CHAPTER X
CARMEL went directly to the room in the hotel which she still occupied pending the discovery of a permanent boarding place. She locked the door carefully and closed the transom. Then with a queer feeling of mingled curiosity and the exultation of a newspaper woman, she placed side by side on her dresser the bottle of liquor she had abstracted from thecacheand the match box made from a brass shotgun shell.
She sat down on the bed to regard them and to ask them questions, but found them singularly uncommunicative. Beyond the meagerest replies she could have nothing of them. The bottle seemed sullen, dour, as became a bottle of Scotch whisky. In the most ungracious manner it told Carmel its name and the name of its distillers and its age.... The match box refused to make any answers whatever, being, she judged, of New England descent, and therefore more closed mouth than even the Scotch. The bottle squatted and glowered dully. It wore an air of apprehension, and patently was on its guard. The brass match box, brought to a fine polish by long travel in an active trousers pocket, was more jaunty about it, having a dry, New England humor of its own, recognizable as such. The identifying qualityof New England humor is that you are always a little in doubt as to whether it is intended to be humor.
The conversation was one-sided and not illuminating.
“Who brought you over the line?” Carmel asked.
The bottle hunched its shoulders and said nothing, but the match box answered in the dialect of the country, “I fetched him—for comp’ny. A feller gits dry sleepin’ out in the woods.”
“Who made you, anyhow?” Carmel asked of the match box.
“Feller that likes to keep his matches dry.”
“Somebody who likes to hunt,” said Carmel.
“Wa-al, him ’n me knows our way about in the woods.”
“Who was coming to get you from where you were hidden?” Carmel asked the bottle, suddenly.
“D’ye ken,” said the bottle, sourly, “I’m thinkin’ ye are an inqueesitive body. Will ye no gang aboot your business, lassie. Hae doon wi’ ye; ye’ll hae no information frae me.”
“Who were those two men in the car?” said Carmel.
“Strangers to me,” said the match box, nonchalantly.
“One of them dropped you,” said Carmel.
“Mebby he did; dunnoifhe did,” said the match box.
“Somebody’ll know who owns you,” said Carmel.
“How’ll you go about finding that out?” said the match box. “Findin’cachesof licker in the woodshain’t good fer the health, seems as though. Traipsin’ around town askin’ who owns me might fetch on a run of sickness.”
“You can’t frighten me,” said Carmel.
“Sheriff Churchill wa’n’t the frightenin’ kind, neither,” said the match box, significantly.
“What if I put a piece in my paper telling just how I found you?” said Carmel.
“Be mighty helpful to our side,” said the match box. “Stir up ill feelin’ without gittin’ you any place.”
“What shall I do, then?” Carmel asked.
“Can’t expectmeto be givin’ you advice,” said the match box. And there the conversation lapsed. The bottle continued to glower and the match box to glitter with a dry sort of light, while Carmel regarded them silently, her exasperation mounting. She was in the unenviable position of a person to whom belongs the next move, when there seems no place to move to.
In the mass of uncertainty there was, as metallurgists say, of fact only a trace. But the trace of fact was important—important because it was the first tangible evidence coming into her possession of what was going on under the surface of Gibeon. She had promised herself to bring to retribution those who had caused the disappearance of Sheriff Churchill. She felt certain it was the possession of some such evidence as stood before her on her dresser, which lay at the root of the sheriff’s vanishing. The thought was not comforting. Of another thing shefelt certain, namely, that thecacheshe had discovered was no sporadic bit of liquor smuggling, but was a single manifestation of a systematic traffic in the contraband. She calculated the number of the bottles she had seen and the profits derived from that single store of whisky. It amounted to four figures. Supposing that amount were carried across the border weekly!... Here was no little man’s enterprise. Here were returns so great as to indicate the participation of an individual of more than ordinary stature. Also it suggested to her that such individual or group would not tolerate interference with this broad river of dollars.... The fate of Sheriff Churchill corroborated this reflection.
The bottle and match box on her dresser were dangerous. They stood as if they realized how dangerous they were, and leered at her. She arose quickly and placed them in a lower drawer, covering them carefully with garments. The woman in her wished she had not made the discovery, and by it confronted herself with the responsibility for taking action. The newspaper proprietor exulted and planned how the most was to be derived from it. For the first time she felt self-distrust and wished for a sure counselor. She realized her aloneness. There was none to whom she could turn for sure advice; none to whom her confidence moved her.
