The Strange Affair of Adelaide Harris (17 page)

“Go?” said Mr. Brett palely. “Now? After I've—?” He glanced at Tizzy as if the sight of her loveliness was more eloquent than further words. Mrs. Bunnion shrugged her shoulders.

“No!” said Mr. Brett suddenly, to everyone's surprise, and his own most of all. “I
will
not go. Let your husband dismiss me himself. And let him find a better reason, if he can, than my love for Miss Alexander. You may shout the house down, Mrs. Bunnion,
but I won't go!
”

Mrs. Bunnion stared at him. There was amazement and even terror in her eyes. A fly buzzed and settled on her pale cheek, but she seemed not to notice. Then, as if awakening from a sudden dream, she turned abruptly and left the room. She had been shaken to the depths of her soul. Mr. Brett's refusal had been like an earthquake in which the firm pavements of her existence had cracked and yawned asunder. Mr. Brett's departure had been her only hope of avoiding the discovery of her damning letter. Now that hope was gone. Her marriage, her life itself would be laid in ruins.

She did not return to her husband. She was not able to face him. Instead she went to their bedroom and looked about it with inexpressible anguish. She remained thus for several minutes till at last, dully surmising that life must go on to its bitter end, she set to work gathering together such intimate belongings as she and her husband would require for the night. Since they were obliged to make way for Sir Walter, they had fixed on sleeping in Mr. Brett's
room and Mr. Brett was to be with the boarders. Mechanically she plucked at the pillows and opened and closed drawers without understanding or even seeing anything that lay within. How—how had it all come about, she wondered miserably. In a few days—no more—in a few days her brisk and comfortable world had been plunged into despair. How had it happened?

Bostock and Harris, in a mood of tense exultation, were on their way to the poorhouse. Bostock was wearing his oversized blue coat and was carrying an embroidered quilt from his mother's bed, as the evening was windy and Adelaide might catch cold.

Yes, at last the time had come. On their last visit to the poorhouse Mrs. Bonney had been in so advanced a state of oblivion that Harris was convinced a mortal frame could withstand no more. Success this evening was certain. Bostock's waning confidence in his friend was quite restored, and Harris pointed out that when it was all over they would still be eight shillings in pocket.

“We could lay two shillings on Ralph Bunnion for tomorrow,” said Harris shrewdly. Bostock nodded. Like everyone else, he was on the school hero's side. The heavy odds on Ralph Bunnion's victory in the coming duel was really no reflection on Major Alexander's ability. It was the expression of a general hope rather than a certainty that the best man would win. Had the Major been the deadliest marksman in all the land and Ralph the poorest, such hearts as
Bostock's would still have wagered all on Ralph's success, and so too would Harris's, though a shade less impulsively.

“Here we are, Bosty, old friend,” whispered Harris as hey reached the scratched and battered door of the poorhouse. “If Mrs. Bonney ain't in the Old Ship, she'll be in her bed as brandied as a butterball.”

The two friends entered the gloomy house in which the unmoving air was ripe with the smell of babies, gin and fish. They crept upstairs to the long, low room where the foundlings bubbled and slept.

“There she is, Bosty,” breathed Harris triumphantly. “Down at the end.”

Bostock advanced, his coat unbuttoned and ready, and flapping gently like the grubby plumage of some ancient bird. He had actually laid the embroidered quilt across the bleak little cot when—

“Gor' bless me! If it ain't me two little Christians come to cheer me Friday night!”

Mrs. Bonney, veiled in brandy, had risen from her bed. She stood in the doorway, blinking and swaying, but unmistakably awake. Her frame must have been more than mortal. Six shillings worth of spirits had done little more than dent her.

“All donations is welcome,” she said and stumbled down the room with hands outstretched. Even in her present state, charity was uppermost in her mind.

Harris, whiter than Bostock had ever seen him, fumbled in his pocket.

“Here, ma'am,” he croaked. “For—for the poor!” In a panic he gave her the whole eight shillings.

“If only there was more like you,” said Mrs. Bonney moistly, “this ol' world would be a 'appier place. You'll go straight to 'eaven, Master H. You'll gallop right through them gates in a coach and four! And so will you, Master B—right alongside of 'im!”

She had seen the embroidered quilt. She took it up and pressed it to her glassy cheek. “All donations is very welcome . . .”

