Book: Mr. Achilles

J >> Jennette Lee >> Mr. Achilles







XXVI

AND RACES FOR THE CLUE

Under the great bowl of sky, in the midst of the plain, the three cars
held their level way--three little racing dots in the big, clear place.
They kept an even course, swaying to the race on level wings that swept
the ground and rose to the low swale and passed beyond. Only the long
free line of dust marked their flight under the sun.

The men at the front, in the car ahead, did not look back again. They
had lost interest in the race pressing behind--most anxiously, they had
lost interest in it. They wished, with a fervent wish, that the two cars
driving behind them should pass them in a swirl of dust--and pass on out
of sight--toward the far horizon line that stretched the west. They were
only two market gardeners returning from business in the city. If they
drove a good car, it was to save time going and coming--not to race with
escaping fugitives and excited police. They had no wish to race with
excited police--fervently they had no wish for it--and they slackened
speed a little, drawing freer breath. Let the fellow pass them--and his
police with him--before they reached a little, white, peaceful house
that stood ahead on the plain. They did not look behind at justice
pursuing its prey... they had lost all interest in justice and in the
race. Presently, when justice should pass them, on full-spreading wing,
they would look up with casual glance, and note its flight over the far
line--out of sight in the distant west. But now they did not know of its
existence.

And Achilles, pressing fast, had a quick, clear sense of
mystery--something that brooded ahead--on the shining plain and the
little, white house and the car before him slackening speed. _Why_
should it slow down?--what was up? Cautiously he held his car, slowing
its waving gleam to the pace ahead and darting a swift glance behind,
over his shoulder, at the great service car that leaped and gained on
him lap by lap. It would overtake him soon--and he _must_ not pass the
car ahead--not till he saw what they were up to. Would they pass that
little white house--on the plain--or would they turn in there? The
wind hummed in his ears--his hair flew--and his hand held tense to
the wheel--slowing it cautiously, inch by inch--slackening a
little--slackening again with quick-flung, flashing glance behind--and a
watchful eye on the road ahead... and on the little white house drawing
near on the plain. It was a race now between his quick mind and that
car ahead and the little white house. He must not overtake them till the
little house was reached. The car behind must not touch him--not till
the house came up. There was a wood ahead, in the distance--his mind
flew and circled the wood--and came back. They had reached the little
house asleep in the sun. They were passing it, neck and neck, and the
car beside him swerved a little and slackened speed--and dived in at the
white gate. Achilles shot past--the free road ahead. The machine under
him gathered speed and opened out and laughed and leaped to the road and
lay down in the thick dust, spreading itself ahead. He could gain the
wood. He should escape--and the clue was fast.

Behind him, the service car thundered by the little house asleep. But
the police did not glance that way--nor did the big, white-capped man
glance that way. _His_ eyes were fixed on the racer ahead--dwindling to
a speck in its cloud of dust. He pushed up his visor and laughed aloud.
"Give it up!" he said genially, "give it up!--you can't catch _that_
car!--I know my own car, I guess!" He laughed again. "We shall find it
somewhere along the road--when he is through with it!"

But the face beside him, turning in the clouding dust, had a keen look
and the car kept its unbroken speed, and the plain flashed by. "He's in
too big a hurry--" said the driver sternly. "I want a look at that man!
He knows too much."


Too much! The heart of Achilles sang again--all the heart of him woke
up and laughed to the miles. He had found his clue--he had passed the
little hundred-thousand-dollar house, and the police in their big,
bungling dust had passed it, too. Nobody knew--but him... and he should
escape--over the long road... with the big machine, under him, pounding
away.




XXVII

THE LITTLE WHITE HOUSE

In an angle of the wood the dust-covered policeman and the white-capped
man came upon the racer, turned a little from the road, and waiting
their arrival. It had a stolid, helpless look--with its nose buried deep
in underbrush and the hind wheels tilted a little in air. Once might
almost fancy it gave a little, subdued hiccough, as they approached.

