The Gray Dawn

S >> Stewart Edward White >> The Gray Dawn

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She had drunk her glass of sherry because she felt she needed it. Now she
poured another, and without comment, refilled Sansome's whiskey glass.

"Here's to us!" she cried, lifting her glass.

Nan's plan of getting him so drunk that he would not interfere with her
escape had the merit of simplicity, and also of endorsement by such
excellent authority as melodrama and the novel. It had the defect of being
entirely theoretical. Nan's innocence of the matter in hand had not taken
into account the intermediate stages of drunkenness, nor did she realize
the strength inherent in the association of ideas. As she leaned forward to
fill the glasses, Sansome's eyes brightened. He had seen women pouring wine
many times before. The picture before him reminded him of a dozen similar
pictures taken from the gallery of his rather disreputable past. His
elaborate complimentary mood vanished. He pledged her ardently, and deep in
his eyes began to burn a secret covetous flame. Nan poured her, sherry
under the table.

"This really is a cozy party!" she cried. "Will you have another with me?"

The third glass of neat whiskey whirled in Sansome's head. He was verging
toward complete drunkenness, but in the meantime became amorous. His eyes
burned, his lips fell apart. Nan tried in desperation to keep on a plane of
light persiflage, to hold him to his chair and to the impersonal. Deep fear
entered her. She urged more drink on him, hoping that he would be
overpowered. It was like a desperate race between this man's passions and
the deep oblivion that reached for them. Her mouth was dry, and her brain
whirled. Only by the greatest effort could she prevent herself from flying
to pieces. Sansome hardly appeared to hear her. He wagged his head at her,
looking upon her with swimming, benevolent eyes. Suddenly, without warning,
he sprang up, overturning with a crash the small table and the bottles and
glasses.

"By God, you're the most beautiful woman I ever saw!" he cried. "Come
here!"

He advanced on her, his eyes alight. She saw that the crisis had come, and
threw aside all pretence.

"Keep away! Keep away!" she warned him through, gritted teeth; then, as he
continued to stumble toward her, she struck at him viciously again and
again with one of the small light chairs.

For a moment or so she actually managed to beat him off; but he lunged
through the blows and seized her around the shoulders.

"Reg'lar little tiger cat!" he murmured with fond admiration.

His reeking breath was on her neck as he sought her mouth. She threw her
head back and to one side, fighting desperately and silently, tearing at
him with her hands, writhing her body, lowering her head as he forced her
around, kicking at his shin. The man's strength was as horrible as it was
unexpected. The efforts to which she was giving her every ounce did not
appear to have the slightest effect on him, His handsome weak face
continued to smile foolishly and fondly down on her.

"Reg'lar little tiger cat!" he repeated over and over.

The terrible realization dawned on her that he was too much for her. Her
body suddenly went lax. She threw back her and screamed.

LXXIV

The plot which Morrell had first suggested idly and as sort of a joke, but
which later he had entered into with growing belief, was quite perfect in
all details but one: he assumed that Keith had accompanied Durkee's
expedition, and was sure that he had seen the young lawyer off. As a matter
of fact, Keith had been recalled. A messenger had at the very last moment
handed him an order sealed with the well-known open eye, and signed "33
Secretary." It commanded him to proceed with certain designated men to the
arrest of certain others inscribed on the black list. This was a direct
order, whereas the present expedition was wholly a voluntary affair. Keith
had no alternative but to obey, though he did so reluctantly, for this
search for arms had promised sport. Therefore, he stepped ashore at the
last instant; a proceeding unobserved by Morrell, who was surveying the
scene from a distance, and who turned away once the sails were hoisted.

The duty to which Keith had been assigned took some time. The men had to be
searched out one by one, escorted to headquarters, and the usual
formalities there accomplished. It was late in the evening before he was
free to go home. He let himself in with his latchkey, and had just turned
up the low-burning gas in the hall when the sound of hurrying feet brought
him back to the door. He flung it open to confront Mrs. Sherwood and
Krafft. They were both panting as though they had run some distance and
Krafft's usually precise attire was dishevelled and awry, as though it had
been hastily put on.

"Nan!" gasped Mrs. Sherwood. "Is she here?"

