The Attic Guest: A Novel

by Robert E. Knowles

We were almost through the crowd when something happened that almost brought the mist of unconsciousness before my eyes, my head reeling, my heart spinning like a top. A voice, instantly familiar, spoke Gordon's name, hurling an epithet of contempt and hate so malignant that he turned a moment, as if he would seek and punish his assailant. Then he smiled disdainfully, took my arm tighter in his own, and walked calmly on.

I too turned—and the face I saw was the face of Charlie Giddens. His gaze met mine, and he sought to smile; but I could see his enmity to Gordon gleaming through it all, and I hope my eyes bore themselves as my heart would wish.

When we gained our home aunt and mother received us with weeping joy. But uncle uttered never a word. Instead, he went silently about the house, drawing tight the shutters on every window that looked upon the scene we had just deserted. For he knew what was transpiring now. As he came down the stairs, I met him in the hall and flung my arms about his neck. Not a word of chiding escaped his lips—he stroked my hair, and his tenderness was the tenderness of farewell.

I told him, with trembling voice, that I had seen Mr. Giddens in the throng. This did not surprise him. "I know it," he said; "he came in on the eleven o'clock train—he heard the noise, of course, and came up. Listen," he suddenly cried, as we heard a footfall on the porch, succeeded by a gentle knock at the door, "what's that? That'll be him—go inside, child," as he walked to the door to open it.

Gordon was sitting in the corner of the room, offering speech to nobody, when Mr. Giddens came in. The latter bowed with courtly grace to my mother and my aunt, casting on me a glance that showed he still hoped—perhaps more now than ever. Then he walked straight over till he stood in front of Gordon.

"Laird," he said, before any one could speak, "you've tried to ruin my happiness—and I've got to settle with you yet for that." Gordon sprang to his feet. "And you've outraged the sentiment of this city—and you've disgraced this home," the words coming out like pistol-shots, "and I want to know what you've got to say for yourself."

"Nothing—to you," said Gordon, his face looking a little terrible, his voice overflowing with contempt.

Mr. Giddens turned livid—and he made a motion backward with his hand, a motion familiar to all Southern men; it was towards his pocket. "If it weren't my respect for the house we're in," he hissed through his teeth, "I'd shoot you like a dog."

Gordon's face was now altogether terrible. He stepped closer to the Southerner, his eyes fastened on him like balls of flame. "I've heard other cowards talk like that," he said.

Then Mr. Giddens' hand flew forward, unarmed; and he struck Gordon full in the face. We were too late—we might as well have raced with lightning. Before we could speak or move, Gordon's mighty grip was on his throat, and he wrenched him back, back, till his head struck with a thud against the corner wall. There is something marvellous about these Scotchmen when madness seizes them. So reserved, so silent, so inscrutable, there is no race on earth so calm and none so deadly. And strength—such fearful strength! Still gripping him with grasp of iron, Gordon drew back his hand, every muscle in neck and wrist standing out like whip-cords as he gathered force for the blow.