Her friends were few. In Gibeon she was confident of the loyalty of Tubal and of Simmy, the printer’s devil. They would fight for her, follow her lead to the ultimate—but neither was such asshe could appeal to for guidance. Evan Bartholomew Pell owed her gratitude. Doubtless he felt some rudiments of it and possibly of loyalty. She was dubious of both. He was such a crackling, dry, self-centered creature—not contemptible as she had first seen him. Never again could she visualize him as contemptible. But to go to him for advice in this emergency seemed futile. He would guide her by rule and diagram. He would be pedantic and draw upon printed systems of logic. What she wanted was not cold logic out of a book, but warm, throbbing, inspiring co-operation from out the heart. She glanced at her watch. It told her the hour was verging toward ten.
She sat upon the edge of her bed, debating the matter in hand, when there sounded a knocking upon her door.
“What is it,” she called.
“Mr. Fownes is down in the parlor a-waitin’. He wants to know if you’ll come down and see him—if you hain’t to bed yit.” The last sentence was obviously not a part of the message, but interested conjecture on the part of the messenger.
“What does he want?”
“Didn’t say. I asked him, but he let on ’twan’t none of my business. Said it was important, though.”
Carmel pondered a moment. Aversion to the fat little man waged war with woman’s curiosity to know what his errand could be at this hour when Gibeon was tucking itself into its feather beds.
“Please tell him I’ll come down,” she said.
She went down. The parlor of the hotel was tucked off behind the big room which was combined office and lounging room for traveling men and village loafers. It contained a piano which had not been played since it had been tuned and had not been tuned for a time so long that the memory of man runneth not to the contrary. On the wall was a hand painting of a forest fire, done by a talented relative of the hotel’s proprietor. Doubtless this portrayed some very special kind of forest fire, or it would not have called forth the artist’s genius. One would not know at first glance that it depicted a forest fire, because it looked to the uninitiated like a number of dilapidated red feather dusters standing upright in a heavy surf. But it had been done by hand, and Gibeon regarded it as her artistic farthest north. There were also two gilt chairs, evidently peeling after sunburn, a small onyx table and a piece of furniture known to furniture manufacturers of its period as a settee.... Abner Fownes was, on Carmel’s entrance, the settor. He arose with the ease and grace of a man lifting a barrel of flour and bowed.
“You wished to see me?” she said, coldly.
“Very much. Very much indeed.”
“Your business would not wait until morning?”
“I chose this hour, Miss Lee,” he said, pompously. “Dislike to be watched. Whole village watches me.... Doubtless very natural, but annoying.”
“I fancied we said all it was needful to say on our last meeting.”
“Time for reflection. Allowed you time to cool.... Hot youth. Er—must confess I admired your—er—force of character.”
“I’m sure I’m grateful.”
“Be seated. Can’t talk standing up,” he said, as a potentate might invite some favored subject to be at ease in his august presence. “Wish to discuss your affairs.”
“I don’t,” said Carmel, “with you.”
“Um!... How old would you say I am?”
“I’ve never given your age a thought.”
“Fifty-two,” he said, “and well preserved. Well preserved. Careful living. Good habits.”
“It must be a satisfaction to you,” she said, with ill-concealed irony.
“You have—er—style and beauty,” he said. “Valuable attributes.... Be a credit to any man.”
“You came to talk business, did you not?”
“Not exactly.... Not precisely.”
“Will you tell me why you have come,” she said, sharply.
“Certainly. Certainly. Arriving at the point.”
“Please do so. I am tired.”
He paused briefly while his small, sharp eyes traveled over her person with an estimating glance, a glance which heated her resentment. It was an unpleasant glance for a young woman to undergo.
“Ahem!... Present your case. Inventory, so to speak. You own a bankrupt country paper. Never paid—never will. Alone in the world. No relatives. Nobody to help you. No money. Hard future toface.... Debit side of the ledger. Um!... Credit side shows youth—er—intelligence, education. All valuable assets. Shows also beauty and—er—the ability to look like a lady.... Breeding. Difficult to find. Desirable.” He paused again until he appraised her with greedy eyes.
Suddenly she felt apprehensive. A sense of outrage swept over her, but for once words failed in the emergency. She felt her limbs tremble. The man’s eyes were an outrage; his manner was an affront. She was angry as she had never been angry before; terrified with a new sort of crawling, skin-chilling terror. She was aware of being afraid he might touch her; that his fat, pudgy, well-kept fingers might reach out and rest upon her hand or her cheek or her hair. If they should, she knew she would scream. His touch would be intolerable. She had a feeling it would leave a damp, ineradicable mark. She drew back in her chair, crouching, quivering.
