Читать книгу A Battle for Right; Or, A Clash of Wits - Carter Nicholas - Страница 7

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It is hardly necessary to relate that Douglas took the part Bob Gordon should have played, and gave the burly Dan Mosely the trouncing of his life. That followed, as a matter of course. The fellow had to be punished for insulting the singer, and if Gordon would not do the work, why, Mackenzie Douglas was only too pleased to take on the job.

But Bob Gordon did not wait to see the battle.

“Coward!”

The hateful, ignominious word seemed to pursue him, as, with bent head, he forced his way through the crowd to escape from the garden. Once clear of the lights and jeering faces, he strode rapidly to a remote part of the extensive grounds that were all part of the Savoy premises.

What should he do? He could not stay up in the woods and work as a lumberman any longer. The men would make life unbearable for him—unless he were to fight a few of them.

“No, I cannot do that!” he moaned. “I cannot do that!”

It was as he uttered this lament in an incoherent wail that was somehow like the cry of a wounded animal, that a white figure came bounding toward him among the trees.

“Oh, Mr. Gordon!” she panted. “I had to come and thank you for taking my part so nobly!”

“Nobly?” he echoed bitterly. “Don’t you know that there was more of it after that, and that I was anything but noble then?”

“I know,” she answered. “And I think you were quite right. You’d done enough.”

“They call me a coward!”

“What of that?” demanded the girl, her eyes sparkling in her anger as she thought of the attack on Gordon. “You’re not a coward! You’ve given too many proofs that you are just the reverse. Just because you would not fight that big ruffian! Call you a coward! Why, I saw his head towering far above yours. He is a giant!”

Bob Gordon flushed. He knew that the girl’s excuse for him was well meant. But it hardly soothed him or helped to restore his self-respect.

“It wasn’t that,” he assured her hastily. “I was not afraid of him—not of him! I wish you would believe that, Bessie, although I’m afraid no one else ever will.”

“What was it, then?”

“Just this: I once—in a fight—killed a man!”

She recoiled a little. It was an involuntary movement, but Gordon saw it, and it caused him to continue quickly:

“I never meant to do it, Heaven knows. But we’d quarreled, and it came to a fight. I remember that. But I swear I do not recall striking a blow hard enough to kill him. It was on the point of the jaw, and he fell senseless. But he should have recovered in a few seconds. It was not a deadly blow, ordinarily. We had both been drinking. That—that is why I never touch liquor now, Bessie.”

“Perhaps you didn’t kill him,” she whispered. “Perhaps he was not really dead.”

“Yes, he was. A doctor was in the room—a friend of mine. He examined him, and pronounced him quite dead. Then I ran away.”

“And that is all you know about it?”

“I heard afterward that the coroner’s jury found a verdict of ‘Accidental death.’”

“Then you have nothing to fear.”

“My own conscience. And, if I were to go back home, there are persons who know that I killed Richard Jarvis. My father is a wealthy, influential man, and he may have hushed it up. But I know. So does he.”

“Haven’t you had any letters from your father, or anybody at your home, since you left?”

“No. It was two years ago that I left, and nobody knows where I am. I have been up in the back country ever since, and I have changed my name, too. I won’t tell you my real name. It would not do any good. But you and I have been friends, and I don’t want you to think I’m a coward. That’s why I’ve told you my story.”

“I understand.”

“I’m sure you do. When I knew that Richard Jarvis was dead, I made a solemn vow never to fight again, no matter what might be the circumstances. It has been a hard vow to keep, but I’ve done it somehow. I never had to be called a coward on account of it until to-night, however. That is why I’m going away.”

“I should advise you to go home,” she murmured. “You say your father is wealthy. I always felt sure that you were not the sort of man you have allowed yourself to be regarded out here. You are not an ordinary laborer. Your manners are those of a gentleman. That shows in so many little ways.”

“I’m a murderer!”

