CHAPTER VII

THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS

It was nearing the end of the third week, and I had got no "forrarder" with the Black Company. No other messages in the algebraic notation had followed, and though I went to Knight's on Friday evening to absorb buttermilk and play pinochle with Corby, I learned nothing further. We drank solemnly to the Black Company, but that was all that was said about it.

Indeed, I could well believe myself the victim of a hoax or that Corby was a lunatic, were it not for the man himself. That dead-white face of his, with its bulging forehead, fishy eyes, and small, pointed chin, that passionless, exact manner, began to get strangely on my nerves.

The more I saw of him the more convinced I was that, sane or not, whether the Black Company was the single aberration of an otherwise sound intelligence, and he himself had sent me that code message, the fellow was a degenerate and scoundrel. This conviction was conveyed to me by nothing he said or did, for his conduct and language couldn't have been more circumspect. It was simply the indefinable and sinister aura he projected, that of the simon-pure enemy of society doomed by heredity to the ways of crime.

I felt that here was a man who would do murder in the same passionless and efficient manner he played cards--and the doing of it would trouble him just as little. That he was no roistering villain, the sort that kills in the heat of fury or drink, made him all the more dangerous. Nor was he the type of politico-social or religious fanatic; no wrongs, fancied or otherwise, of race, class, or creed would ever obsess him. If he pursued the ways of crime, it would be simply and wholly for profit. I suspected intemperate depths to him which his buttermilk diet belied; a nature which, when the need of self-repression had gone, would delight to wallow in abysmal abominations.

Granting the existence of a blackmailing society, I got no support for the theory that it was preparing to terrorize Mr. Varney out of a certain sum of money. Equally futile appeared the one that for some reason he was marked down for vengeance. True, I was supposed to be an accredited spy in his household, yet I reported nothing; nothing was demanded of me but to help keep an eye on Frean.

Almost three weeks had passed, and nothing was happening. Yet I was conscious that all the time a whole lot might be going on underground, of which I was supposed to know everything, but in reality knew nothing. Perhaps the hour for my active participation had not arrived.

Until that hour came, until I learned something definite, I considered it useless to hint of my suspicions to any one. If Varney was an ex-member of the Black Company, marked down for some past treachery, he would certainly deny the fact, even though in fear of his life. If there was another and less respectable side to the philanthropic-educational medal he had worn for so long, he would continue to hide it strenuously from his niece and the world. I had really nothing to offer but unsupported testimony that Jules' discharge had been engineered, and that would mean I must confess I wasn't Joyce. For this I wasn't prepared.

Naturally, I couldn't play my present rôle forever, but I was in no hurry to advance the day of confession. The arguments which had induced me in the first instance to assume the rôle had grown stronger, if anything, with advancing time. I was waging a good fight with the Demon, and in no small measure was helped by my surroundings. The courage with which old Varney fought his losing battle against a far more terrible demon than mine--Demon Death--was inspiring, while the faith and confidence reposed in me by Brenda Gelette was a great asset.

No doubt because we were almost of an age, and she had no youthful company, Frean excepted, Miss Gelette got into the way of talking to me intimately. Then, one day, she began putting questions about myself: What I had done before working for Mr. Fremstad, and how I had acquired an education which she pronounced above the ordinary.

"One would think you had been to college," she said.

"You flatter me, ma'am."

"Quite unintentionally then, I assure you. Come, were you never at college?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am."

"There, I knew it! Which?"

"U. of P., ma'am; Brown, Swarthmore, Yale."

"What! You're fibbing, Peter; you know you are. You simply couldn't have gone to all those."

"Why not, ma'am? They aren't far apart and it only took a few days. My old boss--not Mr. Fremstad--made a tour of them and I drove the car. They are very nice places, ma'am."

"I don't care for your sense of humor," she said, a spot of color in her cheek. "I think I've remarked that before. You aren't bad, Peter, when you don't try to be funny. In any case, I think you have an education that entitles you to something better than driving somebody else's car, but no doubt I'm mistaken."

"No doubt, ma'am."

"No, I'm not mistaken! Don't contradict me, Peter. I won't allow it. I say you have an excellent education; anybody could see that; it crops out all the time. It isn't lack of education in your case; it--it's downright laziness, mental laziness and lack of ambition; it must be that. Why you should be content--but it's the complaint of many young men nowadays. To work with your hands instead of your head; to accept an easy well-paid--but you haven't told me what you were before becoming a chauffeur."

