VI
Every one was splitting up into little groups, some to look at the fireworks, some to have a last drink together, some to creep off into the dark shadows and there confirm their vows, some to drive home on their carts and waggons to their distant farms, some to sit in their homes for a last chatting about all the news, some to go straight to their beds—the common impulse was over although it would not be forgotten.
Harkness looked around to find Gideon, but that giant was gone nor was he ever to see him again. He paused there panting, happy, forgetting for an instant everything but the fun and freedom that he had just passed through. Then, as though it would forcibly remind him, the Town Hall clock struck half-past nine.
He spoke to a man standing near him:
"Can you kindly tell me where a hotel called the 'Feathered Duck' is?" he asked.
"Certainly," said the man, wiping the sweat from the hair matted on his forehead. "It's out on the sea-front. Go down High Street—that'll take you to the sea-front. Then walk to your right and it's about five houses down."
Harkness thanked him and hurried away. He had no difficulty in finding the High Street, but there how strange to walk so quietly down it, hearing your own foot tread, watched by all the silent houses, when only five minutes ago you had been whirling in Dionysian frenzy! He was on the sea-front and two steps afterwards was looking up at the quiet and modest exterior of "The Feathered Duck."
The long road stretched shining and sleek. Not a living soul about. The little hotel offered a discreet welcome with plants in large green pots, one on either side of the door, a light warm enough to greet you and not too startling to frighten you, and the knob gleaming like an inviting eye.
Harkness pushed open the door and entered. The hall was anæmic and dark, with the trap to catch visitors some way down on the right. There seemed to be no one about. Harkness pushed open a door and at once found himself in one of those little hotel drawing-rooms that are so peculiarly British, compounded as they are of ferns and discretion, convention and an untuned piano. In this little room a young man was sitting alone. Harkness knew at once that his search was over. He knew where it was that he had heard the name Dunbar before—this was his young man of the high road, the wandering seaman and the serious appointment, the young man of his expectant charge.
There was yet, however, room for mistake and so he waited standing in the doorway. The young man was bending forward in a red plush armchair, eagerly watching. He recognised Harkness at once as his friend of the afternoon.
"Hullo!" he said, and then hurriedly, "why, what has been happening to you?"
Harkness stepped forward into the room. "To me?" he said.
"Why, yes. You're sweating. Your collar's undone. You look as though you had run a mile."
"Oh, that!" Harkness blushed, fingering his collar that had broken from its stud. "I've been dancing."
"Dancing?"
"Yes. All round the town. Like the lion and the unicorn."
"Oh, I heard you. On any other night——" He broke off. During this time he had been watching Harkness with a curious expression, something between eagerness, distrust, and an impatience which he was finding very difficult to conceal. He said nothing more. Harkness also was silent. They stared the one at the other, and could hear beyond the door the noises of the little hotel, a shrill female voice, the rattle of plates, some man's laughter.
At last Harkness said: "Your name is Dunbar, isn't it?"
The young man, instead of answering, asked his own question. "Look here, what the devil are you after? I don't say that it is or it isn't, but anyway why do you want to know?"
"It's only this," said Harkness slowly, "that if your name is Dunbar, then I have a message for you."
"You have?"
He started out of his chair, standing up in front of Harkness as though challenging him.
"Yes, a friend of yours asked me to come here, to meet you at half-past nine and tell you that she agrees to your proposal——"
"She does? . . . At last!"
Then his voice changed to suspicion. "You seem to be a lot in this. Forgive my curiosity. I don't want to seem rude, but meeting me on the hill this afternoon and now this. . . . I've got to be so damn careful——"
"My name is Harkness. It was quite by chance that I was walking down the hill this afternoon and met you. As I told you then, I was on my way to the 'Man-at-Arms.' This evening I offered my help to a lady there who seemed to be in distress, and asked her whether there was anything that I could do. She asked me to bring you that message. There was no one else for her to ask."
