ONE of the drawbacks of Arcadia is that everybody knows everybody else’s business—and the possibility of this added to Pembroke’s extreme mortification. He thought with dread of the Colonel’s elaborate pretense of knowing nothing whatever about the affair, Mrs. Peyton’s sly rallying, Mr. Cole’s sentimental condolence—it was all very exasperating. But solely to Olivia’s tact and good sense both escaped this. Not one soul was the wiser. Olivia, however she felt, and however skillfully she might avoid meeting Pembroke alone, was apparently so easy, so natural and self-possessed, that it put Pembroke on his mettle. Together they managed to hoodwink the whole county about their private affairs—even Colonel Berkeley, who, if he suspected anything, was afraid to let on, and Miles, whose devotion to Olivia became stronger every day.
Luckily for Pembroke, he could plunge into the heat of his canvass. After he had lost Olivia, the conviction of her value came to him with overpowering force. There was no girl like her. She did not protest and talk about her emotions and analyze them as some women did—Madame Koller, for example—but Pembroke knew there was “more to her,” as Cave said, “than a dozen Eliza Peytons.” Perhaps Cave suspected something, but Pembroke knew he had nothing to fear from his friend’s manly reticence. But to have lost Olivia Berkeley! Pembroke sometimes wondered at himself—at the way in which this loss grew upon him, instead of diminishing with time, as the case usually is with disappointments. Yet all this time he was riding from place to place, speaking, corresponding, as eager to win his election as if he were the happiest of accepted lovers—more so, in fact.
And then, there was that Ahlberg affair to trouble him. Like all the men of his race and generation, he firmly believed there were some cases in which blood must be shed—but a roadside quarrel, in which nothing but personal dislike figured, did not come under that head. Pembroke was fully alive to the folly and wickedness of fighting Ahlberg under the circumstances—but it was now impossible for him to recede. He could only hope and pray that something would turn up to prevent a meeting so indefinitely fixed. But if Ahlberg’s going away were the only thing to count upon, that seemed far enough out of the question, for he stayed on and on at the village tavern, playing cards with young Hibbs and one or two frequenters of the place, riding over to play Madame Koller’s accompaniments, fishing for invitations to dine at Isleham—in short, doing everything that a man of his nature and education could do to kill time. Pembroke could not but think that Ahlberg’s persistence could only mean that he was really and truly waiting for his revenge. So there were a good many things to trouble the “white man’s candidate,” who was to make such a thorough and brilliant canvass, and whose readiness, cheerfulness and indomitable spirit was everywhere remarked upon.
One night, as Pembroke was riding home after a hard day’s work in the upper part of the county, and was just entering the long straggling village street, his horse began to limp painfully. Pembroke dismounted, and found his trusty sorrel had cast a shoe,—a nail had entered his foot, and there was a job for the blacksmith. He led the horse to the blacksmith’s shop, which was still open, although it was past seven o’clock, and on the promise of having the damage repaired in half an hour, walked over to the village tavern.
It was in September, and the air was chilly. The landlord ushered him into what was called the “card room”—the only place there was a fire. A cheery blaze leaped up the wide old-fashioned chimney, and by the light of kerosene lamps, Pembroke saw a card party at a round table in the corner. It was Ahlberg, young Hibbs, his political opponent, and two or three other idle young men of the county.
According to the provincial etiquette, Pembroke was invited to join the game, which he courteously declined on the ground that he was much fatigued and was only waiting for the blacksmith to put his horse’s shoe on before starting for home. The game then proceeded.
Pembroke felt awkward and ill at ease. He knew he was in the way, as the loud laughter from Hibbs and his friends, and Ahlberg’s subdued chuckle had ceased when he came in. They played seriously—it was écarté, a game that Ahlberg had just taught his postulants. Young Hibbs had a huge roll of bills on the table before him, which he somewhat ostentatiously displayed in the presence of his opponent, whose lack of bills was notorious. Also, Pembroke felt that his presence induced young Hibbs to bet more recklessly than ever, as a kind of bravado—and Ahlberg always won, when the stake was worth any thing.
The waiting seemed interminable to Pembroke seated in front of the fire. The conversation related solely to the game. Presently Pembroke started slightly. Ahlberg was giving them some general views on the subject of écarté. Pembroke himself was a good player, and he had never heard this scheme of playing advocated.
Over the mantel was an old-fashioned mirror, tilted forward. Although his back was to the players, Pembroke could see every motion reflected in the glass. He saw Hibbs lose three times running in fifteen minutes.
Pembroke’s sight was keen. He fixed it on the glass and a curious look came into his dark face. Once he made a slight movement as if to rise, but sat still. A second time he half rose and sat down again—nobody in the room had seen the motion. Then, without the slightest warning, he suddenly took three strides over to the card table and, reaching over, seized Ahlberg by the collar, and lifted him bodily up from the table into a standing position.
“Produce that king of spades,” he said.
If he had shot Ahlberg no greater surprise could have been created. Hibbs jumped up, dashing the cards and money in a heap on the floor, and nearly upsetting the table. One of his companions grabbed the lamp to save it.
Ahlberg turned a deathly color, and made some inarticulate effort to be heard, and tried to wrest himself from Pembroke’s grasp. But it was in vain. Pembroke shook him slightly, but never relaxed his hold.
“The king of spades, I say.”