"No, ma'am, I haven't."

She waited a moment, then demanded: "Well?"

"Well what, ma'am?"

"I say what were you? Goodness gracious, can't you understand a simple question? What did you do? Where did you work?"

"Oh, various places, ma'am, and at various things."

"And at various times under various people, I presume. How intelligible!" she exclaimed, the red deepening in her cheek. "Oh, very well. But surely if I condescend to ask a few questions you may condescend to answer them."

"I am sensible, ma'am, of the great favor done me by your interest."

"_My_ interest?" She laughed quite unpleasantly. I had never thought her capable of such a laugh. "You are quite mistaken, Peter. I have absolutely no interest in you, your past, present, or future." For some reason she was very angry. "Is that quite plain?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You are becoming spoiled," she continued. "You think you are indispensable because you've been promoted from the garage to the study, thanks solely to my uncle's mania for chess. Oh, yes, you do. I've seen it coming on, but I wish to point out that you mustn't forget you belong properly to the garage, not the study."

"I'll bear it in mind, ma'am."

Her foot began tapping. "And if you belong there, it's entirely your own fault; you have elected--however, what I wish to point out and impress on you is that if any one is remotely interested in you at all, it is my uncle. You have managed to amuse him, and he has been good enough to say you should be fit for something better than a servant--that is, if you had a spark of ambition. Not, of course, that I agree with him. But that is his opinion. So acquit me of any personal interest or vulgar curiosity in your private affairs. Of course they are less than nothing to me. I merely wished to find out for Mr. Varney, if possible, why you are not occupying a position to which he evidently thinks your abilities entitle you. That is all."

"It is very good of Mr. Varney," I murmured, my eyes still on the wind shield.

"It is," she agreed. "Very."

She returned to the attack when I thought the battle was over. "If you persistently refuse to say anything about your past, one can't help thinking there must be something to conceal, of course. You successfully deceived your former employer regarding one very important fact, and you may have done so in other instances."

This wasn't the lovable, self-sacrificing, and wholly charming girl I had known of late, but the spiteful, hot-tempered little minx who had kicked the burst tire that day and bossed me around like a pair of old boots.

"I think," she added, "it would be a wise precaution to look up every item of those admirable credentials of yours. I might find something more than a predilection for alcohol."

"You might, madam," I said, turning and meeting her eyes for the first time. "I dare say there are many things in my character that aren't admirable, but one thing you won't find--the will to hurt another in an inferior position who can't hit back."

Now, that wasn't a lovely speech any more than hers, whatever truth there was in either, but it had been goaded out of me against my will. Looking back on it now, I believe we were both suffering from "nerves" that day, she from the long strain of her uncle's illness and cranky humors; I from the total stoppage of John Barleycorn. Also, I was bothered about Frean. She was running with him a good bit, and seemed to fancy him, while, though I knew he wasn't fit to tie her shoes, I had to stand by and say nothing. Again, she had got into the habit lately of riding me with spurs when so minded, flaring up like this for no reason at all.

"How dare you!" she gasped. "How dare you use such words to me! What do you mean by it? You've got entirely above your position, and I see I was greatly mistaken in your character----"

"I'm very sorry, ma'am; I spoke quickly and without thought. I'm sure I ask your pardon and beg to withdraw the words."

"A slip of the tongue is no fault of the mind. Such words aren't so easily withdrawn, or forgiven, either, and only for my uncle, I would discharge you here and now! You deserve to be, if ever an insolent servant did! This comes of being kind to people, treating them with consideration, putting them above their position. Some natures are incapable of gratitude or--or anything!"

"I'm sure, ma'am, I've always appreciated, far more than I can say, your interest----"

"If you say that again I'll give you two weeks' wages and discharge you _now_, uncle or no uncle! And, mind you, it will be without a character. I say I have _no_ interest in you whatsoever!"

"Quite so, ma'am. What I meant, and was about to say, was your interest in the cause of total abstinence, thanks to which you gave me another chance."

"You weren't going to say anything of the kind! That's just more of your horrible deceit. I'm sorry I did give you another chance. I should have told Mr. Varney of your condition that night. It would have saved me this extremely lowering scene, a vulgar matter which I won't condescend to discuss further."

