# The Unspeakable Gentleman/Chapter 12

XII
Was it possible that I cared? There she was leaning toward him, the flames from the fire dancing softly before her face, giving her dark hair a hundred new lights and shadows. Her lips were parted, and in her eyes was silent entreaty. I felt a sudden unaccountable impulse to snatch up the volume of Rabelais, to face my father again, weapon or no weapon, to show her——
"Come, captain," said Mademoiselle gently. "Must you continue this after it has turned into a farce? Must you continue acting from pique, when the thing has been over for more years than you care to remember? Must you keep on now because of a whim to make your life miserable and the lives of others? Will you threaten fifty men with death and ruin, because you once were called a thief? It is folly, sir, and you know it, utter useless folly! Pray do not stare at me. It was easy enough to piece your story together. I guessed it long ago. I have listened too often to you and the Marquis at wine. Come, captain, give me back the paper."
​With his old half smile, my father turned to her and nodded in pleasant acknowledgment.
"Mademoiselle," he observed evenly, "I have gone further through the world than most men, though to less purpose, and I have met many people, but none of them with an intuition like yours."
He paused long enough to refill his glass.
"You are right, Mademoiselle. Indeed, it is quite wonderful to meet a woman of your discernment. Yes, you are right. My wife called me a rogue and a scoundrel—mind you, I am not saying she was mistaken—but my temper was hotter then than it is now. I have done my best to convince her she was not in error. And now, Mademoiselle, it has become as much of a habit with me as strong drink, a habit which even you cannot break. I have been a villain too long to leave off lightly. No, Mademoiselle, I have the paper, and I intend to dispose of it as I see fit. Your mother, my son, need have had no cause for regret. She was right in everything she said. Brutus, tell Mr. Aiken I am ready to see him."
He must have been in the hall outside, for he entered the morning room almost as soon as my father had spoken, dressed in ​his rusty black sea cloak. At the sight of Mademoiselle, he bowed ceremoniously, and blew loudly on his fingers.
"Wind's shifted southwest," he said. "But we're ready to put out."
"Sit down, Mr. Aiken," said my father. "My son, pour him a little refreshment."
"Ah," said Mr. Aiken, selecting a chair by the fire, "pour it out, my lad—fill her up. It's a short life and little joy 'less we draw it from the bottle. And long life and much joy to you, sir, by the same token," he added, raising his glass and tossing the spirits adroitly down his throat. Then, with a comfortable sigh, he drew out his pipe and lighted it on an ember.
"Yes, she'll be blowing before morning."
"You don't mean," inquired my father, with a glance out of the window, "that I can't launch a small boat from the beach?"
"You could, captain, if you'd a mind to," said Ned Aiken, tamping down his tobacco, "but there's lots who couldn't."
"Then I shall," said my father languidly. "Brutus and I will board the Sea Tern at eight o'clock tonight. You will stand off outside and put on your running lights."
"Yes," said Mr. Aiken, "it's time we was going."
​"You mean they are taking steps?"
"A frigate's due in at midnight," said Mr. Aiken, grinning.
"A frigate! Think of that!" said my father. "At last we seem to be making our mark on the world."
"We've never done the beat of this," said Mr. Aiken.
"And everything is quiet outside?"
"All right so far," said Mr. Aiken.
"How many men are watching the house?"
"There's four, sir," he answered.
"Ah," said my father, "and Mr. Lawton still stops at the tavern?"
"Hasn't showed his head all morning," answered Mr. Aiken.
"Ah," said my father, "perhaps he is right in concealing such a useless member." And he helped himself from the decanter, seemed to hesitate for a moment, and continued:
"And Mr. Jason Hill—he has been to call, Ned. Have you seen him since?"
"He's been walking out in the road, sir, all morning," replied Mr. Aiken. "And a schooner of his is anchored upstream. And if you'll pardon the liberty, I don't give that for Jason Hill," and he spat into the fire.
"It may please you to know," said my ​father, "that I quite agree with you. I am afraid," he went on, looking at the back of his hand, "that Jason does not take me sesiously. I fear he will find he is wrong. Brutus!"
