Читать книгу The Ancient Highway - James Oliver Curwood - Страница 8

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There she stood, not a day older than she was six years ago—the same yellow hair, the same eyes, the same baby roundness to her smiling red mouth, the same white dress, the same flowery slimness, the same ineradicable something about her that proclaimed her a man-killing rogue right now!

For she was smiling at him, her eyes were shining, her mouth was a round O of delight as she looked at him—seductive—deceitful—impertinent—undeniably pretty!

Benedict's wife!

He continued to stare. His mouth closed slowly. The strength seemed to go out of his legs and body. There was no deception—he was looking at the only person on earth he had ever been afraid of, the woman who had tried to steal Benedict, and who at last had succeeded! Ivan Hurd's blow with the chair rung had had a less stunning effect than this. He gulped, struggling for a word. And he found three.

"Well, I'll be—"

She was laughing! He had always sworn that her round mouth and little white teeth were what had softened Benedict's brain for a time. They were still working, that mouth and the teeth—and the laugh, too. She had the same perfume, very faint but effective—something that stole upon one's senses unfairly, like a thief.

And then, before he could get out of its way, or guess at it, or raise so much as a finger to defend himself—something happened. The Simla widow—it was impossible for him to get that name for her out of his head!—was at his side. In that moment he could not have moved if death had been an inch away. It all happened in an instant. Her arms were around his neck—she was on tiptoe straining her slim body to reach him—she kissed him on the mouth!

That kiss was like an explosion inside him upsetting everything that it had taken him years to build up. It was not a quick, apologetic, Platonic kiss—it was warm, friendly, loving. The touch of the soft mouth was the newest, most astounding thing on earth to Clifton. It came and went like an electrical thrill. He gazed about him in a dazed fashion. He saw a chair, and sank into it.

"Lord, deliver us!" he gasped, looking up at them.

They stood before him like two children, hand in hand, one so ridiculously small and pretty and the other so absurdly tall and angular. And Benedict's face was foolish with happiness!

"Oh, I'm so glad you're not dead!" the widow was purring, and she freed her hand to clasp it with the other in an ecstatic movement at her breast. "When we heard the nasty Chinamen had killed you I cried for a week. Didn't I, lover?" she asked, looking up with adoration at Benedict.

Benedict's chortling chuckle accompanied his nod.

"We've been married for two years, three months and seventeen days counting from ten o'clock this morning," she went on. "Benedict and I were so sorry you didn't know about our happiness before you died!"

Her blue eyes were like a baby's, earnest and truthful and with the last glimmer of coquettishness and laughter gone out of them. It was that look which Clifton had feared most in the days when he had fought to save Benedict.

Then he noticed that her hair was no longer short or in curls. It was a glowing yellow mass about her small head. Its simplicity was stunning. She was quick to see his look.

"I began to let my hair grow three years ago—on account of you," she said. "Benedict said that was why you wouldn't let us get married. Didn't you, lover?"

Again Benedict nodded—like a big, overgrown baby, it seemed to Clifton.

Slowly Clifton rose from his chair. It was odd, he thought, that he felt neither foolish nor embarrassed. His sensation was more like that of an old man, as if years had somehow undermined his feet suddenly. He was sure of one thing—he would be white-headed before he ceased to be an idiot!

The Simla widow had beaten him—and he held out both hands.

"Now that it's all over, I'm glad," he said. "I guess, after all, poor old Bones needs a child like you to care for him. I'm not your enemy any more. I—by George, now that I see you together as you are, both stupidly in love after two years, three months and seventeen days—I love you almost as much as I do Bones!" In that moment the telephone rang.

"I'll answer it," said the widow, and left him alone with Benedict.

"Now, what the devil!" he demanded in a fierce whisper. "How did it happen? Why didn't you tell me?"

"She wouldn't let me," replied Benedict also sotto voce, answering the last question first. "Really, she wouldn't, old chap. When Joe brought the message that you were alive, and would be up tonight, she insisted on giving you a surprise—a pleasant one, she called it—and so she sent the children to bed early—"

"The—what?" gasped Clifton.

"The children," repeated Benedict. "We have two of our own—little Clairette, after her mother, and Benedict Junior, the rascal, after me—and with Joe that made three to get rid of."

"My God!" breathed Clifton.

"We want two more," said Benedict, "and then we're going to quit. Bally good job, I call it!"

The Simla widow reappeared.

"Benedict, there is a lady on the telephone asking for you—and at this hour! Who is she?"

"I can't guess," said Benedict. "I'll find out."

"Two of them—two of them already," mumbled Clifton, gazing after him. "Two—two—two—"

"I beg your pardon, Clifton?"

It was the first time she had called him by that name, and she was so absurdly friendly about it, as if she had been a sister to him all his life, that it was impossible for him not to smile back into her eyes.

"You're a—little brick!" he exclaimed. "Benedict just told me about the children. Is he spoofing me?"

"No, indeed."

"A boy and a girl?"

She nodded. They could hear Benedict's voice droning at the telephone. "Little Benedict is four months old day after tomorrow at a quarter after nine o'clock in the morning, and he looks just like his father," she explained.

"Oh!" Clifton grinned, and a frown puckered the Simla widow's white forehead.

"How did it happen?" he asked then. "Benedict was about to tell me when you called him to the telephone. I thought I had cured you both up in the Simla Hills!"

Benedict's wife dropped her eyes like a child under inquisition, and her fingers played together for a moment in front of her, as if she were puzzled to find an answer. No wonder poor Benedict had been unable to resist her!

"Well, you see, I followed him to England," she said.

"You did—that?"

"Yes. But when I got there he was gone again, so I followed him to Egypt."

She didn't look up, but she could hear Clifton swallow.