The white-capped man bent above it and ran a quick hand along the side,
and leaped to the vacant seat. The beast beneath gave a little snort
and withdrew its nose and pranced playfully at the underbrush and backed
away, feeling for firm ground behind. The man at the wheel pressed hard,
leaning--with quick jerk--and wheels gripped ground and trundled in the
road. It stopped beside the service car and the two men gazed doubtfully
at the wood. Dusty leaves trembled at them in the light air, and
beckoned to them--little twigs laced across and shut them out. Anywhere
in the dark coolness of the wood, the Greek lurked, hiding away. They
could not trace him--and the wood reached far into the dusk. He was
undoubtedly armed. Only a desperate man would have made a dash like
that--for life. Better go back to town for reinforcements and send the
word of his escape along the line. He would not get far--on foot! They
gave another glance at the wood and loosed their cars to the road,
gliding smoothly off. The wood behind them, under its cover of dust,
gave no sign of watching eyes; and the sun, travelling toward the west,
cast their long, clean shadows ahead as they went. In the low light, the
little, white house in the distance had a rosy, moody look. As they drew
nearer, little pink details flashed out. An old man behind the picket
fence looked up, and straightened himself, and gazed--under a shading
hand. Then he came along the driveway and stood in the white gate,
waiting their approach. He had a red, guileless face and white hair. The
face held a look of childish interest as they drew up. "You got him?" he
asked.

The service man shook his head, jerking his thumb at the racer that came
behind. "Got the car," he said. "He got off--took to the woods."

"That so?" The old man came out to the road and looked with curious eyes
at the big racing-machine coming up. "What'd he do?" he asked.

"He stole my machine," said the white-capped man quickly. He was holding
the wheel with a careful touch.

The old man looked at him with shrewd, smiling eyes--chewing at some
invisible cud. The service man nodded to him, "There'll be a reward out
for him, Jimmie--keep a watch out. You may have a chance at it. He's
hiding somewhere over there." He motioned toward the distant wood.

The old man turned a slow eye toward the west. "I don't own no
telescope," he said quaintly. He shifted the cud a little, and gazed at
the plain around them--far as the eye could see, it stretched on every
side. Only the little, white house stood comfortably in its midst--open
to the eye of heaven. It was a rambling, one story and a half house,
with no windows above the ground floor--except at the rear, where one
window, under a small peak, faced the north. Beyond the house, in that
direction, lay lines of market garden--and beyond the garden the wide
plain. Two men, at work in the garden, hoed with long, easy strokes that
lengthened in the slanting light. The service man looked at them with
casual eye. "Got good help this year?" he asked.

The old man faced about, and his eye regarded them mildly. "Putty good,"
he said, "they're my sister's boys. She died this last year--along in
April--and they come on to help. Yes, they work putty good."

"They drove in ahead of us, didn't they?" asked the service man, with
sudden thought.

The old man smiled drily. "Didn't know's you see 'em. You were so
occupied. Yes--they'd been in to sell the early potatoes. I've got a
putty good crop this year--early potatoes. They went in to make a price
on 'em. We'll get seventy-five if we take 'em in to-morrow--and they
asked what to do--and I told 'em they better dig." He chuckled slowly.

The service man smiled. "You keep 'em moving, don't you, Jimmie!" He
glanced at the house. "Any trade? Got a license this year?"

The old man shook his head. "Bone dry," he said, chewing slowly. "Them
cars knocked _me_ out!" He came and stood by the racer, running his hand
along it with childish touch.

The service man watched him with detached smile. The old man's silly
shrewdness amused him. He suspected him of a cask or two in the cellar.
In the days of bicycles the old man had driven a lively trade; but with
the long-reaching cars, his business dribbled away, and he had slipped
back from whiskey to potatoes. He was a little disgruntled at events,
and would talk socialism by the hour to anyone who would listen. But
he was a harmless old soul. The service man glanced at the sun. It had
dipped suddenly, and the plain grew dusky black. The distant figures
hoeing against the plain were lost to sight. "Hallo!" said the service
man quickly, "we must get on--" He looked again, shrewdly, toward the
old man in the dusk. "You couldn't find a drop of anything, handy--to
give away--Jimmie?" he suggested.

The old man tottered a slow smile at him and moved toward the house.
He came back with a long-necked bottle grasped tight, and a couple of
glasses that he filled in the dimness.

The service man held up his glass with quick gesture--"Here's to you,
Jimmie!" he said, throwing back his head. "May you live long, and
prosper!" He gulped it down.

The old man's toothless smile received the empty glasses; and when the
two machines had trundled away in the dimness, it stood looking after
them--the deep smile of guileless, crafty old age--that suffers and
waits--and clutches its morsel at last and fastens on it--without joy,
and without shame.




