Читать книгу Unsought Adventure - Howard Angus Kennedy - Страница 12

Table of Contents

“What number did you say?”

The driver had turned half round to ask. He might have noticed the parcel on the seat! Sam kicked himself for leaving it exposed like that.

“Right here,” he said. He had given no number, only the name of the street. He should not have given even that; he should have walked the last few blocks. But the man would not know which house the book went to, anyway.

Sam again tucked the big parcel with difficulty under his coat, and walked slowly to the nearest door, holding the umbrella well down over his head, though scarce a drop was falling now. When the taxi was out of sight, he turned and made for home.

Was it John Gilpin—no, it was his frugal wife, in John’s “Diverting History,” who would not let the carriage come to her door “lest folk should think her proud.” The quotation from that most rollicking tale came into Sam’s head, but provoked no smile, only a frown. His sense of humor was crushed, or chloroformed, like his conscience,—they generally work or play together....

Fiona met him at the door, a soft-voiced pink-and-white blonde of forty overflowing with wifely comfort.

“I know all about it,” she said. “I ’phoned the Fire Department. You must be half dead, my dear boy.” He had always been her dear boy.

She started helping him off with his coat. “I’m all right,” he said quickly, “just take this,”—handing her the umbrella. While her back was turned, he slipped off his coat and laid it, with the parcel inside, on a chair. When THE TRUSTFUL WIFE

she faced him again he caught her arm and led her into the dining-room,—then left her to make toast while he slipped out, smuggled the parcel to his den, and locked it up in a drawer of his desk.

With that off his mind,—no, never off his mind, but out of sight,—he could talk almost freely.

“I’m glad you take it so well,” Fiona said, when he had described the miserable scene—cutting it short at the point of his going round to the lane.

Now he felt his tone had been too cheerful.

“I try to look at the bright side of things,” he said. “You know how anxious I’ve been to get rid of the business. Now it’s got rid of itself. That’s settled.”

“But can you afford it, dear?”

“Yes, I’ve been reckoning up as I came along. The insurance will take care of that. We can buy the old farm, and make the old house very comfortable till we can afford to build. Not on quite the same scale we’ve sometimes talked of, old lady,—but even that may come before long. You see, with my knowledge of books—it would be a pity not to put that to some use; people trust me,—”

“Of course they do. I do myself,”—smiling, and patting his hand. “There’s a rare compliment from a wife, isn’t it? But you’ve earned it, Sam!”

Sam thanked her with a fleeting smile, and hurried on. He generally consulted her about the slightest change in their way of living. Now, with a revolutionary programme forced upon him, he had to force it on her. He was afraid of discussion. You never could tell what awkward searching questions a woman might spring upon you, and Sam was not skilled at fence and parry.

“You can get south after all, Fiona. The last months of winter are always the worst to you. I’ll be very busy getting things settled up, and I’d better take a room down town. This house will find a buyer fast enough. In spring you’ll come back and we’ll go right out to the farm.” Without any reason he could have shaped even in his own mind, he felt desperately anxious to have her away for a while. He must get used to “things” by himself.

“I can trust you even to the extent of a bachelor’s room down town, Sam,—but do you think the most trustful of women would ever dream of letting the most angelic man pack up her things, and strip her house, without her eye upon him?”

Sam replied, “You can have Martha do everything just as you want it before you go, and any extra help you need. While you’re gone, I’ll run up to Vermont and arrange to have the old place fixed up spick and span, so you can just walk right in and make yourself at home as soon as you get back from the south.”

“It all sounds rather breathless,” said Fiona, “but I’ll make no more objections. Now you get to bed, Sam. You’re absolutely worn out.”

“Bed!” He started up. “I must get down town at once. There are the insurance people to be seen, and—all sorts of people.”

