IV
KENYON IS DRAWN DEEPER INTO THE MAZE
“A man should always strive to be at his best. He should
never permit a girl to think meanly of him.”
—A Remark of Garry Webster.
AS the ex-lieutenant of Nunez followed the girl and Forrester from the room, he was both pleased and resentful. The pleasure came from the fact that he had judged correctly as to the charming reality under the icy veneer.
“It’s all assumed,” he told himself. “The rôle of the haughty, suspicious woman is but a rôle. Beneath it is a nature as sweet as one could desire; I had a glimpse of it as she came in; it was only a glimpse but it was enough.”
But why she wore this mask, and apparently for his special benefit, he could not understand. It was this that caused the resentment.
“I haven’t done anything to merit it,” muttered he. “It’s the first time she ever saw me, and it’s not quite the right sort of thing to take snap judgments that way.”
Hong Yo was left in the room below, still seated in the chair by the wall and still deep in thought. Indeed, he had scarcely raised his head upon the girl’s entrance; however, as Kenyon was closing the door behind him, he fancied that he caught a glimpse of the sunken, slanting eyes.
“Pah!” muttered the young adventurer, shudderingly. “He’s more like a death’s-head than ever! I don’t want to do anyone an injustice, for I really do dislike snap judgments, but if there is anything wrong here, which there decidedly seems to be, why, our friend Hong Yo is most intimately concerned in it.”
Both young men followed the girl up the staircase and into a dimly lighted room upon the second floor. An aged, white-bearded man lay upon a bed; in a chair beside him sat a tall girl with a great crown of golden hair; she was pale-faced and anxious; her attitude was watchful.
As they entered, the sick man struggled up; the girl bent and whispered something to him, and a look of joy came into his face.
“You are welcome, my friends,” he said, weakly. “And I thank you.”
Both men bowed gravely, and then the old man turned peeringly to Kenyon.
“And so, you have come at last! Welcome. But pardon; I cannot see you very well. My eyes are growing dim.”
He held out a shaking hand, and Kenyon took it in his strong clasp.
“It’s a sort of obsession,” Kenyon told himself, as he alternately looked at the sick man and those at his bedside. “I don’t know these people. I’ve never seen any of them before to-night, and they can’t possibly know me.”
And yet the supreme confidence of them all seemed to assure him that he was wrong. It was as though, in some odd way, a page had been torn from the book of his life—a page in which these characters had played a part, and which he had completely forgotten.
The weak old man exercised the same effect upon him as the check. He felt that he could not undertake another step in the matter until all had been made clear to him. To go groping forward in this way was distasteful, dishonest, criminal! Turning an irresolute look upon the others, he caught the dark, steadfast eyes of the girl of the hansom cab. His face flushed hotly.
“What a hesitating idiot she must think me,” he muttered, angrily. “She expects me to go ahead. So go ahead I will!”
The touch of his hand seemed somehow to give the old man strength.
“What a pity,” he said, waveringly, “that Nunez should not have lived. Ah, his was the brain to plan; his was the daring spirit to lead.” Then, eagerly, “Tell me of his end.”
“He died like a soldier,” answered Kenyon, gravely. “He held Montevideo as long as courage and skill could hold it; and when he went down, it was in the center of the plaza, with his face to the enemy.”
With difficulty the old man struggled to an upright position.
“In an hour,” said he, whisperingly, “I too, shall be dead.”
With a sharp cry the golden-haired girl sank upon her knees beside the bed; the other bent over the old man, whispering soothingly, her eyes full of unshed tears.
“It is true,” continued the sick man, gently. “Dear hearts, you might as well know it now as later.” He placed a hand upon each of their heads, a world of tenderness in the caress. “And the bitterest thing about it all is that I may leave you both unprotected—perhaps in as great danger as he will be.”
Kenyon noted the emphasis and wondered who it was that was referred to. No one spoke for a moment; a small clock in another room ticked high and sharply; the noises from the street seemed strangely muffled. It was Forrester who spoke first; hesitatingly he moved nearer to the bed; there was the subdued, boyish eagerness in his manner that Kenyon had observed before.
“Anna at least shall not be left unprotected,” said he. “All here know my love for her. I want her for my wife.”
The golden-haired girl raised her face and her eyes spoke eloquently to him. Kenyon drew in a great, satisfied breath and felt a glow of interest flush him from head to foot.
Then they were lovers, these two! That was excellent! He was pleased. Indeed, he doubted if he had ever seen a better matched couple before. The strongest desire in his mind was to reach over, take Forrester by the hand, and wish him success—heartily, earnestly, fully. For, somehow, the gentle greeting which the other girl had given Forrester in the room below, had excited a sort of disapproval in Kenyon’s mind; and it was something strikingly like relief that now went shocking and beating in his blood.
“Yes,” said the sick man to Forrester. “You love her; but whether she shall ever be your wife depends upon yourself.”
“I am ready to prove myself worthy of her—ready to do anything that a man may do,” said Forrester.
“Anything?”
A shadow settled upon the young man’s eager face.
“I said anything that a man may do,” said he, and there was a catch of indecision in his voice.
“This matter needs a man that is not only strong and brave, but one that has a ready wit. For the service that I desire, rendered fully and unquestioningly, a man may command anything that is in my power to give.”