Without a word Ahlberg reached down, and from some unknown depths produced the card. He was no coward, but he was overmastered physically and mentally. He knew in an instant that Pembroke had seen it all, and there was no shadow of escape for him.
Pembroke let go of Ahlberg’s collar, and, taking out a white handkerchief, wiped his hands carefully. Ahlberg had sunk back, panting, in a chair. The grip of a hand like Pembroke’s in the neighborhood of the wind-pipe is calculated to shorten the breath.
Hibbs looked dazed, from one to the other, and then to the floor, where the cards had fallen. The one damning card lay on the table.
“I saw it twice before this, in the glass,” said Pembroke to Hibbs. “Each time I tried to catch him, but he did it so well I couldn’t. But the last time it was perfectly plain,—you see. I could see under the table in the glass. You had better pick up your money, Hibbs.”
At this, Ahlberg spoke up.
“All of it is Monsieur Hibbs’,” he said with elaborate politeness, recovering his breath a little, “except two fifty-dollar notes, which are mine.”
Pembroke picked out the two fifty-dollar notes and dashed them in Ahlberg’s face, who very cleverly caught them and put them in his pocket.
“Mr. Pembroke,” said Hibbs, stammering and blushing, “I—I—hope you won’t say anything about this, sir. It would ruin me—I don’t mean in the canvass, for I tell you truly, sir, I hope you’ll be elected, and if it wasn’t for the party, I’d give up the fight now. But my mother, sir, don’t approve—don’t approve of playing for money—and—”
“You are perfectly safe,” answered Pembroke, “and quite right in your idea of duty to your party, and your dislike to wound your mother is creditable. But as for this dog, he must leave this county at once.”
Ahlberg said not a word. He did not lack mere physical courage, but cheating at cards was, to him, the most heinous offense of which he could be convicted. He had been caught—it was the fortune of war—there was nothing to be said or done. At least, it happened in this out-of-the-way corner of the world, where it could never be known to anybody—for he did not count his acquaintances in the country as anybody, unless—perhaps—Madame Koller. At that he grew pale for the first time. He really wanted Madame Koller’s money. But, in fact, he was somewhat dazed by Pembroke’s way of settling the trouble. It really shocked his ethics to see one gentleman punish another as if he were a bargeman or a coal heaver. These extraordinary Anglo-Saxons! But one thing was plain with him—if he did not remain perfectly quiescent Pembroke was quite capable of throwing him bodily out of the window—and if he had lost his honor, as he called it, there was no reason why he shouldn’t save his bones.
Pembroke, however, although he would have sworn that nothing Ahlberg could do in the way of rascality could surprise him, was as yet amazed, astounded, and almost puzzled by the promptness with which Ahlberg acquiesced in the status which Pembroke established. Ahlberg made no protest of innocence—he did not bluster, or grow desperate, or break down hysterically, as even a very bad man might under the circumstances. He simply saw that if he said anything, he might feel the weight of Pembroke’s arm. Nothing that he could have said or done was as convincing of his thorough moral obtuseness as the way in which he accepted his own exposure.
Just then the landlord opened the door. “Mr. Pembroke, your horse is at the door. It’s going to be a mighty bad night though—there’s a cloud coming up. You’d better stay and join them gentlemen in their game.”
“No, I thank you,” replied Pembroke, and turning to Ahlberg. “Of course, after what has passed, it is out of the question that I should fight you. Good God! I’d just as soon think of fighting a jail bird! Don’t take too long to get out of this county. Good night, Mr. Hibbs—good night—good night.”
Hibbs accompanied him out, and stood by him while he mounted.
“Mr. Pembroke,” he said, holding his hat in his hand, “I’m very much obliged for what you have done for me, and what you have promised. I promise you I’ll never touch a card for money again as long as I live.”
“And don’t touch a card at all with such an infernal rascal as Ahlberg,” answered Pembroke, altogether forgetting sundry agreeable games he had enjoyed with Ahlberg in Paris, and even in that very county—but it had been a good while ago, and Ahlberg had not tried any tricks on him.
This relieved Pembroke of a load of care—the folly of that quarrel was luckily escaped. But he debated seriously with himself whether he ought not to tell Madame Koller of Ahlberg’s behavior, that she might be on her guard against him. In a day or two he heard, what did not surprise him, that Ahlberg was about to leave the country—but at the same time that Madame Koller and her mother were to leave The Beeches rather suddenly. Mrs. Peyton met him in the road, and stopped her carriage to tell him about Eliza Peyton’s consummate folly in allowing that Ahlberg to stick to her like a burr—they actually intended crossing in the same steamer. That determined Pembroke. He rode over to The Beeches, and sitting face to face with Madame Koller in her drawing-room, told her the whole story. Pembroke was somewhat shocked to observe how little she seemed shocked at Ahlberg’s conduct. It was certainly very bad, but—but—she had known him for so long. Pembroke was amazed and disgusted. As he was going, after a brief and very business-like visit, Madame Koller remarked, “And it is so strange about Louis. The very day after it happened, he was notified of his appointment as First Secretary in the Russian diplomatic service—or rather his re-appointment, for he was in it ten years—and he has come into an excellent property—quite a fortune in fact for a first secretary.” Pembroke rode back home slowly and thoughtfully. He had never before realized how totally wanting Madame Koller was in integrity of mind. Olivia Berkeley now—