Ellery H. Clark

“A plague on all cowards, I say.”

Shakespeare.

From a slumber that was scarcely a sleep, a slumber feverish and fitful, broken by restless starts and uneasy twitchings, Arthur Vaughan suddenly opened his eyes, on the instant broad awake. For just one blank moment, as has happened with mankind so many million times before, as will happen so many million times again, his brain seemed to hang motionless, without impression of any sort; and the next minute across it the blurred and distorted images of the night before were rushing and crowding their way with a sense almost of physical suffocation and terror. He had half started from his bed, when at the same moment the knock on the door which had first awakened him was repeated. “Come in,” he called, and at the word the door opened, and Henry Carleton’s valet softly entered and began to pull back the curtains. For a moment Vaughan lay motionless, watching the man, and wondering instinctively if he knew; then, trying hard to speak in a tone casual and off-hand, he greeted him. “Good morning, Rollins.”

Swiftly and silently the man turned. His face, to Vaughan’s relief, appeared perfectly impassive. “Good morning, sir,” he returned respectfully. “A fine morning out, sir,” and then, after a hardly perceptible pause—Vaughan could almost feel the words coming—“There was bad doings last night, sir.”

Vaughan had risen, and was slowly crossing the room toward his bath. He stopped abruptly. “And what was that, Rollins?” he asked.

The valet stepped a little nearer, speaking in a hushed and somewhat awe-struck tone. “It was poor Satterlee,” he answered. “He’s dead, sir. They found him this morning, outside his house, with his head all bashed in. Stone dead, sir. I was there when they brought him in. It was a horrid sight to see;—” and then, with real feeling, the man, and not the servant in him uppermost, he added, “Poor Tom. He was that happy, sir.”

Vaughan still stood without moving. “Dead,” he repeated mechanically, “Good God!” and then, “His head, you say? Why, do they think—”

The man shook his head. “Nobody knows anything, sir,” he answered. “It was right near his house; right underneath a big high rock; he might have fell off, or been pushed off; you couldn’t tell. Of course, sir, they’ve sent for the medical examiner, direct. He should be here in an hour or two, I should judge, sir, at the most.”

“Yes, yes,” Vaughan assented. “I understand;” then at once added, “and what does Mr. Carleton say?”

“Oh, he feels terribly, sir,” the valet answered, “I never saw him so broke up in my life. ‘Poor Satterlee,’ he kept saying, ‘I feel as if I was to blame. I shouldn’t have asked him to go that far, so late. It was after hours. I should have waited.’”

Vaughan nodded. “Yes, that’s like Mr. Carleton,” he said. “But of course it wasn’t any of his fault, just the same. He couldn’t have looked ahead to anything like that.”

“No, indeed, sir,” the man answered heartily, “of course he couldn’t. But as you say, sir, it’s like him. He’s always very considerate with all of us. Oh, he certainly took on terrible; he was as white as a sheet when they brought poor Tom in.”

“Yes, yes,” said Vaughan absently, “I don’t doubt;” then quickly, “and how about Mr. Jack?”

“Why, he was in a bad way, too, sir,” answered Rollins, “but different like, more quiet, as if he had his wits more about him.”

In spite of himself, at the words Vaughan started, and then, “What about the horse?” he asked.

“That was curious, sir,” the man replied, “the horse was in, unharnessed and in his stall; seems as if Tom must have got back early, after all. But no one knows how.”

As he spoke, in the hall outside a bell rang sharply and at once he turned to answer it, then paused. “That’s Mr. Carleton, sir,” he said, and then with a quick return to his usual manner, “Is there anything further you might wish, sir?” and on Vaughan’s half-mechanical answer in the negative, he hastily left the room.

It was on a disturbed and disordered household that Vaughan half an hour later descended. Rose alone came to meet him as he reached the foot of the stairs, and in silence led the way into the deserted breakfast room.

“You won’t find very much to eat, Arthur, I’m afraid,” she said. “You mustn’t mind. Everything’s so terribly upset.”

He bent and kissed her, pitying her white face and trembling hands. “My dear girl,” he said tenderly, “don’t worry about me. Breakfast doesn’t count at a time like this. Where has everybody gone?”