Brutus, apparently anticipating something pleasant, moved towards my father's chair.
"My pistols, Brutus. And it is growing dark. You had best draw the shutters and bring in the candles. We're sailing very close to the wind this evening. Listen to me carefully, Brutus. You will have the cutter by the bar at eight o'clock, and in five minutes you will bring out my horse."
"What's the horse for?" asked Mr. Aiken.
My father settled himself back more comfortably in his chair before he answered. A few drops of wine had spilled on the mahogany. He touched them, and held up his fingers and looked thoughtfully at the stain.
"Because I propose to ride through them," he said. "I propose showing our friends—how shall I put it so you'll understand?—that I don't care a damn for the whole pack."
"Gad!" murmured Mr. Aiken. "I might have known it. And here I was thinking ​you'd be quiet and sensible. Are you still going on with that damned paper?"
The red of the wine seemed to please my father. He dipped his fingers in it again and drew them slowly across the back of his left hand.
"Precisely," he said. "I propose to deliver it tonight before I sail. I leave it at Hixon's farm."
"He's dead," said Mr. Aiken.
"Exactly," said my father. "Only his shade will help me. Perhaps it will be enough—who knows?"
"There'll be half a dozen after you before you get through the gate," said Mr. Aiken dubiously. "You can lay to it Lawton will be there before you make a turn."
"That," said my father, "is why I say we're sailing very close to the wind."
"Good God, sir, burn it up," said Mr. Aiken plaintively. "What's it been doing but causing trouble ever since we've got it? Running gear carried away—man wounded from splinters. Hell to pay everywhere. Gad, sir, they're afraid to sleep tonight for fear you'll blow 'em out of bed. What's the use of it all? Damn it, that's what I say, what's the use? And now here you go, risking getting a piece of lead thrown in you, ​all because of a few names scrawled on a piece of paper. Here it's the first time you've been back. It's a hell of a home-coming—that's what I say. I told you you hadn't ought to have come. Now there's the fire. Why not forget it and burn it up, and then it's over just as neat as neat, and then we're aboard, and after the pearls again. Why, what must the boy be thinking of all this? He must be thinking he's got a hell-cat for a father. That's what he must be thinking."
"That will do," said my father coldly; and he rose slowly from his chair, and stood squarely in front of me.
"Tie that boy up, Brutus," he commanded. "It is a compliment, my son. My opinion of you is steadily rising. Tie him up, Brutus. You will find a rope on the chimney piece."
He stood close to me, evidently pleased at the convulsive anger which had gripped me. Brutus was still fumbling on the mantlepiece. Ned Aiken's pipe had dropped from his mouth. It was Mademoiselle who was the first to intervene.
"Are you out of your senses?" she demanded, seizing him by the arm. "It is too much, captain, I tell you it is too much. ​Think what you are doing, and send the black man off."
"I have been thinking the matter over for some time," replied my father tranquilly, "and I have determined to do the thing thoroughly. If he cannot like me, it is better for him to hate me, and may save trouble. Tie him up, Brutus."
"Bear away!" cried Mr. Aiken harshly. "Mind yourself, sir."
His warning, however, was late in coming. I had sprung at my father before the sentence was finished. It was almost the only time I knew him to miscalculate. He must have been taken unaware, for he stepped backward too quickly, and collided with the very chair he had quitted. It shook his balance for the moment, so that he thrust a hand behind him to recover himself, and in the same instant I had the volume of Rabelais. I leapt for the open doorway, but Ned Aiken was there to intercept me. Brutus was up behind me with his great hands clamping down on my shoulders. I turned and hurled the volume in the fireplace.
My father caught it out almost before it landed. With all the deliberation of a connoisseur examining an old and rare edition, he turned the pages with his slim fingers. ​There, as he had said, was the paper, with the same red seals that I had admired the previous evening. He placed it slowly in his inside pocket, and tossed the book on the floor.
"Now here's a pretty kettle of fish," said Mr. Aiken.
My father was watching me thoughtfully.
"Take your hands off him, Brutus," he said, "and bring out the horse."