XXVIII

INSIDE THE LITTLE HOUSE

The two figures amid the rows of the marked garden paused, in the
enveloping dusk, and leaned on their hoes, and listened--a low, peevish
whistle, like the call of a night-jar, on the plain, came to them.
Presently the call repeated itself--three wavering notes--and they
shouldered their hoes and moved toward the little house.

The old man emerged from the gloom, coming toward them. "What was it?"
asked one of the figures quickly.

The old man chuckled. "Stole a racer--that's about all _they_
knew--_you_ got off easy!" He was peering toward them.

The larger of the two figures straightened itself. "I am sick of it--I
tell you!--my back's broke!" He moved himself in the dusk, stretching
out his great arms and looking about him vaguely.

The old man eyed him shrewdly. "You're earning a good pile," he said.

"Yes, one-seventy-five a day!" The man laughed a little.

The other man had not spoken. He slipped forward through the dusk.
"Supper ready?" he asked.

They followed him into the house, stopping in an entry to wash their
hands and remove their heavy shoes. Through the door opening to a room
beyond, a woman could be seen, moving briskly, and the smell of cooking
floated out. They sniffed at it hungrily.

The woman came to the door. "Hurry up, boys--everything's done to
death!"

They came in hastily, with half-dried hands, and she looked at them--a
laugh in her round, keen face. "You _have_ had a day!" she said. She
was tall and angular, and her face had a sudden roundness--a kind of
motherly, Dutch doll, set on its high, lean frame. Her body moved in
soft jerks.

She heaped up the plates with quick hands, and watched the men while
they ate. For a time no one spoke. The old man went to the cellar and
brought up a great mug of beer, and they filled their pipes and sat
smoking and sipping the beer stolidly. The windows were open to the
air and the shades were up. Any one passing on the long road, over the
plain, might look in on them. The woman toasted a piece of bread and
moistened it with a little milk and put it, with a glass of milk, on a
small tray. The men's eyes followed her, indifferent. They watched
her lift the tray and carry it to a door at the back of the room, and
disappear.

They smoked on in silence.

The old man reached out for his glass. He lifted it. "Two weeks--and
three more days," he said. He sipped the beer slowly.

The larger of the two men nodded. He had dark, regular features and
reddish hair. He looked heavy and tired. He opened his lips vaguely.

"Don't talk here!" said the younger man sharply--and he gave a quick
glance at the room--as a weasel returns to cover, in a narrow place.

The big man smiled. "I wa'n't going to say anything."

"Better not!" said the other. He cleared his pipe with his little
finger. "_I_ don't even think," he added softly.

The woman had come back with the tray and the men looked up, smoking.

She set the tray down by the sink and came over to them, standing with
both hands on her high hips. She regarded them gravely and glanced at
the tray. The milk and toast were untouched.

The old man removed his pipe and looked at her plaintively. "Can't ye
_make_ her, Lena?" he said. His high voice had a shrill note.

She shook her head. "_I_ can't do anything--not anything more."

She moved away and began to gather up the dishes from the table,
clearing it with swift jerks. She paused a moment and leaned over--the
platter in her hand half-lifted from its place. "She needs the air," she
said, "and to run about--she's sick--shut up like that!" She lifted
the platter and carried it to the sink, a troubled look in her eyes. "I
won't be responsible for her--not much longer," she said slowly, as she
set it down, "not if she doesn't get down in the air."

The men looked at each other in silence. The old man got up. "Time to go
to bed--" he said slowly.

They filed out of the room. The woman's eyes followed them. Presently
the door opened and the younger man returned, with soft, quick steps. He
looked at her. "I want to talk," he said.

"In a minute," she replied. She nodded toward the cellar. "The lantern's
down there--you go along."

He opened the door and stepped cautiously into blackness, and she heard
a quick, scratching match on the plaster behind the closed door, and his
feet descending the stairs.

She drew forward the kettle on the stove and replenished the fire, and
blew out the hand lamp on the table. Then she groped her way to the
cellar door, opening it with noiseless touch.

The young man waited below, impatient. On a huge barrel near by, the
lantern cast a yellow circle on the blackness.

The woman approached it, her high-stepping figure flung in shadowy
movement along the wall behind her.

"You can't back out _now_!" He spoke quickly. "You're weakening! And
you've got to brace up--do you hear?"

The woman's round face smiled--over the light on the barrel. "_I'm_ all
right," she said. She hesitated a minute.... "It's the child that's
not all right," she added slowly. "And tonight I got scared--yes--" She
waited a breath.

"What's the matter?" he said roughly.

