Short Fiction · A Transaction In Hearts (9/12)

VIII

But for that day the rescue was of necessity postponed. Shortly after leaving Bronx the train in which Gonfallon was seated hesitated and halted, barricaded by the derailment of the Boston Express. And there between open fields for four mortal hours Gonfallon sat and twirled his thumbs. Instead of arriving in town at noon, the encroachments of dusk had begun before the station was reached.

As he drove to the rectory he weighed the feasibility of bearding Usselex in his house or of waylaying Manhattan at his club. On Jerolomon no attempt could be made, for that vulture took wing each night to an eyry on the Palisades whither pursuit were futile. The cab moved slowly; a stream of carriages was descending from the Park, and suddenly the rumble of the Avenue was punctuated by a stroke of brass, the trailing cry of a horn, and a coach swept by displaying for a second’s space a panorama of high hats, smart bonnets, and grooms the arms folded, impassible, correct. In its wake came a landau, the panel decorated with a coat of arms that was haughtier than a closed crown, and for occupant a brewer’s mistress. And behind it, interrupted by drays and hansoms, came traps from the stables of Robinson, of Madden, Dunwoodie, Forbush, and Attersol, men whose signatures could ransom popes, to whose daughters princes offered their hands, not the left either, but both, and whose wives could not find houses large enough for the plenitude and atrocities of their taste.

These people Gonfallon passed on his way to the rectory, and as the cab turned into Fifty-Second Street an omnibus lumbered by, and in it he caught a glimpse of Bleecker Bleecker, the richest man out of mythology, who sat caressing his chin, his coat-collar turned up, and in his face that vacuity which only omnipotence can bring.

It was to these people that each Sunday he spoke. At their marriages he officiated; when death came among them, so did he. It was he that baptized their children, it was he that gave them Bread and Wine at the Supper of Our Lord, it was he that counselled and that warned. He was their spiritual guide, their friend as well, one whom they welcomed and feasted and in whose converse they took delight. Yet did he in the direness of his distress go to any one of them now, what metamorphoses might he not encounter, interest changed to apathy, cordiality to rebuff, and, for climax, the door! As he stepped from the cab there came to him the giddiness of a sudden fall. On one side he saw the frayed coat of the mendicant priest, and in it an outcast that was himself; on the other gleamed the rochet, the satin robe, the insignia of the episcopate. It was for him to choose; and as he let himself into the rectory, about the muscles of his jaw there seemed to rise the stamp of that force which is known as Will.

“That money shall be got,” he muttered, “ay, though I dig it from the earth with my teeth.” And as he threw his coat from him, raging at the pusillanimity which had sent him careering over the country, losing him hours of which each moment was a treasure, and determining that, however late it might be, he would not sit himself down until the means of intercepting that forgery were obtained, his eye fell on a telegram that lay awaiting him on the table. “More about the bishop, I suppose.” And thereat he opened it with a stab of the thumb.

“God will reward you,” it ran. “I have only thanks.” And for signature⁠—Bucholz.

Gonfallon read the message twice, gazing at it the while with the air and attitude of a lunatic who thinks himself the proprietor of the asylum in which he dwells. For the moment it even occurred to him that Bucholz through some sympathetic intussusception might have divined the current of his thought and was expressing in advance his gratitude for the effort about to be made in his behalf.

“He is mad,” he muttered. “What can he mean?”

“Chris!”

Rumpling the telegram, he turned.

“Chris!” From the floor above, Ruth’s voice descended, and as he looked he saw the jonquil of her hair.

“Yes,” he answered, “in a moment.” And presently, the telegram in his pocket, his gloves withdrawn and folded, he mounted, still perplexed, to where she stood. “He is mad,” he kept repeating.

“Oh, Chris, I am so glad you are come! I hardly expected you today.” As she spoke, her voice wavered, as though she too were thinking of other things.

“Your father has been here, has he not?” he asked, abruptly.

“No,” she replied; “no one has been here. Is she better?”

Evidently she was referring to the countess, and by way of answer Gonfallon made a vague gesture. But the question seemed to have slipped from her, and to the gesture she gave no heed. She turned and appeared to listen.

“What can he mean?” he repeated to himself. “What new abomination is he at?”

“Come with me,” she continued, and motioned him to her room.

“I must go to him,” he thought, “or I must write.” But he followed her, and when he found a seat he added, aloud, “She died before we got there.”

“Ah!”

“Yes; and I must get back for the funeral⁠—that is, if I can manage it. How is your head?”

“Oh, as for my head!⁠—” And she made a movement as though her head and she were separate, as were it a thing that existed only when other things ceased to be. She went to the door and closed it, and then at once, still standing, she turned to where he sat.

In her attitude, in the expression of her eyes, was a fixidity so unusual that mentally Gonfallon gasped. For the time being Bucholz passed from his thoughts and the telegram was forgot. “She knows all,” he reflected. “Claire has confessed.” But of the inward perturbation his face gave no sign, and for the moment, as the earlier danger sank in sight of this newer one, he told himself, “If she believes it, she will leave me.”

“Yes,” he repeated, “she died before we got there. I suppose I should have remained; but the bishop, you know⁠—” and thereat he nodded, as though the death of that prelate had absolved him from every tie. And as he nodded he eyed her, prepared at the first accusation to affect an appearance of speechless indignation under cover of which he could not only stalk from the room but slam the door as well.

Her lips trembled; she shook her head, almost absently it seemed to him, and one hand which had detained the fold of her gown she now raised, and, drawing it palm foremost across her brow, let it fall again to her side.

“Chris, listen to me. Last evening⁠—you had barely gone⁠—Claire rang for a messenger⁠—she often does, you know⁠—and sent some note. I thought nothing of it, and asked no questions. For a while she sat here talking about a habit she was trying to get, and a little later, it was barely ten o’clock, she said something about being tired, and went to her room. H’m. I think I must have fallen asleep. In any event, I heard a noise such as the front door makes. At first I thought you might have returned. I listened a moment, and then went out in the hall. There was no sound. I went to Claire’s room and tapped: she did not answer. I tried the door: it was locked. ‘She is asleep,’ I told myself, and listened again; but I heard nothing more, and, deciding that I had been mistaken, I came back here and tried to read. But I must have dozed off; for suddenly I awoke again with a start: I was sure I had heard that noise a second time. In a moment I was in the hall, and there, on the stairs, was Claire.”

“Claire!”

“Yes, Claire; it was then after one. She had been out at least two hours⁠—perhaps even three.”

“But where? Where had she been?”

“I asked her, and she said she had been to Miss Pickett’s.”

“But she is often there. She was there only the other night.”

“Yes, I know. She told me that Miss Pickett was having a dance, and that she thought she might as well go. The messenger, she explained, was for the cab.”

“Really, Ruth, it was unconventional, I admit, and you must tell her not to go out in that way again, but, aside from that⁠—no, really, I see no cause for anxiety.”

As his wife had spoken, a great load had been lifted from him⁠—one, however, that was immediately replaced by another. “I must attend to Bucholz at once,” he decided.

“No, perhaps not,” Ruth answered, pensively. “Only she did not seem to be in ball-dress, and⁠—”

But Gonfallon had no time to listen further. “Ruth,” he exclaimed, “I have many things to attend to. If you don’t mind, I will get Jane to give me a bite, and then I must go. Don’t sit up for me; and there,” he added, “I will see that the front door does not creak.”

She had fallen on a lounge, and, bending to her, he brushed her forehead with his lips and left the room.