“No, no. Don’t use such a word as that. It was not murder—if it happened in a fair fight. Any of the men about here would say you had a right to do it.”

“That may be. But it would not be looked at in that way in my home near New York. I am convinced that if I were to go back I should be arrested and have to go through all the horrors of a trial for murder. The end would be, very likely, the electric chair in Sing Sing. My blood turns to water and my heart to ice when I think of such a possibility. I am a coward about that. I am not afraid of death, I believe—of death itself. But to die in that way! The shame of it!”

He shuddered and covered his face with his hands. She touched him gently on the arm.

“Don’t, Mr. Gordon! You torment yourself needlessly. Take my advice and go back home. I must leave you now. My father is going on to play his violin solo. He does a trick act, you know—plays the violin in all sorts of curious ways. Uses only one string, imitates cries of animals and birds, and so on. He doesn’t like to do it, for he is an accomplished musician, and he feels that he is degrading his art. But the audience demands it, and he is such a master of his instrument that he can do anything.”

“Good-bye, Bessie. I am going away from this place. I hope I shall see you again. You and your father travel about, and you’re quite likely to come to some camp where I am. Good-bye! Remember me to your father, Mr. Silvius.”

Before the girl could reply, Bob Gordon—or Howard Milmarsh, which, of course, was his real name—had dashed away into the darkness.

Bessie Silvius made her way slowly to the back of the stage.

It was not until the girl and Bob Gordon had both gone that a man came out from behind a large bush where he had been crouching, listening to the conversation. He was in evening dress, but his shirt front was crumpled and bore stains from the bush, while his whole suit looked as if it needed pressing.

The man was none other than the monologuist who had been hailed by his noisy admirers as “old Joe Stokes.”

He had taken himself off when the row started, because he did not care to be in a battle if it could be helped. Moreover, he had seen the girl following Bob Gordon into the darkness, and he had curiosity to see what there might be between them—if anything. Joe Stokes had a sort of liking for Bessie Silvius himself.

“Well, if this isn’t luck!” was Joe Stokes’ self-addressed remark, as he found himself alone, and ventured to stand up and stretch. “I’ve always had my suspicions about that Bob Gordon. He never seemed to me to be like the other lumbermen. I’ve lived in cities too long, and mixed too much with classy people, not to know a man who has been a gentleman, no matter what kind of clothes he wears. And now this turns out to be—I’ll get into the hotel. I’ll have to work quickly if I’m going to make anything of all this.”

It was easy for him to get to the hotel without being seen by the audience in the garden. They were some distance away from the house, and were at the back of it, besides.

Joe Stokes went around to the front of the long, rambling frame structure, and soon was in his own small bedroom on the third-story.

Opening a shabby but strong trunk—it was the sort of iron-bound thing, built to stand rough usage, which is known as a “theatrical trunk”—he took out a newspaper.

The paper was folded small, so that one particular paragraph was turned outward. The paper was old and dirty, bearing marks of much handling. It was not easy to make out the print, but Stokes had read it before, and he managed to read it without trouble:

“If this should meet the eye of H.M., late of Westchester and New York, he is urgently requested to return home. His father is dead, and he is the heir to the estate.”

Joe Stokes sat on the side of his bed and considered: “‘H.M.’ means ‘Howard Milmarsh,’ of course. It must, for see how the description fits him. And there is five thousand dollars reward for anybody who finds the young man, or gives satisfactory proof of his death. ‘Communications should be sent to Johnson, Robertson & Judkins, attorneys at law, Pine Street, New York,’” he read, from the advertisement. “Good!”

He considered for some minutes. Then he muttered slowly:

“The worst of it is that I’m afraid to go to New York. If the police were to know I was there, it would be the Tombs for mine, and a trip up the river for a few years afterward. I’ll have to think this out.”

He lighted an old pipe, with strong tobacco, and composed himself to study out the problem of getting hold of the five thousand dollars without giving the police a chance to get hold of himself.