“My ma took three years to make that quilt,” muttered Bostock, overcome by his misfortune. “What'll she say when she finds it's gone?”

“What's a quilt compared to a live baby?” said Harris with the weary bitterness of one plagued by trifles. “We ain't got Adelaide, either.”

“Three years,” said Bostock, hurt by Harris's attitude. “And it don't take as long as that to make a baby, Harris.”

Harris, a shade unnerved by the subtle workings of Bostock's mind, looked at him almost with respect. “Bosty, old friend, we can't give up now. We're so near to it. As sure as my name's Harris, eight shillings worth of brandy'll pickle her cold. Tomorrow morning, Bosty. Early. We'll try for the last time. I promise, it'll be the last time.”

Bostock thought, then shrugged his shoulders and sighed. After all, they were friends. “We'll miss the duel, Harris.”

“We've got nothing left to bet with, Bosty. And anyway, my sister comes first. Poor little Adelaide! She must be wondering what's happening.”

Mrs. Bonney, divided between taking the beautiful quilt up to grace her bed and going straight to the Old Ship, decided on the latter. She fancied she'd heard Mr. Bonney come in, so it wasn't as though she was leaving the foundlings untended.

“Evening all,” she said to the little parlor at large, and sat herself down to a night of very good cheer indeed. God alone knew she'd earned it. Nobody but a lady in a similar walk of life could know the trials of charitable work. With high satisfaction she observed out of the dim corner of her eye that the brute with the clubfoot had taken himself off into the shadows to avoid her. Good riddance! He crowded her, and once in her cups, Mrs. Bonney liked plenty of room to swim.

Mr. Raven went up to his lonely little room. There was an ache in his heart as he stared at the forlorn and empty bed. He remembered Sorley and the warmth of confession. He remembered looking after him . . . until that devil Brett had taken him away. He, Raven, had been powerless to prevent it. His strength was all in his mind. He would have been no match for a man like Brett, and his wry foot put pursuit out of the question. But tomorrow he would hurl his thunderbolt!

He went over to the table and took the papers out of his pocket. He spread them out and studied the affair of Adelaide Harris. The ever increasing complexity had now spread over two large sheets, and the inquiry agent had some difficulty in remembering how they fitted together.

The whole conspiracy was represented by a tremendous number of lines, crossing, joining, dividing and intertwining to form the pattern of a spider's web. At various points of intersection, names were trapped like helpless flies: Dr. Harris and his wife, the Bonneys, the Bunnions, the entire Hemp household, Morgan the nurse, the Gypsy baby, Adelaide Harris, Frederick and the landlord of the Old Ship who always said “good riddance!” whenever Mr. Raven left the parlor. But right in the middle of this diabolical plan, like the terrible spider he was, crouched the inquiry agent's great adversary, Mr. Brett.

Long, long he brooded over it, careless of the fading light. He moved his finger from place to place, murmuring, “Etcetera, etcetera,” and drawing ever nearer to the vital spot that, once cut, would destroy the whole unclean thing and reduce it to a heap of meaningless threads. Then, with nothing to support it, the deadly creature in the middle would come crashing to the ground to be squashed under the inquiry agent's avenging boot.

At last his finger halted. He had found the vital spot. “The thunderbolt,” he whispered. “Who would have thought it?”

NIGHT, DARK AND
impenetrable, seemed to collapse over Dr. Bunnion's Academy rather than fall in the usual way. Moon, stars and all the high paraphernalia of the heavens were utterly obscured by banking clouds that the wind had gathered in a great black rubbish dump above the town. Here and there uneasy candles gleamed out of windows as curtains were briefly drawn aside.

Major Alexander looked out often. His son Adam had not yet arrived and the Major clung to the frail hope that he would not come. Sometimes he fancied he glimpsed a striding figure in the dark. Then he'd hold his breath and wait for a loud knock on the front door. But no such knock came and the Major concluded that what he'd seen had been a trick of the shadows of a ghost.

Ghosts were much on his mind. Twice he'd imagined he'd seen his own in the long glass in his room. He was not a superstitious man, but he felt there was something ominous in the air—an invisible iron curtain that was slowly shutting him off from the world of men. He felt horribly lonely and would have been glad even of his wife's company, but she was with Tizzy so he cursed her German soul. He should have married an Englishwoman. She at least would have understood him—and understood an Englishman's honor.