"I missed him there," she went on, a penitence so soft that it was almost tearful in her voice, "and I had to go back—and as I knew I couldn't be happy without him—I followed him to Canada. We were married right away."

Clifton dropped back into Benedict's big armchair with a groan.

"And I returned to Canada to get away from changes, emotions, surprise, shock!" he mumbled to himself. "I came for a nice quiet time—and I find—"

Benedict interrupted him. He stood in the doorway. His face had a look in it that reminded Clifton of the days when they had listened to the smash of German shells.

"By Jove, the police are on their way!"

"The police?"

"That's what she says—the girl on the telephone. She won't give her name but seems to know a lot about what happened up at Hurd's. You didn't tell me about her."

"No, I didn't," said Clifton, rising. "Did she have a nice voice?"

"Deucedly to the point, old chap. She insists that Hurd knows you are here and that he has already left with the officers. She gives you five minutes in which to get away, and she wanted me to thank you for what you did to the infernal scoundrel. Said you'd better beat it. Those were the words she used—beat it!"

"I guess she is right," agreed Clifton. "I didn't think Hurd would go to the police."

Benedict's wife clutched his arm. He had never seen in her eyes anything like the fire that flashed in them now.

"The—the beast!" she exclaimed. "Why didn't you kill him instead of propping him up in that chair like a big pig? I'd have choked him with the cigar instead of leaving it in his mouth! I'd have—"

"What do you know about Hurd?" he asked in amazement. "You weren't—"

"Yes, I was," she interrupted him. "I couldn't help stealing down to see how you would take it when Benedict told you I was his wife. But he forgot, or was afraid, and so I listened to what you said about Hurd. I hate him! And if he dares to come here—"

Benedict had gone to the window.

"I can see the lights of a car through the trees," he announced in a mild voice. "It's stopping in front. If you want to be sure of that walk through French Quebec, old chap, I'd advise you to make a leg of it until the thing blows over a little. Ivan Hurd has a mean influence with the city police."

Clifton's face darkened and his hands slowly clenched.

"I thought we had ended it," he said. "I was sure Ivan Hurd would consider the beating I gave him a cheap way of canceling his debt to me. But if he is determined to go on—"

"I must tell you about Hurd," said Benedict, speaking hurriedly. "He is a member of the Provincial Parliament and heads the most powerful reactionary bloc that has ever existed in Quebec politics. He has grafted millions, and his wealth and influence are enormous. Up at Parliament House they call him Le Taureau—the Bull. He is merciless to those who dare to become his enemies, and therefore few oppose him. At the present moment—and especially for you—he is the most dangerous man in Canada!"

"And yet, only a few hours ago, I discovered him to be a yellow coward," said Clifton.

"Men of his type are always cowards—when the final moment comes. That is why Hurd will kill you if he ever gets the chance to do it or have it done in a way harmless to himself—because you are the only man living who has broken through his veneer to reveal him as he really is. If you two had been alone he might have kept the thing to himself and stalked you on the quiet. But you weren't, old chap. A woman or a girl was there, and when you strip a man to his yellow soul before someone he'd give half his life to keep that secret from, why—" Benedict paused with a suggestive shrug of his shoulders.

"Listen!" cried the Simla widow softly.

"They're coming up the gravel," said Benedict.

His voice had fallen back into its drawling coolness. He lighted a cigaret.

"Have you good evidence of the Haipoong affair?" he asked.

"Lost," replied Clifton tersely. "I think the evidence was killed. Anyway he disappeared a month before I left Indo-China."

Benedict nodded.

"Remember the day we ran away from the mud huts up on the Irawadi?" he asked. "We weren't afraid, old top. Just policy."

Clifton grinned.

"Good-by, Bones. I'll go. You'll hear from me soon. Do you suppose the Little Captain here will let you join me later up Mistassiniway, just for a peaceful hike?"

"If you hurry—yes," cried Benedict's wife, a sharp little tremble in her voice. "Quick—they're coming up the steps! Don't let them in, Benedict! We'll go out through the door in the cellar!"

She was gripping Clifton's thumb in her hand, and somehow he found himself hurrying at her side, across the hall, through a door and down a narrow stairway into cool darkness that in another moment was illuminated by an electric bulb. With a finger at the switch Benedict's wife pointed to Clifton's dunnage-pack, and as he took it in his hands they were in darkness again. In the gloom she unbolted a narrow door and a silvery glow of stars and moon lighted up her white dress and golden hair.

Her eyes were strangely bright as they stood for a moment in the light. Voices came to them faintly as Benedict played for time above.

And in this moment Clifton felt creeping over him a sense of humiliation and shame.

"Forgive me," he whispered. "That is all I can ask—and more than I can expect in return for the evil which I tried to do you. But I didn't understand. It was because I loved Benedict. And I thought you—you—"

"I know," she interrupted him, and her hand pressed his softly. "I understand. You thought I would bring him unhappiness. When I do that—I want to die."

"You will care for Joe—for a little while?"

"This is Joe's home, and yours whenever you care to return to it."

He fitted the pack to his shoulders.

She seemed taller when he said good-by. Her eyes were very bright and steady, and he thought that even in these moments of uncertainty and thrill a smile trembled on her lips.

Her voice had in it an odd ring of triumph as she partly closed the door behind him.

"I forgive you, and I pity you," she whispered after him. "You need a wife, just as poor, dear Benedict needed one. Women are different today, you know, and they don't sit around any more weeping and praying for what they want. They get up and go after it—and especially the bobbed-haired ones. And some day I hope another Simla widow will see you, Clifton, and want you, and go after you, and get you, and I pray—oh, yes, I pray dear God that she will have bobbed hair!"

And the door closed behind him, and he heard a little laugh from behind it, and then he walked up and straight out through the moonlight into the cool deep shadows of the trees between him and the freedom of the wide highway.