us leave my story for another time. The wanderings of Ulysses will keep.”

“You’ve been to school then,” Vincent exclaimed. “You knew nothing of Ulysses when you left here.”

“I’ve had time to get an education, as well as other things. Fourteen years seems to me like a lifetime. I say, Marcia, you’ve grown up a splendid woman. Am I wrong in deducing that gentleman beside you belongs to you?”

“I do, indeed,” the gentleman spoke for himself. “I am Perry Gibbs and your brother-in-law.”

“That’s fine! I congratulate you both. And is this my one-time sweetheart, Lorraine?”

“Yes, I’m Lorraine, but that’s as far as I’ll go.”

“Well, well, we must see about that later. And Bruce! Nearly six feet of him. How goes it, Brother?”

“Fine! Better than ever, now you’re here. When will you tell us all about Africa?”

“Why, why! People don’t tell of their travels any more, it isn’t done. But some day, you and I will take a long walk, and I’ll talk to you like a guide book.”

“Did you have adventures?”

“Nothing but. Now, that subject is dropped. Father, what happened to the man who shot Morton? Who was he?”

“He was no one we knew. He and Morton were rival candidates for some local office, and they had already quarreled furiously. Barron, his name was, and he said he only wanted to lame Morton so he could not be so active in his campaign, and he, Barron, would, be sure of the election. But the jury decided that it was murder in the first degree and I think it was. Anyway, he deserved what he got, because of his dastardly treatment of you. You see, he held out for a long time that you shot Morton by accident, but they broke him down and he finally confessed that he used you as a tool, and that he advised you to make your escape.”

“Thereby ruining my whole life, taking away my home and family and making me an outcast.”

“Why did you run away?” asked Vincent, a bit scornfully. “Why not face the music?”

“I was not very brave, perhaps, but he almost made me believe, at first, that I had fired the shot. And he frightened me out of my wits with his awful face and blazing eyes as he told me I would be hanged by the neck until I was dead, and he illustrated it, by clasping his long fingers round my throat and squeezing until I was almost dead with fright. There was no one to see, and he bade me run hard and fast and never stop till I had put a hundred miles between me and my crime. He suggested I go to Chicago, but I had my own plan and I carried it out. I am glad he paid his penalty, for I have not a forgiving spirit toward him. He ruined my life, he killed my mother, and brought sorrow to my father. You other children were too young to take it hard, and I trust you soon forgot the tragedy. And now, let us all forget it, for today, anyway, and celebrate happily the prodigal’s return.”

“Thank God for your return, my son. I have a wonky heart, but I think your coming will not aggravate it but will prove a cure for it. I have to avoid excitement, but I can’t think a happy excitement will be harmful. We will not hear tales of your adventures just now, but we are all eager for them. Were you—were you ever—er—”

“Broke?” Archer laughed. “I have starved in a dozen countries; I have begged my bread in a score of languages; I have almost died of thirst. And I have lived like a prince at palatial hotels, and have been entertained by monarchs of more than Oriental splendor.”

“Fairy tales?” asked Vincent.

“Not so, but far otherwise. Had I not led a charmed life, I had been dead a hundred times.”

“Say, Arch, will you write a book about it?” asked Bruce with shining eyes.

“Well, I’ll have to think over that. I shall want to get a job of some kind. I hope you’ll help me with that, Father.”

“Maybe. But, here’s the way I look at it. I feel that I owe you fourteen years board and lodging that you haven’t had. So your need of a job isn’t acute.”

“All right, I’ll take a little vacation first, renew old acquaintances and all that. I suppose my school chums have forgotten me and I fear I remember but few of them. My line is civil engineering. I took a few courses in that, and practiced it a lot here and there. But my methods may not suit American ideas.”

“You look robust, Archer, but not rugged. Are you a well man?”

“Oh, yes, Dad, but of late I have lived in India, and the climate and the jungle fever and the snakebite there do not conduce to good health.”

“Why did you stay there?” Vincent asked.

“Oh, hunting diamonds and gold and ivory and one thing and another.”

“India!” Bruce exclaimed. “Did you see the Indian Magic? Did you see the great Rope Trick?”

“Bruce, my child, when anyone asks you about the Great Indian Rope Trick, tell him, on my authority, that there is no such thing. In fact, the natives ask travelers to tell them what it is, for they never heard of it.”

“Are all the wonders of India fakes? I have a whole book about them—”

“Some day we’ll look over your book together, and I’ll explain things to you. They have doctors that pretend they do magic cures, but they are not magic, though some are wonderful.”

“Why didn’t you get one of them to cure your eyelid?” Vincent asked. “You’re really good-looking, except for that.”

“I know,” Archer said. “Do you remember that was coming on before I went away? It grew steadily worse. It doesn’t hurt and it doesn’t bother me any, but it does make me less an Adonis.”

“Couldn’t the voodoo doctors fix it?”

“No, I consulted one or two doctors in London, but the operation would have to be done by a specialist, at great expense, and I was poor then.”

“You must see someone over here,” his father said. “Some plastic surgery man, Crossley will tell us who. Now, Marcia, perhaps Archer would like to see his room, will you call Briggs?”

“I’ll call Briggs, but I’ll go up with him, too.”

“My same old room?”

“No,” Vincent answered him. “I have that room now, I hope you won’t mind changing—it’s so full of my junk and—”

“Oh, that’s all right. I don’t care what room I have.”

He walked with Marcia up the broad stairs, and she led him to the front room opposite his father’s room.

“Why, this is the best guest room!” he exclaimed; “don’t put me here, Marcia!”

“Yes, Father said to. You know the house has been done over a lot; see, you have your own bath and a dressing room, large enough for a smoking room, or whatever you choose to use it for.”

“It’s truly grand. I wonder you’ve stayed in the old house so long.”

“It’s just Dad’s determination. He’s had enormous offers, but he won’t sell. We’d all rather be in one of those big, new apartments. Dad’s room is just across the hall, you know. Our rooms are on the next floor, front, and Vincent has the other front ones. Bruce is back and so is Lorraine. The house is enormous, you know, and lots of room for everybody. There’s a servants’ house now, built in what was the kitchen garden.”

“Any of the old servants here? I suppose not, after so long.”

“Only the cook.”

“Oh, yes, old Molly. She was old when I was here, is she still on deck?”

“Yes, indeed. She’s not so awfully old, about fifty, maybe. What do you think of Lorraine?”

“I haven’t given her much thought as yet. Tell me about Father. Is it a dangerous heart trouble?”

“Oh, yes, if he has a bad attack. But he often goes a long time without any attack at all. We have to watch him closely, that’s all.”

“And you picked a good fellow for yourself, I see. Perry is a genial sort.”

“Yes, he’s all right. Dad thinks he’s lazy—and he is. You stand up for him, won’t you, Arch?”

“Sure I will. Do we dress for dinner?”

“Usually. Tonight, yes, it’s a gala for you. Have you clothes?”

“Oh, yes. English togs, they are. My last society act was in Calcutta, and they’re a swagger lot there. You can see how I look and if you say so, I’ll get some new ones. I’m glad to be home, girl! Do you think they’re all glad?”

“Who? What do you mean?”

“It may be my imagination, but I can’t seem to see very warm welcome in Vincent’s eyes.”

Marcia looked thoughtful.

“I suppose you know the reason for that, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t. What is it?”

“Only that you have put his nose out of joint. He isn’t the oldest son any more.”

And then Marcia went away to her own room, to dress.