But she did, after an interval of frigid silence. Evidently the more she thought over it, the angrier she got. "Servants have, indeed, progressed, as my uncle remarked," she exclaimed. "Now they even presume to instruct their employers in deportment and ethics. But, then, they are such perfect and admirable characters themselves and we should be highly flattered that they deign to accept our wages at all.

"And so I am a brutal and tyrannical mistress, bullying my servants around because they can't answer back? Truly, that isn't the case with you, though no doubt your tongue would be more cautiously polite if I were a man and not a woman. Perhaps I even kick and beat my servants? That is a nice tale to go round the neighborhood! And yet, with all my fiendish cruelty, the same people have served me for the past fifteen years. How do you account for that?"

"Surely, ma'am, you've punished me enough for a hasty and unfortunate remark."

Somehow I could say nothing right and this in itself was another unfortunate remark. "Don't add to your impertinence," she said.

But I did, and in the most heinous fashion; for it was at this moment that I kissed her. It is really remarkable how such things happen; one moment you are a fairly respectable citizen, in spite of your many faults, the next an unspeakable criminal, an enemy to society and young womanhood; in short, the abysmal brute. It is a species of madness, I suppose, for which there is no accounting, but I had been sorely tempted for many a day. She had ordered me to stop the car, the better to air her opinion of me. The road was deserted. I was really annoyed with her. Her scolding but provocative lips were very near my own, and--well, that's how it happened.

She struggled like a true heroine, and so I kissed her again. This time I took more care and deliberation.

"There," I said, "I may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb."

She made no reply, but sat bolt upright, frigid, immovable, as though her spine were an icicle. She had gone from red to white like a semaphore, put the back of a hand to her ravaged lips and looked at me over it. I couldn't meet her eyes and found something intensely interesting on the dashboard to examine. The silence lengthened.

"Anyway," I said over a shoulder, "if I'm to be fired--well, it was worth it."

She said nothing, gave no sign that she had even heard. I felt those eyes boring into my back like red-hot needles. I began to perspire freely, to fidget, to look, no doubt, the miserable ass I felt. To ruin everything by a moment's folly! Our good understanding, the superlative opportunity of penetrating the mystery of the Black Company, Mr. Varney's high opinion of me, this quiet home----

When the silence had become unendurable she said very calmly and as though addressing a blot on the landscape, "And now, if you are quite ready, I should like to return home."

I gave the starter a vicious jab and, making too sharp a turn, almost succeeded in emptying us in a wayside ditch. But even this failed to arouse her from her frigid immobility; she never even blinked.

We indulged in a mile of ponderous silence; then I slowed down. "I'm awfully sorry," I began above the drone of the engine. "I don't know how it happened. I was mad, clean crazy."

She continued to say nothing.

"Of course it was inexcusable," I blundered on. "It was an accident; I didn't mean it. I was a fool, a cad. I--I hope you'll try to overlook it, ma'am; I wouldn't like to lose this job. But, of course, I've made it impossible----"

I gave it up; I might as well have been addressing the wind shield. One cannot be eloquent or impressive with such an audience.

The rest of the homeward journey was finished in record time and silence, and Miss Gelette entered the house without giving me so much as a glance.

Shortly afterward, when I was in the garage, I was informed by Horace that Mr. Varney wished to see me; and there was that in the old butler's face and manner that told me I was "in for it." Of course Miss Gelette, ignoring the cardinal rule of the house--that nothing must worry or disturb Mr. Varney--had told him of my conduct, and of course, I should be summarily dismissed. Well, I had brought it all on myself and there was no use trying to dodge the inevitable.

Miss Gelette was in the study with her uncle, and there was a visitor present, a man I had never seen before. He was a large, middle-aged individual, quiet, respectable, sober, and might have been anything from a detective to a floorwalker.

Varney, seated in his big armchair and leaning on the gold-knobbed Malacca cane, the inevitable chess problem at his elbow, was evidently in one of his fine tempers.

"What's the meaning of this, Peter Henry?" he demanded as I entered. "Here's a fellow who claims to be Joyce, and who says you've stolen his name and job, after assaulting and almost murdering him. What's the meaning of it, hey?"