The sort of people that owned priceless books and trusted them to honest booksellers, for example. He dreaded the coming interview with Galt, inexpressibly. The sooner he got it over the better. Would the young man be waiting for him at the store, looking hungrily in at the black charnel-pit where his hopes lay buried? If so, would some reporter, also waiting for the bookseller, make up to the bookseller’s victim and worm out the news of his fearful loss?

What flaring headlines would stream across the front page of the paper! The priceless book of books discovered and destroyed in one sensation of a day and night.

Young Galt might still have a hope,—the careful bookseller would surely have put such a treasure in his safe. HONESTY PUTS IN A WORD

The public would have to take his excuse, that the safe was full—but would they? A mighty lame excuse, he had to confess. True, he had not seen that the safe was full till it was too late to get the thing into the bank. But surely, surely, he could have taken out something else and made room for it? Nothing in that safe could begin to compare with the incomparable Gutenberg.

No matter what he said, some blame would fall upon him,—he could see no escape from that. His brother booksellers would be most censorious of all. “He may be honest, but he’s a fool,” he could hear them say. And, when they heard of his quitting business,—“It’s high time!” To all book-lovers, his name would be anathema.

To plead that he was in a hurry, that his wife was waiting dinner,—that would only make matters worse. He would be overwhelmed by a howl of derision ....

Maybe—and he squirmed at this—the poor young man could not come out. The shock of the bad news might have been too much for him, might even have—Sam would not let himself think the word, this time, though he still based all his plans on Galt’s death later on ....

He had been in such a hurry to go, yet he sat there mechanically stirring an empty cup. Fiona’s sympathy took the blessed form of silence.

The sun came out, and shot a ray across the middle of the room. Sam looked over the table and saw a gleam of sunshine on Fiona’s hand. He would not look at her face. Rising, he went to the window; his fingers drummed upon the sill. Suddenly they stopped; a new thought was fighting its way into his unwilling mind.

So simple, too! He had only to unlock that drawer, take the parcel down to the bank, and report its safety to the owner. No excuses needed then, and no deceit,—no trouble, no perilous problems to be solved, nothing but congratulations all round.

A drowning man has been known to spurn the life-buoy. Sam for one moment wavered. Then the quarter-million rose before him and outshone the sun. He turned his back on the window. Kissing his wife goodbye, though still avoiding her eyes, he left the room.

Before his coat was on, a telegram arrived:

“Leaving home. Keep parcel sealed till I return. John Galt.”

The blessed respite! He would have to send Galt his explanation by letter, but that was so much easier. No horrible interview now, no awkward questions, no replies to be chanced on the spur of the moment. He would take infinite pains with that letter, so that when he did meet Galt—if he ever had to—there would be nothing left to be said. With what calculated innocence he would answer every conceivable question in advance, forestall any inclination to censure,—“make an atmosphere!”

Fiona was not the woman to ask “Who’s it from?” or “What’s the matter?” every time Sam got a telegram, so he was spared one little lie. He was thankful for the smallest mercy now.

As she saw him, marching away down the street, his step was light, his head erect, his face serene as ever, until—until one of those plaguy little thoughts came shooting in. Was there no end of them? That single act of his lifting a dowdy parcel from an old tin box in his own cellar, had it flashed a fire signal through the universe and let loose a bombardment of explosive bullets?

That telegram! It showed that Galt had not heard of the destruction of the store where he had left his treasure. Yet, if he had not heard, why had he not addressed this message to the store? What real reason, except full knowledge of the fire, could there be for sending the telegram to Sam’s private house?

This was another nasty kink, and Sam had not succeeded GABRIEL’S TRUMPET

in straightening it out before he reached the insurance company’s office....

Fiona, left alone, had no kinks to unravel, though much quick work to do. From the kitchen rose the tuneful Martha’s voice,—“When Gabriel blows his trumpet in the morning.” To unsuspecting Fiona the words hinted no threat of judgment. She lost no time adjusting her mind to the sudden but agreeable change of prospect. That mental process, and the physical activity of preparing for her journey, went on harmoniously to the soothing accompaniment of the girl’s exalted melody.