She waited again. "She wasn't like flesh and blood to-night," she said
slowly. "I felt as if a breath would blow her out--" She drew her hand
quickly across her eyes. "I've got fond of the little thing, John--I
can't seem to have her hurt!"

"Who's hurting her?" said the man sharply. "_You_ take care of her--and
she's all right."

"I can't, John. She needs the outdoors. She's like a little bird up
there--shut up!"

"Then let her out--" said the man savagely. "Let her out--up there!" His
lifted hand pointed to the plain about them--in open scorn. He leaned
forward and spoke more persuasively, close to her ear--"We can't back
out now--" he said, "_the child knows too much_!" He gave the barrel
beside them a significant tap. "We couldn't use _this_ plant again--six
years--digging it--and waiting and starving!" He struck the barrel
sharply. "I tell you we've _got_ to put it through! You keep her out of
sight!"

"Her own mother wouldn't know her--" said the woman slowly.

He met the look--and waited.

"I tell you, I've done everything," she said with quick passion. "I've
fed her and amused her and told her stories--I don't _dare_ keep her any
longer!" She touched the barrel beside them--"I tell you, you might as
well put her under that.... You'll put her under for good--if you don't
look out!" she said significantly.

"All right," said the man sullenly, "what do you want?"

She was smiling again--the round, keen smile, on its high frame. "Let
her breathe a bit--like a child--and run out in the sun. The sun will
cure her!" she added quickly.

"All right--if you take the risk--a hundred-thousand-dollars--and your
own daughter thrown to the devil--if we lose--!... You know _that_!"

"I know that, John--I want the money--more than you want it!" She spoke
with quick, fierce loyalty. "I'd give my life for Mollie--or to keep
her straight--but I can't kill a child to keep her straight--not _this_
child--to keep her straight!" Her queer, round face worked, against the
yellow light.

He looked at it, half contemptuously, and turned to the barrel.

"See if everything's all right," he said. "If we're going to take
risks--we've got to be ready."

The woman lifted the lantern, and he pushed against the barrel. It
yielded to his weight--the upper part turning slowly on a pivot.
Something inside swashed against the sides as it turned. The man bent
over the hole and peered in. He stepped down cautiously, feeling with
his foot and disappearing, inch by inch, into the opening. The woman
held the light above him, looking down with quick, tense eyes... a hand
reached up to her, out of the hole, beckoning for the lantern and she
knelt down, guiding it toward the waving fingers. A sound of something
creaking--a hinge half turned--caught her breath--and she leaned
forward, blowing at the lantern. She got quickly to her feet and groped
for the swinging barrel, turning it swiftly over the hole--the liquid
chugged softly against its side--and stopped. Her breath listened up
into the darkness. The door above creaked again softly--and a shuffling
foot groped at the stair. "You down there--Lena?" called an old voice.

She laughed out softly, moving toward the stair. "Go to bed, father."

"What you doing down there?" asked the old voice in the darkness.

"Testing the barrel," said the woman. "John's gone down." She came to
the foot of the stair. "You go to bed, father--"

"_You_ better come to bed--all of ye," grumbled the old man.

"We're coming--in a minute." She heard his hand fumble at the door--and
it creaked again--softly--and closed.

She groped her way back to the barrel, waiting beside it in the
darkness.




XXIX

UPSTAIRS

When the man's head reappeared, he came up briskly.

"All right?" she asked.

"All right," he responded.

"Did you test the other end?"

"Right enough--" said the man. "Safe as a church! The water barrel in
the garden stuck a little--but I eased it up--" He looked back into the
hole, as he stepped out. "Too bad we had to take _her_ down," he said
regretfully.

"The police _might_ 'a' stopped," said the woman. "You couldn't tell."

They swung the barrel in place, and blew out the lantern, and the man
ascended the stair. After a few minutes the woman came up. The kitchen
was empty. The fire burning briskly cast a line of light beneath the
hearth, and on the top of the stove the kettle hummed quietly. She
lighted a lamp and lifted the kettle, filling her dishpan with soft
steam.... Any one peering in at the open window would have seen only a
tall woman, with high shoulders, bending above her cloud of steam and
washing dishes, with a quiet, round face absorbed in thought.