For a second longer we stood motionless, each watching the other. Then my father crossed to the long table near which I was standing, picked up the pistols that Brutus had left there, and slipped them into his capacious side pockets.
"You disappoint me, Henry," he remarked. "You should have used those pistols."
"I had thought of them," I answered.
"I am glad of that," he said. "It is a relief to know you did not overlook them. You were right, Mademoiselle. I should have known better than to treat him so. We have ceased to play the game, my son. It only remains to take my leave. I shall not trouble you again."
He was standing close beside me. Was it ​possible his eyes were a little wistful, and is voice a trifle sad?
"I thought I should be glad to leave you," he said, "and somehow I am sorry. Odd that we can never properly gauge our emotions. I feel that you will be a very blithe and active gentleman in time, and there are a many left in these drab days. Ah, well——"
His sword was lying on the table. He drew it, and tucked the naked blade under his arm. In spite of the two candles which Brutus had left, the shadows had closed about us, so that his figure alone remained distinct in the yellow light, slender and carelessly elegant. I think it pleased him to have us all three watching. Any gathering, however small, that he might dominate, appeared to give him enjoyment—his leave taking not less than the others.
"It is growing dark, Mr. Aiken," he observed, "and our position is not without its drawbacks. Call in the men from outside, and take them aboard and give them a measure of rum. No one will disturb me before I leave, I think. You had better weigh at once, and never mind your running lights till it is time for them."
"Sea you're going to do it," said Mr. Aiken. ​"I might have known you wouldn't listen to reason."
"You should have sailed with me long enough,"" said my father, "to know I never do."
"And you not even dressed for it," added Mr. Aiken. "You might be going to a party, so you might."
"I think," replied my father, "the evening will be more interesting than a purely social affair. Keep the Sea Tern well off, and we shall meet only too soon again."
"Why don't I take the boy along," Mr. Aiken suggested, eyeing me a little furtively. "He'd be right useful where we're going, and the sea would do him good, so it would."
"I fancy you'll have enough bother without him," replied my father. "Personally I have found him quite distracting during my short visit."
"Hell," said Mr. Aiken, "he wouldn't be no trouble, but he looks fair ugly here, so he does, and he knows too much. No offense, sir, but he's too up and coming to be left alone with an ignorant nigger."
My father shrugged his shoulders.
"Brutus is fond of the boy. He will not hurt him."
​"But the boy might hurt the nigger," said Mr. Aiken.
My father nodded blandly toward the hall.
"And you might be seasick," he said.
"Far," roared Mr. Aiken, seemingly struck by the subtle humor of the remark. "Damned if you wouldn't joke if the deck was blowing off under you. Damned if I ever seen the likes of you now, captain."
Still under the spell of mirth he left us. The house door closed behind him, and Brutus glided into the room.
"Mademoiselle," said my father bowing, "I am sorry the cards have fallen so we must part. If you had as few pleasant things as I to remember, you also might understand how poignantly I regret it, even though I know it is for the best. It is time you were leaving such low company."
"I have found it pleasant sometimes," she replied a little wistfully. "It takes very little to please me, captain."
"Sometimes," he replied, smiling, "anything is pleasant, but only sometimes. Your brother has been notified, Mademoiselle, You should hear from him in a little while now, when this hurry and. bustle is over, and when you see him, give him my ​regards and my regrets. And Mademoiselle"—he hesitated an instant—"would you think it insolent if I said I sometimes wished—Mon Dieu, Mademoiselle, do not take it so. It was entirely unpardonable of me."
Mademoiselle had hidden her face in her hands. My father, frowning slightly, rubbed his thumb along his sword blade.
"Forgive me, if you can," he said. "I have often feared my manners would fail me sometime."
She looked up at him then, and her eyes. were very bright.
"Suppose," she said softly, "I told you there was nothing to forgive. Suppose I said——"
My father, bowing his lowest, politely and rather hastily interrupted.
"Mademoiselle would be too kind. She would have forgotten that it is quite impossible."