The girl, pouring out his coffee, helplessly shook her head. “Oh, I don’t know,” she answered. “It’s all been so confused. My father’s gone down to see Mrs. Satterlee, I believe, and Mr. Cummings is outside somewhere, too. He seemed to feel it as much as any one. He really looked very badly, and hardly touched his breakfast at all. And Cousin Jack—I don’t know where he’s gone. I suppose he minded more than anybody; he was always around so much with Tom in the old days out here. He acted so queerly, too; and looked at everybody so—oh, I don’t know how to describe it—stern and fierce, as if somehow he thought we all had something to do with Tom’s being killed. And all the time father kept saying things, like that in the midst of life we were in death, and that no man could tell the hour—oh, it was all ghastly. It was awful.”

Vaughan, nibbling gingerly at the cold toast, and struggling to swallow the luke-warm coffee, nodded understandingly. Every instinct, every bit of good sense that he possessed, told him to drop the subject, and still, for the life of him he could not check the words that rose to his lips. “Did you—did you see him?” he asked.

The girl shuddered. “Not close to,” she answered, “only when they brought him by the house. I didn’t know—I looked—once. I wish I hadn’t. Oh, his face—”

Abruptly, a little dizzily, Vaughan rose from the table, last night’s ugly vision again seeming to pass before his swimming eyes. On the instant the girl, all penitence, rose also, coming swiftly around to his side. “Forgive me, dear,” she cried, “I didn’t mean to shock you. I should have thought. Excuse me, please.”

He hastened to take her hand. “No, no,” he cried, “there’s nothing to forgive. It’s not your fault. Let’s get outside in the air. It’s close in here. I feel a little faint.”

A moment later they stood on the broad piazza, in all the glory of the warm June sunshine. Up in the top of a swaying elm an oriole flooded the air with song; out over the lawn, against the green of the shrubbery, a big golden butterfly floated softly along; in and out of the vines above their heads a tiny humming-bird—a living gem—darted here and there, his crimson throat flashing like flame in the sunlight—then quick as thought with a whir of his swiftly moving wings, was gone. Life—life—life—in every tone and call of nature’s voice,—and out there, in the hushed quiet of the stable, a man lay dead.Vaughan rested a hand on the girl’s arm. “Look,” he whispered, “down by the road.”

The girl raised her eyes. There, dimly to be seen through the screen of the shrubbery, up and down, up and down, a figure paced, with eyes fixed on the ground, with one hand tugging fiercely at his mustache, to and fro—to and fro. “Cousin Jack,” she said.

Silently Vaughan nodded. Well enough, from the uncertain tumult going on in his own mind, he could guess the bitter struggle that was being waged in Carleton’s. In an hour the medical examiner would come; all would in turn be examined on oath. Henry Carleton, doubtless, would be the first called upon to testify; then Jack; then, he supposed, Cummings and himself. And what should he do? The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—the words seemed aimlessly to sing themselves over and over in his brain. And then, with a shake of his head, he roused himself. One thing was plain. Before the examiner came, there must be some plan of concerted action between Jack Carleton and himself—some knowledge of what each was going to say when called on to face that grim ordeal. And it might be that there was little time to spare. He turned quickly to Rose. “I’m going to speak to him,” he said.

She made a protesting movement. “Oh, must you?” she cried, “I so hate to be left alone, just now,” but for once her lover was firm. “I must, dear,” he said, “I won’t be long. You stay right here, and don’t worry or think about it at all. I’ve got to see him for a minute, anyway; I won’t be long,” and as she released her detaining hold on his arm, he walked swiftly down the steps and across the lawn.

On the velvet of the yielding turf his footsteps made no sound, his figure cast no shadow, and it was not until he was almost upon Carleton that the latter glanced up. Deep in thought he must have been, for to Vaughan it seemed that it was for a full half minute, at the least, that Carleton continued to gaze, hardly at him, but rather beyond, as if for all that time he was unable to call his thoughts back to the present. And even when he had done so, his greeting sounded scarcely cordial, as if he would greatly have preferred being left alone without interruption of any kind, however well intended.

