He lies there awhile, thinking of Violet and the foolish madness he has resolved to overcome. It is well enough for youth and inexperience, but a man of his years! Is there another woman in the world who could have loved him, would have loved him with maddening fervor? Is the old Eastern story of Lilith true? Does she come to tempt him at this midnight hour?
That is his last thought. When he turns again he is rather cramped, and he knows he has been asleep. But a curious impression is on his mind, as if some one came and looked at him. The lamp burns, the corners of the room are shadowy. An ugly chill creeps up his back, and he rises, stretches himself, whistles a stave of rondeau, and inspects the outer room. All is as usual. He will go back to bed. Or had he better take another turn through the factory?
The door is locked. Did he take out the key? It is always hung in one place, and the nail is empty. He cudgels his brains for remembrance, but surely he left the key on the outside.
What can he do? An old traveller, he ought to be fertile in expedients.
He is certainly trapped, and if so, some one is in the factory.
After a moment, he softly opens the iron shutters and vaults out. Some rubbish stands in the corner of the yard; it looked unsightly to him yesterday, but he is thankful now, and scrambles on the unsteady pile until he can spring up to the top of the high street fence and let himself drop on the other side. How odd that the dog should not hear.
There is a long ray of light flashing out of a window. Something is wrong.
He lets himself in at the main entrance again. There is a smothering smell, a smoke, a glare. He rushes to the engine-room, but it is up-stairs as well, everywhere, it seems, and he flies to the alarm bell.
Some stalwart grip seizes him from behind and throws him, but he is up in a flash. Ah, now he knows his enemy! He makes a frantic endeavor to reach the rope, and the other keeps him away. Neither speak, but the struggle is deadly, for the one has everything at stake, honor, standing, all that enables a man to face the world, and a revenge that would be so sweet. To-morrow the last business of the transfer is to be completed, to-night"s loss will fall on the Grandon family.
Neither speak. The man who has been detected in a crime fights desperately; the life of his more fortunate rival is as nothing to him.
If the place burns and Grandon"s dead body is found there, who is to know the secret covered up? If his dead body is _not_ there, it is disgrace and ruin for his enemy, and he will struggle with all the mastery of soul and body, with all the inspiration, of revenge, of safety to himself.
Grandon is strong, supple, and has a sinewy litheness, beside his height. His antagonist has the solidity of a rock, and though his body is much shorter, his arms are Briarius-like, everywhere, and more than once Grandon is lifted from his feet. It seems as if the awful struggle went on for hours while the fire is creeping stealthily about with its long blue and scarlet tongues. He hears a crackling up-stairs, it grows lurid within, and he remembers stories of men struggling with fiends.
There floats over his sight the image of Irene Lepelletier; of Violet, sweet and sad-eyed. Will it be too late for her to go to happiness?
Will Pauline Murray"s love be only a green withe binding the Samson of these modern days. One more desperate encounter, and Wilmarth comes down with a thud. He seizes the rope and rings such peals that all Westbrook starts. Then he runs through the pa.s.sageway, but is caught again. Whatever Wilmarth does he must do quickly.
Some voice in the street shouts, "Fire!" Grandon with a free hand deals his adversary a blow, and the next instant he has the street door open.
"What"s wrong?" cries a voice. "Who is here?" And the man, a workman, though Grandon does not recognize him, rushes through in dismay, but his presence of mind saves worse disaster. The hose in the engine-room is speedily put in motion, and the hissing flames seem to explode.
Grandon follows in a dazed manner. There are other steps, and an intense confusion like pandemonium prevails. One stentorian voice orders, and men go to work with the forces at hand. The dense smoke is enough to strangle them, but the waves of fire are beaten down. In a moment they rise again, and now it is a fight with them. Fortunately they can be taken singly, they have not had time to unite their overmastering forces.
By the time the engines have reached the spot, the fire is pretty well conquered. They open the windows to let out the thick, black smoke.
Every one questions, no one knows.
"Wait until to-morrow," says Floyd Grandon, who looks like a swarthy Arab, he is so covered with grime.
Farley, who is foreman of one department, and lives almost in the shadow of the building, who was first on the spot, is much puzzled.
"There is something wrong about all this," he declares. "The fire broke out in four separate places. That was no accident!"
The morning soon dawns. The smoke dissipates slowly, and they find the damage very small to what it might have been, but the signs of incendiarism are unmistakable. Grandon goes carefully through the place, searches every nook and corner, but discovers no trace of Wilmarth. Then he despatches a messenger for Eugene and the two gentlemen still at Grandon Park.
Meanwhile he walks up and down the office in deep thought. It seems easy enough to tell a straightforward story, but what if Wilmarth should deny all partic.i.p.ation in it, treat it as a dream or a false accusation on his part? He was here alone, he cannot deny that, and he has no means of proving that Wilmarth was here with him. He found the office door locked on the outside, as he supposed he should. No one could believe for a moment that he would set fire to the place when he had just disposed of it to his advantage, and yet not made a complete legal transfer, but never was a man placed in more confusing circ.u.mstances. Shall he attack Wilmarth with the power of the law? He is his sister"s husband, and it will make a family scandal just when he believed he had all difficulties settled, and how _is_ he to prove his charge? Wilmarth is not a man to leave a weak point if he can help. His plans have all been nicely laid. Floyd feels certain now that he did enter the office, attracted perhaps by a gleam of light. What if he had not wakened until the fire was under full headway! Locked in, confused, his very life might have been the forfeit, and he shudders. He is not tired of life at three-and-thirty, if some events are not shaped quite to his liking.