Keith, with instant decision, asking no questions, threw open the parlour
door, glanced within, ran upstairs three steps at a time, but almost
immediately returned after a hasty inspection of the upper story. His face
had gone very pale, but he had himself in perfect control.

"Well?" he demanded crisply, looking from one to the other.

But Mrs. Sherwood did not stop to answer. With a stifled exclamation she
darted from the house. Krafft looked after her, bewildered. Keith shook him
savagely by the shoulder.

"Speak up, man! Quick! What is it?" demanded Keith. His voice was vibrant
with suppressed excitement, but he held himself outwardly calm, and waited
immobile until the end of Krafft's story. It was characteristic of him as
of all strong men in a crisis that he made no move whatever until he was
sure he had grasped the whole situation.

Krafft was just going to bed--he always retired early--when he was called
to the door by Mex Ryan. Mex had never come to his house before. He was a
shoulder striker and a thug; but he had one sure streak of loyalty in that
nothing could ever induce him to go back on a pal. For various reasons he
considered Krafft a pal. He was very much troubled.

"Look here, boss," he said to Krafft, "It just come to my mind a while ago:
what was the name of that bloke you told me to keep off'n? The Cora trial
man, I mean."

Krafft recalled the circumstance, and named Keith.

Mex slapped his head.

"That's right! It come to me afterward. Well, there's dirty work with his
wife. That's where I see the name, on the outside of the note. I just give
her a fake letter that says her husband is shot, and she's to go to him."

"How did he know what the letter said?" interjected Keith at this point.

"He'd read anything given him, of course. Mex knew the letter was false. I
came up to find your house. I didn't know where you lived, so I stopped at
John Sherwood's to inquire. Mrs. Sherwood was home alone. She came with
me."

"Where did this letter say I was supposed to be?" asked Keith,

"Jake's Place."

"My God!" cried Keith, and leaped for the door. At the same instant Mrs.
Sherwood's voice was heard from the darkness.

"Come here," she cried, "I have a rig."

They found her seated in a buggy. Both climbed in beside her. Keith took
the reins, and lashed the horse with the light whip. The astonished animal
leaped; the buggy jerked forward.

Then began a wild, careering, bumpy ride into the night. The road was
fearful and all but invisible. The carriage swayed and swung dangerously.
Keith drove, every faculty concentrated. No one spoke. The dim and ghostly
half-guessed forms of things at night streamed past.

"Who sent that letter?" demanded Keith finally.

"Mex wouldn't tell me," replied Krafft.

"How long ago did he deliver it?"

"About an hour."

The horse plunged frantically under the lash as this reply reached Keith.
The buggy was all but overturned. He pulled the frantic animal down to a
slower pace, and with an obvious effort regained control of himself.

"Can't afford an accident!" he warned himself.

"Are you armed?" Mrs. Sherwood asked him suddenly.

"Yes--no, I left my gun at headquarters--that doesn't matter."

Mrs. Sherwood made no comment. The wind caught her hair and whipped it
about. In the distance now twinkled the lights of Jake's Place. Keith took
a firmer grip on the reins, and again applied the whip. They swept into the
gravelled driveway on two wheels, righted themselves, and rounded to the
veranda. Keith pulled up and leaped to the ground. Nobody was visible. From
the veranda he turned on them.

"Here, you!" he commanded Mrs. Sherwood sharply, "I can't have you in this
row! Stay here, outside. You take care of her," he told Krafft. "No, I mean
it!"

On his words a scream burst from the lighted room. Keith sprang to the
door, found it locked, and drew back. With a low mighty rush he thrust his
shoulder against the panel near the lock. The wood splintered. He sprang
forward into the room.

LXXV

After turning the key in the lock outside the parlour door Mrs. Morrell
slipped along the dark veranda, passed through a narrow hall, and entered a
small back sitting-room. Jake's Place especially abounded in sitting-rooms.
This particular one was next the parlour, so that one listening intently
could be more or less aware of what was going on in the larger room. Here
Morrell was already seated, a bottle of beer next his hand. He raised his
eyebrows on her entrance, and she nodded back reassuringly. She, too, sat
down and helped herself to beer. Both smoked. For a long time neither said
anything.

"Don't hear much in there," observed Mrs. Morrell finally, in a low guarded
tone.

"Not a sound," agreed Morrell. "You don't suppose she--"

"No, I don't think so."