When she had finished at the sink and tidied the room, she took the lamp
and went into the small hall at the rear, and mounted the steep stairs.
At the top she paused and fitted a key and entered a low room. She put
down the lamp and crossed to the door on the other side--and listened.
The sound of low breathing came lightly to her, and her face relaxed.
She came back to the bureau, looking down thoughtfully at the coarse
towel that covered it, and the brush and comb and tray of matches. There
was nothing else on the bureau. But on a little bracket at the side the
picture of a young girl, with loose, full lips and bright eyes, looked
out from a great halo of pompadour--with the half-wistful look of youth.
The mother's eyes returned to the picture and her keen face softened....
She must save Mollie--and the child in the next room--she must save
them both.... She listened to the child again, breathing beyond the
open door. She looked again at the picture, with hungry eyes. Her own
child--her Mollie--had never had a chance--she had loved gay things--and
there was no money--always hard work and wet feet and rough, pushing
cars.... No wonder she had gone wrong! But she would come back
now. There would be money enough--and they would go away--together.
Twenty-five thousand dollars. She looked long at the pitiful, weak,
pictured face and blew out the light and crept into bed.... And in the
next room the child's even breathing came and went... and, at intervals,
across it in the darkness, another sound--the woman's quick, indrawn
breath that could not rest.




XXX

ASLEEP

In the morning the woman was up with the first light. And as the men
came grumbling in to breakfast, the round face wore its placid smile.
They joked her and ate hastily and departed for the open field. It was
part of a steady policy--to be always in the open, busy, hard-working
men who could not afford to lose an hour. The excursion had been a
quick, restless revolt--against weeks of weeding and planting and
digging.... But they had had their lesson. They were not likely to stir
from their strip of market garden on the plain--not till the time was
up.

As the woman went about her work, she listened, and stopped and went to
the door--for some sound from upstairs. Presently she went up and opened
the door... and looked in.

The child lay with one hand thrown above her head--a drawn look in
the softly arched brow and half-parted lips. The woman bent over her,
listening--and placed her hand on the small wrist and counted--waiting.
The eyes flashed open--and looked at her. "I thought you were Nono,"
said the child. A wistful look filled her face and her lip quivered a
little--out of it--and steadied itself. "You are Mrs. Seabury," she said
quietly.

"Yes," said the woman cheerfully. "Time to get up, dearie." She turned
away and busied herself with the clothes hanging from their hooks.

The child's eyes followed her--dully. "I don't think I care to get up,"
she said at last.

The woman brought the clothes and placed them by the bed, and smiled
down at her. "There's something nice to-day," she said casually. "We're
going outdoors to-day--"

"_Can_ I?" said the child. She flashed a smile and sat up. "Can _I_
go out-of-doors?" It was a little cry of waiting--and the woman's hand
dashed across her eyes--at the keenness of it. Then she smiled--the
round, assuring smile, and held up the clothes. "You hurry up and dress
and eat your breakfast," she said, "--a good, big breakfast--and we are
going--out in the sun--you and me." She nodded cheerfully and went out.

The child put one foot over the edge of the bed and looked down at it--a
little wistfully--and placed the other beside it. They were very dark,
little feet--a queer, brown colour--and the legs above them, were the
same curious brown--and the small straight back--as she stepped from
the bed and slipped off her nightgown and bent above the clothes on the
chair. The colour ran up to her throat--around it, and over the whole
sunny face and hands and arms--a strange, eclipsing, brown disguise.
There had been a quick, sharp plan to take her abroad and they prepared
her hastily against risks on board the steamer. The plan had been
abandoned as too dangerous. But the colour clung to the soft skin; and
the hair, cropped close to the neck, had a stubby, uncouth look. No
one seeking Betty Harris, would have looked twice at the queer, little,
brownie-like creature, dressing itself with careful haste. It lifted a
plaid dress from the chair--large squares of red and green plaid--and
looked at it with raised brows and dropped it over the cropped head. The
skirt came to the top of the rough shoes on the small feet. Betty Harris
looked down at the skirt--and smoothed it a little... and dropped on her
knees beside the bed--the red and green plaids sweeping around her--and
said the little prayer that Miss Stone had taught her to say at home.




XXXI

A BUTTERFLY FLIGHT

She came down the stairs with slow feet, pausing a little on each stair,
as if to taste the pleasure that was coming to her. _She was going
out-of-doors--under the sky!_

She pushed open the door at the foot and looked into the small hall--she
had been here before. They had hurried her through--into the kitchen,
and down to the cellar. They had stayed there a long time--hours and
hours--and Mrs. Seabury had held her on her lap and told her stories.

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