He paused in his pacing and gazed into the glass. He tended to examine his figure rather than his countenance, for it was an unfortunate disability of his that he was unable to look even himself in the face. In his military days, this natural drawback had given him an unlucky reputation for shiftiness, which no efforts on his part had been able to dispel.

Well, he was out of that now. He had kept himself to himself and no one but his wife thought ill of him . . . damn her German soul! If he died tomorrow he would die as the man of honor he really believed he was. It paid to be secretive and not to demean oneself with friends. It was decent strangers who took their hats off when a man of honor's coffin went by. Filthy friends would be all too apt to say, “There goes shifty Alexander. Caught at last!”

Inadvertently his eyes met his reflection's. “Liar!” he whispered. “Liar, liar!” He had seen a face gray with dread, and lips that seemed to writhe over the terrible words, “I don't want to die! Please, Ralph, don't shoot me!”

The striding figure the Major had glimpsed in the night had not been a ghost. It had been Mr. Brett. The thought of sleep had been intolerable and the dark grandeur of the night had drawn him out. He looked up and was surprised how low the sky seemed. Even the trees were not so tall as they'd seemed yesterday. Mr. Brett felt twice his old height, but very light and strong in his movements.

She loved him! Tizzy—enchanting Tizzy—Tizzy of the marvelous eyes and lips as sweet as ripe cherries—he could taste them yet! Glorious, blushing Tizzy in the sunshine of her dress whose bodice, try as it might, could scarcely subdue the pride of her breasts. She loved him and had said so. What more had the world to offer? Crowns, glory, fortune and even fine weather were but trumpery items, sops thrown to the millions to make up for not having Tizzy.

At last everything stood in due proportion. First things had finally come first, and Mr. Brett laughed aloud as he recalled his defiance of the awesome Mrs. Bunnion. Love was his general and Tizzy his flag. So inspired, he could conquer the world.

But now he'd best go inside. It was starting to rain and there was no sense in falling to a chill before he was more than love's lip servant. As he entered the school a vague memory of having been told something about the night's arrangements crossed his mind. He paused, frowning slightly in an effort to pin it down. No, he couldn't remember. Perhaps it would come to him later.

He went upstairs, light as a feather, and humming, slipped into his remote little room. Mrs. Bunnion was in his bed. She sat up and stared at him in terror.

“Oh my God!” said Mr. Brett, and remembered what he'd been told. He was to sleep with the boarders as the Bunnions were to have his room for the night.

“What do you want with me?” whispered Mrs. Bunnion. Her husband, after futile attempts to share the narrow bed, had gone down to the sofa in his study and left her alone.

“I—I forgot,” said Mr. Brett uneasily, staring at the magnificent Mrs. Bunnion whose hair streamed across his pillow like the banners of yesterday.

“I thought—I hoped—I prayed you had come to—to say you had changed your mind.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Bunnion.”

Uncomfortably he saw her eyes were puffy with crying. Surely she couldn't be so concerned about the school? Or was it Ralph and the duel that was so distressing her?

“If it's Ralph—” he began, but she shook her head and her tears came on again. “Oh, Jack, Jack!” she sobbed.

“James,” said Mr. Brett firmly. “It's James. But I don't suppose it matters now.”

Mrs. Bunnion looked at him and managed a faint smile. She really was rather lovely, in a timeworn way, and Mr. Brett caught himself wondering by what declension she'd come to be the headmaster's wife.

“You must love Miss Alexander very much,” said Mrs. Bunnion gently. He nodded. “She is a—a pretty girl.”

Pretty?
Mr. Brett was amazed at such a belittlement.

“All young girls are pretty, James. Even I was once.” Here she gave so sad a smile that Mr. Brett forgave her for undervaluing Tizzy.

“And so you are now, Mrs. Bunnion,” he said gallantly. “Your husband is a very lucky man.”

“My husband?” she whispered. “Lucky?” And then it seemed to the startled Mr. Brett that the gates of her heart burst open to a final flood of despair. At first she covered her face with her hands as if still seeking some privacy in her grief. Then she was forced to abandon this as she could not draw the great, broken breaths she needed to sustain herself, nor easily expel them in the long stairways of sobs down which she seemed to be tumbling and falling with frightened jerks of her shoulders and head.