"Then I don't see what ails that fool, Sansome! It'd be just like him to
jib."

"What does it matter?" observed Mrs. Morrell philosophically, "We don't
care what is happening inside as long as those two doors stay locked until
Teeny and Jimmy Ware get here."

As has been mentioned, Pop McFarlane was also of the party; but,
characteristically, neither would have thought that fact worth mentioning.

"Just the same, as a matter of academic interest, I'd have expected her to
make more of a row," said Morrell. "I'll wager for all her airs she runs
the same gait as all the rest of you."

"Do you mean me?" demanded Mrs. Morrell, her eyes flashing dangerously.

"Moderate your voice, my dear," advised he. "My remark was wholly general
of your charming sex."

From the parlour now they heard faintly the first sounds of struggle.

"That's more like," he said with satisfaction. "I hate to have my ideals
shattered."

Wheels became audible.

"There's Teeny, now," he observed, arising. He sauntered down the hall and
looked out. "Keith!" he whispered back over his shoulder. "Where in hell
did he come from?" He continued to peer into the darkness. "There's two
others. Well, at any rate, we have plenty of witnesses!" He turned to Mrs.
Morrell. "You'd better make yourself scarce. You locked that door, you
know!"

"Scarce!" she repeated, staring at him. "Where? How?"

He looked at her through narrowed lids.

"Get a horse of Jake," he said at last. "I'll meet you--oh, at the house.
We'll arrange later."

He watched her rather opulent figure steal down the dim hallway. A cynical
smile flashed under his moustache. He turned back to the drama before him.
The buggy had disappeared; the veranda was apparently empty.

"Now I wonder who will shoot who?" speculated Morrell.

He stole to the first of the windows. The lower blinds were drawn, but the
upper half of the window was clear. Morrell cautiously placed a stool
nearby, and mounted it so he could see into the room. For several minutes
he watched. Then his hand stole to his pocket. He produced a revolver.

LXXVI

Blinded by the light, Keith stood for a barely appreciable moment in the
wrecked doorway. Sansome, startled by the crash, relaxed his efforts. Nan
thrust him from her so strongly that he staggered back. Keith's vision
cleared. He appreciated the meaning of the tableau, uttered a choked growl,
and advanced.

Immediately Sansome drew and presented his weapon. He was shocked far
toward sobriety, but the residue of the whiskey fumes in combination with a
sudden sick and guilty panic imbued him with a sort of desperation. Sansome
was a bold and dashing villain only as long as things came his way. His
amours had always been of the safe rather than the wildly adventurous sort.
Sansome had no morals; but being found out produced effects so closely
resembling those of conscience that they could not be distinguished. In the
chaotic collapse of this heroic episode he managed to cling to but one
thing. That was Morrell's often reiterated warning: "Don't let Keith get
his hands on you!"

At the sight of his levelled weapon, Nan, who was nearest, uttered a
stifled cry and made as though to throw herself on him.

"Stop!" commanded Keith, without looking toward her. But so quietly
authoritative was his voice and manner that in spite of herself her impulse
was checked. She remained rigid.

Keith advanced steadily on Sansome, his hands clenched at his side, his
eye's fixed frowningly and contemptuously on those of the other man. The
pistol barrel was held on his breast. Sansome fully intended to shoot, but
found himself unable to pull the trigger. This is a condition every
rifleman knows well by experience; he calls it being "frozen on the bull's
eye," when, the alignment perfect, his rifle steady as a rock, he
nevertheless cannot transmit just the little nerve power necessary to crook
the forefinger. Three times Sansome sent the message to his trigger finger;
three times the impulse died before it had compassed the distance between
his brain and his hand. This was partly because his correlations had been
weakened by the drink; partly because his fuddled mind was divided between
fear, guilt, despair, and a rage at himself for having got into such a
mess; but principally because he was hypnotically dominated by the other
man's stronger personality.

So evident was this that a sudden feeling of confidence replaced in Nan the
sick terror at the sight of the weapon. She seemed to know positively that
here was no real peril. A wave of contempt for Sansome, even as a dangerous
creature, mingled with a passionate admiration for the man who thus
dominated him unarmed.