The shadow upon Forrester’s face grew deeper; the eyes that he turned upon Anna were dumbly piteous, like those of a dog. Then he spoke.
“You require violence,” said he, “and to me that is a thing of fear; it seems to draw a red curtain before my eyes; the very thought of it brings to me the thick scent of blood. It is a horror that I have had from birth. But outside all this, I am opposed to force. I could not lift my hand against the life of a fellow man.”
“No matter what the cause?”
“No matter what the cause. The sacred law says: ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ And the law of my physical nature tells me that I must obey.”
Silence followed this, save only for Anna’s sobbing. Kenyon looked at the speaker in keen surprise. He was thinking of the sharp cry and muffled blows of a half hour before and of Forrester’s preventing him from leaping to the rescue of the person attacked.
“And unless my recollection is badly at fault,” thought Kenyon, “this same young gentleman was settling himself to do for me when our friend Hong Yo asked me the question about Butte, and the first half of my answer led them to think that I was lately from there. His present highly moral attitude hardly agrees with all that, I fancy.”
After a long silence, during which the sick man labored painfully for breath, he spoke again.
“I feel convinced,” he murmured, “that you are sincere. But that is not the point. To win this girl for your wife you must stand a friend to him. His designs must be your designs. You must stand or fall with him.”
Forrester’s face was one of agony, but he shook his head; there was no sign of wavering in his manner. The dark-eyed girl was regarding him with wondering, puzzled eyes; but it was Anna who spoke.
“Griscom,” she said, and the piteous little tremble in her voice would have shaken a man of granite, “you are breaking my heart. Will you not surrender one mite of principle for my sake?”
But Forrester was proof even against this; and though he turned away his face, apparently unable to look into her eyes, his voice was still decided.
“No; not even for you.”
And then the girl’s head sank once more and the great sobs shook her young body like a storm. Forrester’s determination seemed to have its effect upon the old man also. It was clear that he had staked much upon the young giant, and had not expected this tenacious grip upon an idea that he, more than likely, did not altogether understand. And the disappointment told heavily upon the dregs of vitality left him; his chest seemed to sink, his face grew grayer. When he spoke his voice was lower than before.
“You, Mr. Kenyon, have seen stern work, and have no such childish prejudices against force.”
Kenyon felt the dark eyes upon him, though he did not turn to see, and he answered promptly:
“I have not. Indeed, I have seen much good result from it—at times.”
“Excellent! If you are half the man Nunez told me you were, long ago, you will serve me well. I thank you.”
Then turning to the girls he said, weakly:
“My children, arise!”
Both girls arose to their feet obediently and the old man continued.
“I have always loved you both. That you know well. But many times I have regretted that you were not young men, that you might take upon yourselves the struggle that is to come. But I see now that it is all for the best. I am glad that you are what you are; for in you I see the triumph of my desire.”
In the faces of Forrester and Anna, Kenyon read amazement at these words. But the face of the other girl did not change.
“Here is a man,” and the old man indicated Forrester, “who knows every step I would have taken to safeguard him of whom you all know. And here,” indicating Kenyon, “is one of unquestioned courage, of ready resource, of coolness in the face of danger. Combined they will form a defence which even the most secret and deadly machinations would find difficult in breaking down. You, Griscom, have asked Anna of me in marriage; and you,” to Kenyon, “have asked for her.”
His hand, as he spoke, rested upon that of the girl of the hansom cab. Kenyon gasped and stood staring in wonder. This was the most astonishing of a series of astonishing things; and his amazement was so great that he could not have protested had his desire to do so been ever so great.
And, to speak the plain truth, the desire to do so did not even exist. There was a magic for him in that brilliant, proud face and imperiously uplifted head. Why, if he could—but he halted the idea instantly, crushing it down without ruth. No, no. That sort of thing would not do. He must not allow such fancies to get possession of him. Soldiering in South America is not very profitable employment, but it, at least, teaches a man to avoid ways that are perilous; and in the way to this beautiful unknown’s love lay pain and heart-burning. He could read that in each glance of her eye and each movement of her supple, exquisite figure.
These thoughts occupied but a few seconds’ time, and Kenyon was about following where they led when he was arrested by a gesture which the old man made to the two girls. They seemed to understand, and each raised her right hand; the fair-haired one was choked with sobs; the other proud and cold-eyed and looking unflinchingly into Kenyon’s face. Then the sick man spoke in the panting, broken way of a man who had run a long race; and the girls repeated the words after him without hesitation.
“I solemnly swear that I will willingly become the wife of,” here one spoke Forrester’s name and the other Kenyon’s, “but not until he has performed the service of which he knows.”
As they finished the old man reached the end of his strength. A deep purple ring showed about his mouth, his head hung limply to one side. His iron will was still unbroken, for he managed to gasp out:
“My friends, it is for you to—”
But death killed the speech in his mouth. And as the two girls sank sobbing beside him, Forrester took two quick strides to Kenyon’s side.
“Quick, now,” he whispered. “Everything is ready. Your share of this work will stand no delay.”
And with that he all but forced the adventurer from the room and down the stairs. In another moment Kenyon found himself upon the outer steps with the door closed behind him, and all about him the clustering shadows of the night.