The Unspeakable Gentleman Part 3

"And am I right," he asked, "in recalling that you allowed yourself the liberty--of punctuating that comment?"

"You have been well informed, sir," I answered. "I struck him in the face."

He waved a hand to me in a pleasant gesture of acknowledgment, and half turned in his chair, the better to speak over his shoulder.

"Did I hear aright, Brutus?" he inquired. "There's faith for you and loyalty! He called the boy a liar who called me a cheat at cards! Ah, those illusions of youth! Ah for that sweet mirage that used to glitter in the sky overhead! It's only the wine that brings it back today--called him a liar, Brutus, and gave him the blow!"

"But pardon," he went on. His voice was still grave and slow, though his lips were bent in a bitter little smile. His face had reddened, and it was the wine, I think, that made his eyes dance in the candle light.

"Overlook, I beg, the rudeness of my interruption. The exceptional in your narrative quite intrigues me, my son. Doubtless your impulsive action led to the conventional result?"

There he sat, amusedly examining me, smiling at my rising temper. My reply shaped itself almost without my volition.

"Excuse me, sir," I retorted, "if I say the result was more natural than your action upon a greater provocation."

"Had it ever occurred to you, my son, that perhaps my self-control was greater also? Let us call it so, at any rate, and go on with our adventure."

"As you will, sir," I said. "We all make our mistakes."

He raised his eyebrows in polite surprise, and his hand in a gesture of protest.

"Our mistakes? Was I not right in believing you had a competent instructor? I begin to fear your education is deficient. Surely you have agility and courage. Why a mistake, my son?"

"The mistake," I replied, "was in the beginning and not in the end. I made the error in believing he told an untruth."

"Indeed?" said my father. "Thank you, Brutus, I have had wine enough for the evening. Do you not consider your error--how shall we put it--quite inexcusable in view of the other things you have doubtless heard?"

But I could only stare dumbly at him across the table.

"Come, come," he continued. "How goes the gossip now? Surely there is more about me. Surely you have heard"--he paused to drain the dregs in his gla.s.s--"the rest?"

I eyed him for a moment in silence before I answered, but he met my glance fairly, indulging apparently in the same curiosity, half idle, half cynical, that he might have displayed before some episode of the theatre. It was a useless question that he asked. He knew too well that the answer was obvious.

"Yes," I said, "I have heard it."

"So," he exclaimed cheerfully, "my reputation still continues. Wonderful, is it not, how durable a bad reputation is, and how fragile a good one.

One bounds back like a rubber ball. The other shatters like a l.u.s.tre punch bowl. And did the same young man--I presume he was young--enlighten you about this, the most fatal parental weakness?"

"No," I said, "I learned of it later."

He raised his hand and began gently stroking his coat lapel, his fingers quickly crossing it in a vain search for some imaginary wrinkle, moving back and forth with a steady persistence, while he watched me, still amused, still indifferent.

"And might I ask who told you?" he inquired.

"Your brother-in-law," I replied, "My Uncle Jason."

"Dieu!" cried my father, "but I grow careless."

He was looking ruefully at his lapel. Somehow the threads had given way, and there was a rent in the gray satin.

"Another coat ruined," he observed, and the raillery was gone from his voice. "How fortunate it is that the evening is well along, and bed time is nearly here. One coat torn in the brambles, and one with a knife, and now--But your uncle was right, quite right in telling you. Indeed, I should have done the same myself. The truth first, my son. Always remember that."

And he turned again to his coat.

"I told him I did not believe it," I ventured, but the appeal in my voice, if there was any, pa.s.sed him quite unnoticed.

"Indeed?" he said. "Brutus, you will put an extra blanket on my bed, for I fancy the night air is biting."

I pushed back my chair.

"And now, you will excuse me" I said, "if I take my leave."

I rose a trifle unsteadily, and stood before him, with no particular effort to hide my anger and contempt. But apparently I had ceased to be of interest. He was sitting just as I had first seen him that morning, staring into the embers of the fire. As I watched him, even through my anger I felt a vague regret, a touch of pity--pity for a life that was wasted in spite of its possibilities, in boasting and blackguardry. I began hoping that he would speak, would argue or remonstrate. Instead, he said nothing, only sat serenely indifferent, his eyes still on the fire.

Stepping around the debris that filled the room, I had placed my hand on the latch, when I heard a stealthy footstep behind me. Brutus was at my elbow. There was a tinkle of a wine gla.s.s falling on the hearth. I turned to see my father facing me beside the table I had quitted--the calm modulation gone from his voice, his whole body poised and alert, as though ready to spring through the s.p.a.ce that separated us.

"No doubt," he said, drawing a deep breath, "you are leaving this house because you cannot bear to stay under the same roof with a man of my stamp and accomplishments. Come, is that the reason?"

"Only partly," I answered, turning to face him, and then the words tripped off my tongue, hot and bitter, before I had wit to check them.

"What right have I to be particular, now that I have found out my inheritance? Why should I pick my company? Why should I presume to hold my head up? I can only be blessed now, sir, like the rest of the meek."

I paused to let my final words sink in, and because I knew they would hurt him, I spoke them with an added satisfaction.

"I shall start at once to acquire merit which the moth cannot corrupt," I continued. "I am leaving to apologize to the man I fought with because he called you a cheat--and to my uncle for doubting his word."

My father's fist came down on the table with a crash.

"Then, by G.o.d," he shouted, "you'll not leave this room! You'll not take a single step until you've learned two things, learned them so you'll never forget. Stand where you are and listen!"

IV

I remember the curious feeling I had that my father was gone, that he had vanished while my back was turned, leaving me to face someone else. Then, as I stared at him, still unready and speechless, the light died out of his eyes, his lips relaxed, and his hand went up to arrange the lace at his throat.

"Shun my example," he said, "shudder at the life I have led. Call me dissolute. Call me dangerous company. Say that in every way I'm unfit to be your father--say that I'm an outcast, suitable only as material for slander. I will agree with you. I will teach you that your judgment is correct. Let us only set two limits and do not call them virtues. They are necessities in the life I lead, nothing more. They--"

The sound at the knocker on the front door broke into my father's speech and stilled it. In the pause, while the echoes died away, he shrugged his shoulders negligently, and settled himself back in his chair.

"My son," he sighed, "allow me to point out the misfortune of being a man of affairs. They will never adjust themselves to the proper time and place. Brutus, the two gentlemen about whom I was speaking--show them in at once. And you, my son, there is no need for you to leave. The evening is young yet."

"Where are you, Shelton?" came a sharp, authoritative voice from the hallway. "d.a.m.n this dark pa.s.sage."

"Open the door, Henry," my father said.

As I did so, two gentlemen entered. The taller, without bothering to remove his hat, strode over to my father's chair. The other stood undecided near the threshold, until Brutus closed the door behind him.

Without rising from his chair, my father gave first one and then the other, the impartial, casual glance of the disinterested observer.