The Monk of Hambleton Part 11

"Humph. You're just out of college and the general idea has been that you would take a post-graduate course in the Columbia Law School; that is your mother's wish. The tannery, if I may so express it, has always been a stench in her nostrils. She is not the first woman to quarrel with the honest source of her bread-and-b.u.t.ter." He stared at his son from beneath level brows. "Well? Have plans changed?"

"I want to make money, sir, and it would be years before I could hope to do that at the Bar."

"I will undertake to continue your allowance until you have established yourself."

"Thank you, father, but it's not the same thing. I want to stand on my own feet--and as soon as possible."

"Why?"

"Because I wish--I intend--to marry Sheila Graham."

"You shan't do it!"

It was the drop of the handkerchief; steel rang upon steel, and no b.u.t.tons tipped their foils. It was careful fencing at first, thrust and parry, parry and thrust, until Simon lost patience at length and put all his viciousness into one deadly lunge.

"Now, see here, Copley! If you persist in disregarding my wishes let me tell you what will happen; I will throw Billy Graham out of his job and I'll use every sc.r.a.p of influence I possess to keep him from getting another! Put that in your pipe and smoke it!" The notebook slapped on his knee. "Ruin your own prospects if you're fool enough to do it; ruin Sheila's, if she's fool enough to let you; but _stop there_! Maybe she'll help you to stop when she knows that your stubbornness and hers will be a knife in her father's back! She _will_ know, too, for you can't go ahead in common decency without telling her what it will mean to him!" The tanner leaned forward, an ugly light of triumph in his eyes, raised his free hand and slowly clenched his fist.

"I've got--you--right--_there_!"

"Father!" The bitterest shame in the world, the shame of a son for his father, was in that cry. The young man rose from his chair and stood looking at Simon Varr almost incredulously. "You couldn't do _that_!

You couldn't do anything so contemptible! Do what you please to me, but take back that threat before I--I despise you!"

"Despise me? _You_! Ha! I'll take back nothing, and I'll use my advantage to its full extent. Mark that! I've said you shan't marry Sheila Graham--and what I say _goes_!"

"Not any longer with me!" flared his son at white heat. For a full minute they indulged in a furious exchange of half-incoherent insults before Copley's voice rose clear above his father's. "I will marry Sheila as soon as she'll have me, and I warn you to keep your hands off Graham!"

It was then that the study door was flung open and a thick, heavy voice cut through their abusive volleys.

"That will do, young man! I can fight my own battles with no help from you!"

Graham came into the study, dragging with him the shrinking figure of the clerk, Langhorn. His intrusion was startling enough, but there was still a deeper significance in the slight lurch that the manager gave as he halted, glowering, before Simon Varr. His flushed face and blurred utterance contributed their testimony to a fact that was ominous in itself; he had been drinking, drinking heavily, though he was notably abstemious by habit. Varr got hastily to his feet, so threatening was his manager's att.i.tude.

"What do you want here?" he demanded curtly, though he knew well enough what Langhorn's presence betokened. "What do you mean by bursting in like that? Are you drunk?"

Possibly the crisp question went far to sober Graham, who was plainly trying to shake off the effect of his potations as if the sense of the undignified figure he was cutting was just beginning to filter into his confused brain. He straightened up, steadied himself.

"I want a talk with you, Mr. Varr. It's overdue, I think. I've been waiting for you to make a move in a certain direction, and it seems I've been fooling myself nicely." He spoke slowly. "More than a score of years I've worked for you, Mr. Varr, and not you nor any man can say I haven't done well by you and the business. I'm ent.i.tled to something more than the salary of a hired hand--Mr. Bolt agrees with me there--and I've been hoping that you would give me some chance to invest my savings in a business I've grown up with. I've earned the right--"

"Stop pinning medals on yourself and come to the point!"

"I've been wondering if maybe you didn't understand how I felt and if I oughtn't to speak straight out, but yesterday afternoon this man, Langhorn, told me he had heard you and Mr. Bolt discussing me. He told me you said you would never give me a partnership, that--that you were going to throw me out so I would go to Rochester, taking Sheila with me! It--it nearly knocked me off my feet, Mr. Varr; it's no wonder I took a drink or so too much this evening. Now I've brought this man here so you can say if he told me the truth--or so you can call him a liar to his face."