“Those assets,” he said, “entitle you to a future. Should realize on them.... Ahem!...” Again he paused and touched his cravat fussily. He glanced down at his little shoes, immaculate, on his tailored legs and impressive abdomen. “Beauty,” he said, “requires ease and care.... Um!... Fades with hard work and economy.”
He crossed his hands on his stomach and smiled fatuously. “I,” he said, “have been a widower fifteen years. A long time.... Not from necessity. No, indeed. But my home, the sort of home I maintain—in keeping with my position—er—requiresan adequate mistress.... One possessing qualities. Yes, indeed. Qualities suitable to the wife of Abner Fownes.”
He drew himself up to the utmost of his scanty height, making, as well, the most of his breadth. He resembled, Carmel thought, a dropsical pouter pigeon.
“The mistress of my home—er—mansion,” he amended, “would occupy enviable position. Extremely. Looked up to. Envied. Arbiter of local society. Ease, comfort—luxury. Everything money can buy.... Travel. Yes, indeed.... Clothes suitable to her station and mine.... Women are fond of clothes. Jewels. Amply able to provide my wife with jewels.”
Carmel was breathless. Her heart beat in a manner to cause her alarm lest it outdo itself. Her scalp prickled. She wondered if something physically unpleasant were going to happen—like fainting.
“Enviable picture,” he said, expansively. “Sufficient to attract any woman. Be pointed out as Abner Fownes’s wife. Women take pride in their husbands. Husband of a personage.” At this he swelled to his utmost.
“I have studied you,” he said, in a voice of one coming to the end of an oration. “I have found you in all ways capable of filling the position of my wife. Er—you would be a credit to me. Yes, indeed. End all your difficulties. Satisfy every whim. What more can anybody ask?”
He stared at her pompously, but with a horridhunger in his eyes, stared as if waiting for an answer.
“I am asking you,” he said, “to become Mrs. Abner Fownes.”
She gasped to hear the unthinkable put into words. It had not seemed possible to her that it could be put into words. It was the sort of thing one hinted at, made use ofdouble entendreto convey. But he dragged it out into the light and gloated over it. He insisted on stating it baldly.... She bore it as she would endure some shock, quivered under the affront of it, caught her breath, grasped at her heart as if to quiet it with her fingers. For moments she could not move nor speak. She was engulfed in material horror of the thing. It was as if she were immersed in some cold, clammy, clinging,livingfluid—a fluid endowed with gristly life.
Suddenly she found herself upon her feet, speaking words. The words came from subconscious depths, not directed by intellect or by will, but by the deep-lying soul, by the living, indestructible thing which was herself. Disgust emanated from her.
“You toad!” she heard herself say. “You white, dreadful toad! You dare to say such words tome! You dare to sit there appraising me, coveting me! You ask me to be your wife—yourwife!... You are unspeakably horrible—can’t you see how horrible you are?” She heard her voice arguing with him, trying to impress him with his own horribleness. “You dreadful, fat little creature! A credit to you!... I can think of no woman so low, so degraded,so unnatural as to be a credit to what you are. A woman of the streets would refuse you. Your touch would be death to her soul—to what fragment of soul she retained.... How dare you insult me so?...” The words would not stop, the dreadful words. She did not wish to utter them, knew their utterance served no purpose, but they continued to flow as water from a broken spout. She rent and tore him, holding him up to the light of the stars for himself to see. It was a dreadful thing to do to any human being; to sink one’s claws into his body, searching for and finding and rending the soul.
She saw him turn the color of his vest; saw him shrink, compress within himself, crumple, sag like a punctured football. She saw an ugly glint in his little, narrowed eyes; understood how she had put upon him the supreme affront of stripping him of his pretense and showing him to himself as he knew he was. She stood him before his own eyes, stark, horribly vivid; showed him secrets he concealed even from himself. Yet it was not Carmel who did this thing, but some uncontrollable force within her, some force fighting the battle of womanhood.... He got unsteadily to his feet and backed away from her mouthing. He stumbled, recovered, felt behind him for the door.
“Damn you!” he cried shrilly. “Damn you!... You—you’ll suffer for this....”
Then he was gone and she found herself kneeling with her face upon the seat of her chair, shaken by sobs.