He washes up and tidies himself a little, but his coat he finds rather a wreck after the deadly struggle. He sends one of the men out for some breakfast, and shortly after that is despatched, the Grandon carriage drives up, its occupants more than astonished. The brief alarm in the night has not reached them.
Floyd leads them into the office and the door is closed. He relates his singular story with concise brevity, and the little group listen in amazement.
"The man has been a villain all the way through," declares Eugene, with virtuous severity. "He did actually convince me last summer that St.
Vincent"s plan would prove a complete failure, and that the business would be nothing, yet he made me what I considered generous offers for so poor an establishment. But for Floyd," he admits, with great magnanimity, "I should have played into his hands."
"I think," Floyd announces, after every one has expressed frank indignation, "that for a day or two we had better keep silent. I will have the damage repaired, and now, it seems, having him at your mercy, you can compel him to a bargain," and he glances at Murray.
They agree upon this plan and go over the building. The machinery is very slightly damaged; the stock, not being inflammable, has been injured more by water, but they find rags and cotton-waste saturated with kerosene. Once under good headway the building would surely have gone.
"Mr. Grandon," and a lad comes rushing up-stairs, "there is some one to see you in a great hurry, down here in a wagon."
It is Marcia"s pony phaeton, and two ladies are in it, one a Mrs.
Locke, Marcia"s neighbor.
"I have been down to Grandon Park," she begins, nervously. "I had some dreadful tidings! What a terrible night! Your sister----"
"What has happened to Mrs. Wilmarth?" he cries, in alarm. Can her husband have wreaked his vengeance upon her?
"Her husband was found dead this morning in his library. He had been writing, and had not gone to bed. She discovered him, and it was an awful shock. She has just gone from one faint to another. Her mother sent me here, though Mrs. Grandon has gone to her."
Are the horrors of this strange night never to cease? For a moment Floyd seems stricken dumb, then the tidings appear quite impossible.
"No one could do anything," Mrs. Locke says. "A physician came, but he was quite dead; and he, Dr. Radford, ordered some members of your family to be sent for immediately."
"Eugene," calls Floyd. "Here, change coats with me if I can get into yours. There is trouble at Marcia"s. Remain here until I send you word," and he springs into the large carriage, driving away at full speed.
The house wears an unusual aspect. Several people are gathered on the porch. Floyd hurries within, and goes straight through to the library, lifting the portiere. Dr. Radford is sitting by the window. Jasper Wilmarth is still in his chair, his head fallen over on the desk, pillowed by one arm. The swarthy face is now marble pale, the line of eyebrows blacker than ever, the lips slightly apart.
Radford bows and steps forward. "Mr. Grandon--I am glad you have come, for there is a little--a--I wish to tell _you_--before any steps are taken. It is suicide, beyond doubt, by prussic acid. Can you divine any cause?"
Floyd Grandon is as pale as the corpse, and staggers a step or two; but when the terrible shock abates, an admiration for his enemy pervades his very soul. It is what he would have done rather than meet criminal disgrace.
"I have been treating him for a heart trouble, not anything critical, and a local affection that caused him some anxiety. My first thought was that he had taken an overdose of medicine, but I detected the peculiar odor. Had there better be an inquest?"
Floyd shivers at the thought of the publicity. Death seems by far the best solution of events, but to make a wonderment and scandal--
"Is it absolutely necessary?"
"Not unless the family desire it."
"Doctors are sometimes taken into strange confidences," Floyd Grandon begins, gravely. "A difficulty came to my knowledge last night that supplies the clew. Since the man could not have retained his honor, this is the sad result. But having paid the penalty, if he might go to his last rest quietly----"
"There can be no suspicion of foul play. His wife left him here writing, at eleven. He seemed rather as if he wished her away, and she retired, falling soundly asleep. He has sometimes remained down all night, and even when she entered the room this morning she supposed him still asleep. I should judge the poison had been taken somewhat after midnight. There are various phases of accidental death----"
"Let it be managed as quietly as is lawful," decides Floyd Grandon.
Dr. Radford bows. "A post mortem will be sufficient, though that is not absolutely necessary. You prefer it to pa.s.s as an accidental death?"
"The family would, I am positive. Can I intrust the matter with you?"
"Certainly."
"Well. Prepare the body for burial. Mrs. Wilmarth may choose to order the rest."
He finds Marcia still in hysterics, and his mother half bewildered. "It is so horribly sudden!" she cries. "Poor Marcia! she did really love him!"
Let her keep her faith in him if she can. Her short wedded life has been the froth and sparkle on the beaded cup, never reaching the dregs.