Dunbar stared at Harkness, then suddenly held out his hand. "Jolly decent of you. I won't forget it. My name is Dunbar as you know, David Dunbar."
"And mine Harkness, Charles Harkness."
"I can't tell you what you've done for me by bringing me that message. Here, don't go for a minute. Have something, won't you?"
"Yes, I think I will," said Harkness, conscious of a sudden weariness.
"What shall it be? Whisky? Large soda?"
They sat down. Dunbar touched a bell and then, in silence, they waited. Harkness was humorously conscious that he seemed to be the younger of the two. The boy had taken complete command of the situation.
The older man was also aware that there was some very actual and positive situation here that was developing under his eyes. As he sat there, sticking to the plush of his chair, listening to the ridiculous chatter of the marble clock, staring into the Wardour Street Puritans of "When did you see father last?" he felt urgency beating in upon them both. A shabby waiter looked in upon them, received his order and departed.
Dunbar suddenly plunged. "Look here, I know I can trust you. I'm sure of it. And she trusted you, so that should be enough for me. But—would you mind—telling me exactly how it happened that you got this message?"
"Certainly," Harkness said. "I——"
"Wait," Dunbar interrupted, "forgive me, but drop your voice, will you? One doesn't know who's hanging round here."
They drew their chairs closer together and Harkness, sitting forward, continued. "I had dressed for dinner early. A friend of mine in London had told me that there was a little old room at the top of the hotel that was well worth seeing. I guess, like most Americans, I care for old-fashioned things, so I got to the top of the house and found the room. I was up in a little gallery at the back when two people came in, a man and a girl. They began to talk before I could move or let them know I was there. It was all too quick for me to do anything. The girl begged the man, to whom she was apparently married, to let her go home for a week before they went abroad, and the man refused. That was all there was, but the girl's terror struck me as extreme——"
"My God!" Dunbar broke in, "if you only knew!"
"Well, I was touched by that and I didn't like the man's face, either. They went out. I came down to dinner. While I was waiting in the garden an extraordinary man spoke to me—extraordinary to look at, I mean. Short, fat, red hair—"
"You needn't describe him," Dunbar interrupted, "I know him."
"He came and asked me for a match. He was very polite, and finally invited me to dine with him, his son and daughter-in-law. I accepted. Of course the son and daughter-in-law were the two that I had overheard upstairs. I saw that throughout dinner she was in great distress, and at the end as we were leaving the room I let her know that I had overheard her inadvertently before dinner, and that I was eager to help her if there was any way in which I could do so. We had only a moment, Crispin and his son were close upon us. She was, I suppose, at the end of her endurance and snatched at any chance, so she told me to do this—to find you here and give you that message—that's all—absolutely all."
"The door opened, making both men turn apprehensively. It was only the shabby little waiter with his tray and the whiskies. He set down the glasses, split the soda, and stared at them both as Dunbar paid him.
"Will that be all, gentlemen?" he asked, scratching his ear.
"Everything," said Dunbar abruptly.
"Gentlemen sleeping here?"
"No, we're not. Good-night."
"Good-night, sir." With a little sigh the waiter withdrew. The door closed, and instantly the ferns in the pots, the plush chairs and sofa closed round as though they also wanted to hear.
"It's an extraordinary piece of luck," Dunbar began. Then he hesitated. "But I don't want to bother you with any more of this. It isn't your affair. You've come into it, after all, only by accident——"
He hesitated as though he were making an invitation to Harkness. And Harkness hesitated. He saw that this was his last opportunity of withdrawal. Once again he could hear the voice of the Imp behind his shoulder: "Well, clear out if you want to. You have still plenty of time. And this is positively the last chance I give you——"
He drank his whisky and, drinking, crossed his Rubicon.
"No, no, I am interested, tremendously interested. Tell me anything you care to and if I can be of any help——"
"No, no," Dunbar assured him, "I'm not going to drag you into it. You needn't be afraid of that."
"But I am in it!" Harkness answered, smiling; "I'm going back with Crispin to his house this evening!"