“Hello, Arthur,” he said, “you’ve heard about it, I suppose.”

Vaughan nodded. “Yes, I’ve just heard.” For a moment he faltered, uncertain how to proceed; then, lamely enough, he added, “How was he killed, Jack?”

Carleton looked at him strangely; and, almost roughly, he answered, “Killed? How should he have been killed? Fell off that rock, of course.” He paused for a moment in his turn; then, with a singular distortion of the muscles of his mouth that gave to his expression a look almost ghastly, he added, with a kind of savage emphasis, “He took one drink too many, I suppose; poor devil; it’s an ugly rock.”

Tone and words alike sounded utterly foreign to him. He stood staring at Vaughan, as he spoke, but still as if he scarcely saw or heeded him, as if he strove to map out for himself a path in the tangled net of circumstance which threatened him. Vaughan, regarding him, drew a long breath, and grasped his courage in both his hands. “Look here, Jack,” he said, forcing the words with effort, “Mr. Carleton and I were on the piazza last night about half past ten. I told him I was going to turn in, and he said he was going to do the same after he’d taken a little walk around the place. I started for bed, and then I changed my mind.—I went for a walk too.”

At once Carleton seemed to catch an unusual meaning in the other’s tone, and yet for a moment the real import of the words did not dawn on his brain. Then suddenly he started, half drawing away. “You went for a walk?” he echoed, and then, apparently throwing aside all caution, “What do you mean, Arthur?” he cried, “What do you mean?”

Vaughan, hesitating still, dreading the effect his words might have, almost regretting that he had spoken at all, looked his friend squarely in the face. “I saw it all, Jack,” he said.

Carleton’s look was one of utter amazement. For an instant he stood silent, staring at Vaughan as if doubtful of his senses. Then, “You saw him run out of the house?” he cried.

Vaughan nodded. “I saw it all,” he repeated, “and afterward, by the rock—”

But to everything beyond his mere assent Carleton seemed to pay scant heed. He stared at Vaughan still, but now with a strange mingling of emotions showing in his face. And curiously enough, there seemed to predominate, above all the rest, a look almost of savage relief.

“That clenches it, then,” he cried. “That settles the whole thing,” and, swift as thought, the next moment the expression faded. “No, no, Arthur,” he cried, with the most intense earnestness, “we can’t; don’t you see we can’t? See what would happen. There’d be the devil and all to pay. Rose might not marry you, even. You know how proud she is. It isn’t a question of what I ought to do myself, Arthur. It’s a question of the family honor. It mustn’t be known; it shan’t. We’ll tell the same story. No one else knows, man. No one that would tell. It’s the only way. Give me your word, Arthur; give me your word.”In silence Vaughan stood and looked at him. These were the same temptations that had beset him the long night through; against which his instinctive feeling of justice had struggled well-nigh in vain. And yet, while gropingly and half-unconsciously he had felt that for him there might be some excuse, somehow now, the frank cowardice of the plea, coming from the man himself, jarred strangely upon him. And yet—was it cowardice? Was there not more than a grain of truth in all that Carleton had said? Would it not, after all, be for the best? For there, on the other hand, lay the scandal to be faced; the notoriety of it all, scarcely endurable; the hordes of prying reporters; the vulgar crowd of eager seekers after mystery who would make of Eversley a very Mecca—from all this he shrank, as he could see that Carleton shrank, and yet, in spite of all, from the other alternative he shrank as well.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked, and his tone was grudging; his eyes this time did not seek Jack’s face.

Carleton drew a sigh of evident relief. “Say?” he echoed eagerly. “What should you want to say? You were abed and asleep the whole time. You went straight up-stairs and slept soundly all night. That’s simple enough, isn’t it? Of course Henry’ll swear that you told him that’s what you were going to do. Swear to it, and stick to it. That’s all.”

Slowly Vaughan nodded. “And you the same?” he asked.