Sansome's nerve broke. He dropped his hand, looked to right and left
frantically like a rat in a corner, uttered a very ratty squeak. Suddenly
he hurled the loaded pistol blindly at Keith, and plunged bodily, with an
immense crash of breaking glass, through the closed window. Keith, with a
snarl of baffled rage, dashed forward.

The sight seemed to touch Nan's sense of humour. She laughed at the
picture, caught her breath, gasped. Keith whirled and snatched her fiercely
in his arms.

"Nan!" he cried in an agony, "are you all right? What did that beast--"

She clung to him, still choking, on the edge of hysterics. In a moment of
illumination she realized that the intangible barrier these past years had
so slowly built between them had gone crashing down before the assault of
the old love triumphant.

"I'm all right, dear," she gasped; "really all right. And I never was so
happy in my life!"

They clung together frantically, he patting her shoulder, her cheek against
his own, murmuring broken, soothing little phrases. The time and the place
did not exist for them.

A scuffle outside, which they had only vaguely sensed, and which had not at
all penetrated to their understandings, came to an end. Mrs. Sherwood
appeared in the doorway. Her dress was torn and dishevelled, a strand of
her smooth hair had fallen across her forehead, an angry red mark showed on
one cheek. But she was in high spirits. Her customary quiet poise had given
place to a vibrant, birdlike, vital, quivering eagerness. To the two in the
centre of the room, still clasped in each other's arms, came the same
thought: that never, in spite of her ruffled plumes, in spite of the cheek
already beginning to swell, had this extraordinary woman looked so
beautiful! Then Keith realized that she was panting heavily, and was
clinging to the doorway. He sprang to her assistance.

"What is it? Where is Krafft?" he asked.

She laughed a little, and permitted him to help her to an armchair into
which she sank. She waved aside Keith's attempts to find a whole glass in
the wreckage of the table.

"I'm all right," she said, "and isn't this a nice little party?"

"What has happened? Where is Krafft?" repeated Keith.

"I sent him to the stable for help. There didn't seem to be anybody about
the place."

"But what happened to you? Did that brute Sansome--"

"Sansome? was that Sansome? the one who came through the window?" She
dabbed at her cheek. "You might wet me a handkerchief or a towel or
something," she suggested. "No, he didn't stop!" she laughed again. "Are
you all right?" she asked anxiously of Nan.

"Yes. But tell us--"

"Well, children, I was waiting on the veranda, obeying orders like a good
girl, when, in the dim light I saw a man mount a stool and look into the
room. He was very much interested. I crept up quite close to him without
his knowing it. I heard him mutter to himself something about a 'weak kneed
fool.' Then he drew a revolver. He looked quite determined and heroic"--she
giggled reminiscently--"so I kicked the stool out from under him! About
that time there was a most terrific crash, and somebody came out through
the window."

"But your cheek, your hair--"

"I tried to hold him, but he was too strong for me. He hit me in the face,
wrenched himself free, and ran. That was all; except that he dropped the
pistol, and I'm going to keep it as a trophy."

Keith was looking at her, deep in thought.

"I don't understand," he said slowly. "Who could it have been?"

Mrs. Sherwood shook her head.

"Somebody about to shoot a pistol; that's all I know. I couldn't see his
face."

"Whoever it was, you saved one or both of us," said Keith, "there's no
doubt in my mind of that. Let's see the pistol."

It proved to be one of the smaller Colt's models, about 31 calibre, cap and
ball, silver plated, with polished rosewood handles, and heavily engraved
with scrollwork. Turning it over, Keith finally discovered on the bottom of
the butt frame two letters scratched rudely, apparently with the point of a
knife. He took it closer to the light.

"I have it," said he. "Here are the letters C.M."

"Charles Morrell!" cried both women in a breath.

At this moment appeared Krafft, somewhat out of wind, followed by the surly
and reluctant proprietor from whom the place took its name. Jake had been
liberally paid to keep himself and his staff out of the way. Now finding
that he was not wanted, he promptly disappeared.

"Let's get to the bottom of this thing," said Keith decisively. "If those
are really meant for Morrell's initials, what was he doing here?"

"Mrs. Morrell came out with me," put in Nan.

"Jake told me there was to be a supper party later," said Krafft.

"It's clear enough," contributed Mrs. Sherwood. "The whole thing is a plot
to murder or do worse. I've been through '50 and '51, and I know."

"I can't believe yet that Sansome--" said Keith doubtfully.