"You needn't have gone to that trouble!" snarled Simon, purple with rage. "He's a sneaking hound, but he told you the truth this time, and I'd have told you all you wanted to know without your bringing him along!"

"Then--it's true? You're going to let me out after all these years?"

"Yes!" The word was fairly shouted. From temper and sheer exasperation, Simon was in a towering pa.s.sion. He flung the notebook he was holding onto his desk, raised both hands above his head and shook them in a frenzy at the two men. "_Yes_! And you can start going by getting out of here, now, and taking your eavesdropping pal with you! Get out--and don't either of you ever come back!"

Langhorn wriggled free and stepped out into the hall. Graham did not leave without a parting shot--directed via Copley, who had been a silent witness of the scene.

"This is your fault more than any one else's," he said, "but I know you didn't mean it." He glanced expressively at Varr and back again. "I hope you're proud of your father!" he added dryly, and followed the departing clerk from the house.

There was a brief silence in the study for a moment or two after the thud of the closing front door came to their ears. Then Copley made to leave the room, unchecked by his father, who stood watching him in sullen mood. The young man paused on the threshold and turned to face his father.

"So," he said evenly, "you were threatening me with a course of action that you had already determined on! Isn't that so?"

A wave of color suffused Varr's face and answered him.

"Come back here!" snapped Simon. "I've not finished with you!"

"Yes, you have, father," said Copley. "Just that!"

White to his lips, he turned and left the room. Varr listened to his retreating steps and to a second closing of the front door as he went out of the house into the dark night.

Alone, Varr sank into the chair before his desk and tried to take stock of his position. For once, it seemed, he had not only failed to have his own way but had definitely come out at the short end of the horn.

It would be difficult to replace Graham--he could admit that to himself. It would be impossible to replace Copley--! He did not try to deceive himself with false hopes in that connection; there had been a finality in his son's last utterance that rang true.

What curse had come upon him? What malign fate had led Graham there that evening at the very moment when he could least afford to have his trickery revealed to his son? Why was everything going wrong?

The solace of tobacco was denied him, since he did not smoke. His shaken nerves cried for some attention, and the faint odor of whisky that still lingered in the room recalled him to Graham's resource. He stepped to the door and called Bates, who came from the rear of the house.

"Fetch me a gla.s.s, and that decanter of Bourbon."

The butler returned in a minute with a tray. He placed it on a small table near the desk and looked inquiringly at Simon.

"Will you wish anything else, sir?"

"No. Go to bed."

"Thank you, sir. Everything is closed but the front door. Mr. Copley is still out. Good night, sir."

Varr poured himself a stiff three fingers and tossed it off at a gulp, making a wry face as the fiery liquor stung his unaccustomed throat.

Otherwise the effect was excellent. He decanted another large drink and was about to take a sip of it when his eyes, above the gla.s.s, chanced to rest on a piece of brown paper in a pigeonhole of his desk.

Abruptly, he put down his drink, drew the paper out, and read the last lines of the message so curiously received.

"_Take heed to thy ways and mend them, lest thou be destroyed by the thunderbolts of wrath!_"

Bah! He flung the paper back into its hole, yet continued to eye it with a feeling of uneasiness that required another swallow of whisky to allay. Ah--that was better! He took a second, and new life and courage flowed into him with the liquor.

He threw back his head and squared his shoulders defiantly. Blast them--blast them one and all, root and branch! Graham--Copley--this lunatic Monk--! Threaten _him_, would they? Let 'em look out for themselves--_he'd_ show 'em!

He raised his clenched fist preparatory to bringing it down with a crash upon the desk. It did not fall; it stayed aloft while a sudden fear leaped into his eyes. He bent forward, his head turned sideways, his ears straining to catch a sound that had come to them from a distance.

A siren was blowing--the siren whose raucous wail gave warning to the people of Hambleton when fire threatened their homes. Tensely, Simon counted the long blasts. One--two--three! A short pause.

One--two--three!

Thirty-three! _The tannery_!