"No," said Mademoiselle, shaking her head slowly, "it is not impossible. You should have known better than to say that. Suppose—" her voice choked a little, as though the words hurt her—"suppose I bade you recall, captain, what you said on the stairs at Blanzy, when they were at the ​door and you were going to meet them. Do you remember?"
My father smiled, and made a polite little gesture of assumed despair. Then his voice, very slow and cool, broke in on her speech and stilled it.
"Good God, Mademoiselle, one cannot remember everything."
Playing with the hilt of his sword, he stepped nearer, still smiling, still watching her with a polished curiosity.
"I have said so many little things to women in my time, so many little nothings. It is hard to remember them all. They have become confused now, and blended into an interesting background, whose elements I can no longer separate. Your pardon, my lady, but I have forgotten, forgotten so completely that even the stairs seem merely a gentle blur."
And he pressed his hand over his brow and sighed, while he watched her face flush crimson.
"You lie!" she cried. "You have not forgotten!"
My father ceased to smile.
"And suppose I have not," he said. "What is it to Mademoiselle? What are the words of a ruined man, the idle speech ​of a fool who fancied he would sup that night in paradise, and what use is it to recall them now? Is it possible you believe I am touched by such trivial matters? Because everyone had done what you wish, do you think I shall also? Do you think you can make me give up the paper, as though I were a simpering, romantic fool in Paris? Do you think I have gone this far to turn back? Mademoiselle seems to forget that I have the game in my own hands. It would be a foolish thing to throw it all away, even——"
He paused, and bowed again.
"Even for you, Mademoiselle. I have arrived where I am today only for one reason. Can you not guess it? It was a pleasure to take you from Blanzy. It is business now, and they cannot be combined.
"Listen, Mademoiselle," he continued. "Not three miles off the harbor mouth is a French ship tacking back and forth, and not entirely for pleasure. Around this house at present are enough men to run your estates at Blanzy. A sloop has come into the harbor this morning, and has landed its crew for my especial benefit. A dozen of Napoleon's agents are waiting to spring at my throat. I have succeeded so that ​there is not a man in town who would not be glad to see me on a yard arm. And yet they are waiting, Mademoiselle. Is it not amusing? Can you guess why they are waiting?"
He took a pinch of snuff and dusted his fingers.
"Because they fear that I may burn the paper if they disturb me. They believe if they keep hidden, if I do not suspect, that I may venture forth. They hope to take me alive, or kill me, and still obtain the paper. Indeed, it is their one hope. It would be a pity to disappoint them."
His lips had parted, and his eyes were shining in the candle light.
"There are few things which move me now, my lady. All that I really enjoy is an amusing situation, and this one is very amusing. Do you think I have crossed the ocean to deliver this document, and then I shall stop? No, Mademoiselle, you are mistaken."
He bowed again, and stepped backwards towards the door.
"Pray do likewise, Mademoiselle, and forget," he said. "There is nothing in this little episode fit for you to remember. It is not you they are after, and you will be ​quite safe here. I have made sure of that. My son will remain until your brother arrives, and will dispense what hospitality you require.
"I trust," he added, turning to me, "you still remember why you have been here?"
"Indeed, yes," I answered.
"Then it is good-bye, Henry. I shall not bother to offer you my hand. Brutus, you will remain with my son until a quarter to seven."
Even now I cannot tell what made a mist come over my eyes and a lump in my throat any more than I can explain my subsequent actions on that evening. Was it possible I was sorry to see the last of him? Or was it simply self pity that shortened my breath and made my voice seem broken and discordant?
"And after that?" I asked.
He looked at me appraisingly, tapping his thin fingers on his sword hilt.
"After that—" He stared thoughtfully at the shadows of the darkened room. Was he thinking as I was, of the wasted years and what the end would be?
"After that," he repeated, half to himself, "come, I will make an appointment with you after that—on the other side of ​the Styx, my son. I shall be waiting there, I promise you, and we shall drink some corked ambrosia. Surely the gods must give a little to the shades, or at any rate, Brutus shall steal some. And then perhaps you shall tell me what happened after that. I shall look forward—I shall hope, even, that it may be pleasant. Good-bye, my son."
I think he had often planned that leave taking, Surely it must have satisfied him.