“Of course,” Carleton answered eagerly, and at his manner Vaughan found himself all at once marveling. Whatever else of emotion he might feel in the medley of sensations which swept over him, above everything else he was conscious of a stinging disappointment, an open shame, for this man—his friend. He turned away, his voice as he answered, sounding dully in his own ears. “All right,” he said. Then suddenly a new difficulty struck him with stunning force. “But what’s the use, Jack?” he cried, “Mrs. Satterlee—”

Carleton took one quick step forward. “Everything’s the use,” he said, almost menacingly. “Do as I tell you, for God’s sake! Don’t worry about the woman. Her testimony will be the same as ours. Nobody knows anything. Can’t you see? Or don’t you know what sort of woman—”

Across the lawn Rose Carleton’s voice sounded, vibrant with anxiety. “Arthur, Cousin Jack,” she called, “you’re wanted at once. The medical examiner is here.”

The Columbian reporter, jotting down a note or two, rose from his seat at the examiner’s desk. “I’m very much obliged, sir,” he said. “That clears that matter up. You’ve told me exactly what I wanted to know. And on this last case that came in to-day, the coachman out at the Carleton place, you say there won’t be anything doing?”

The medical examiner shook his head in decided negative. “The coroner’s verdict,” he answered, “not of course speaking officially, or for quotation in any way, will be one of accidental death. Of that I am morally certain. There wasn’t a shred of evidence to prove anything different. Or, one chance in ten, perhaps, at the most, it might be ‘death at the hands of persons unknown.’”

The reporter sighed. “It’s too bad, though, isn’t it?” he rejoined. “All the elements of a great story there somewhere”—he paused a moment; then added thoughtfully, “I’m not jollying, you know; I really am awfully disappointed. Because—it’s a queer thing—if there was any evidence for a starter, I could furnish some mighty interesting information in a certain direction. Do you know anything about the wife of this man that was killed, this Mrs. Satterlee?”

The examiner shook his head. “Nothing,” he answered, “excepting that I couldn’t help but notice that she was a remarkably beautiful woman. Entirely out of her class as the wife of a coachman, I should have said.”

“Exactly,” the reporter exclaimed. “Well, now, listen to this. If anybody wanted to hear some mighty funny evidence concerning this woman, and concerning one of the men who was at the Carleton place the night this happened—not gossip, you know, but something that I actually know about, saw with my own eyes—if anybody wanted to get hold of that, why, I rather think—”

The examiner raised a restraining hand. “Well, don’t think,” he said curtly. “You ought to know enough about the laws of evidence to stop you from figuring that two and two make five. And, anyway, don’t think too hard. It’s an awful strain on a man. Your business, as I understand it, as a reporter on the Columbian, is to report facts, and not to come any of these gum-shoe sleuth tricks.”

The reporter smiled, wrinkling his forehead whimsically. “Your ideas of facts and mine,” he rejoined, “might not tally, exactly, but in the main, yes, I guess you’re right.” He rose to take his leave. “And still,” he said again, “I can’t help wishing there was just a little evidence to go to the district attorney’s office. If there should be, now—”

“Well, there won’t,” snapped the examiner, “you needn’t worry. I tell you the case ends here.”

The reporter raised his eyebrows, at the same time making a deprecating gesture with arms and shoulders. “Oh, all right, all right,” he said soothingly. “Just as you say.” He held the door fully open now. “Oh, and look,” he added, “which Cummings was it that was spending the night out there? The railroad man, or Jim?”

The examiner did not look up from his writing. “Jim,” he answered shortly.

The reporter half closed the door again. “Say,” he observed engagingly, “now that’s another mighty funny thing—”

The medical examiner wheeled suddenly on him. “Oh, come, come,” he said, “get out. You make me tired. You know too much altogether. There’s one thing you don’t know, though. That I’m busy sometimes—even too busy to listen to you and your ‘funny things,’ as you call them. Now, get out.”

The reporter was on the farther side of the threshold now. He paused for one parting shot. “I’ll bet you a dollar,” he said, “that things don’t stop here for good. I’ll bet you a dollar—I’ll bet you five—that some day we hear of this case again.”

There was no response. He waited a moment in silence. And then the door at last closed behind him.