"Oh, Sansome is merely a tool, I don't doubt," replied Mrs. Sherwood.

"I can find out to-morrow from Mex Ryan who sent the note," said Krafft.

"Let's get out of this horrible place!" cried Nan with a convulsive shiver.

Again they had great difficulty in finding any one to get their rigs, but
finally repeated calls brought the hostler and Jake himself. The latter
made some growl about payment for the entertainment, but at this Keith
turned on him with such concentrated fury that he muttered something and
slouched away. It was agreed that Krafft should conduct Mrs. Sherwood. They
clambered into the two buggies and drove away.

LXXVII

The horse plodded slowly down the gravelled drive of the road house and
turned into the main highway. It was very dark on earth, and very bright in
the heavens. The afternoon fog had cleared away, dissipated in the warm air
from the sand hills, for the day had been hot. Overhead flared thousands of
stars, throwing the world small. Nan, shivering in reaction, nestled
against her husband. He drew her close. She rested her cheek against his
shoulder and sighed happily. Neither spoke.

At first Keith's whole being was filled with rage. His mind whirled with
plans for revenge. On the morrow he would hunt down Morrell and Sansome. At
the thought of what he would do to them, his teeth clamped and his muscles
stiffened. Then he became wholly preoccupied with Nan's narrow escape. His
quick mind visualized a hundred possibilities--suppose he had gone on
Durkee's expedition? Suppose Mex Ryan had not happened to remember his
name? Suppose Mrs. Sherwood and Krafft had not found him? Suppose they had
been an hour later? Suppose--He leaned over tenderly to draw the lap robe
closer about her. She had stopped shivering and was nestling contentedly
against him.

But gradually the storm in Keith's soul fell. The great and solemn night
stood over against his vision, and at last he could not but look. The
splendour of the magnificent skies, the dreamy peace of the velvet-black
earth lying supine like a weary creature at rest--these two simple
infinities of space and of promise took him to themselves. An eager glad
chorus of frogs came from some invisible pool. The slithering sound of the
sand dividing before the buggy wheels whispered. Every once in a while the
plodding horse sighed deeply.

With the warm cozy feel of the woman, his woman, in the hollow of his arm,
his spirit stilled and uplifted by the simple yet august and eternal things
before him, Keith fell into inchoate rumination. The fever of activity in
the city, the clash of men's interests, greeds, and passions, the tumult
and striving, the sweat and dust of the arena fell to nothing about his
feet. He cleared his vision of the small necessary unessentials, and stared
forth wide-eyed at the big simplicities of life--truth as one sees it,
loyalty to one's ideal, charity toward one's beaten enemy, a steadfast
front toward one's unbeaten enemy, scorn of pettiness, to be unafraid.
Unless the struggle is for and by these things, it is useless, meaningless.
And one's possessions--Keith's left arm tightened convulsively. He had come
near to losing the only possession worth while. At the pressure Nan stirred
sleepily.

"Are we there, dear?" she inquired, raising her head.

Keith had reined in the horse, and was peering into the surrounding
darkness. He laughed.

"No, we seem to be here," he replied, "And I'm blest if I know where 'here'
is! I've been day-dreaming!"

"I believe I've been asleep," confessed Nan.

They both stared about them, but could discern nothing familiar in the dim
outlines of the hills. Not a light flickered.

"Perhaps if you'd give the horse his head, he'd take us home. I've heard,
they would," suggested Nan.

"He's had his head completely for the last two hours. That theory is
exploded. We must have turned wrong after leaving Jake's Place."

"Well, we're on a road. It must go somewhere."

Keith, with some difficulty, managed to awaken the horse. It sighed and
resumed its plodding.

"I'm afraid we're lost," confessed Keith.

"I don't much care," confessed Nan.

"He seems to be a perfectly safe horse," said he.

By way of answer to this she passed her arms gently about his neck and bent
his lips to hers. The horse immediately stopped.

"Seems a fairly intelligent brute, too," observed Keith, after a few
moments.

"Did you ever see so many stars?" said she.

The buggy moved slowly, on through the night. They did not talk.
Explanations and narrative could wait until the morrow--a distant morrow
only dimly foreseen, across this vast ocean of night. All sense of tune or
direction left them; they were wandering irresponsibly, without thought of
why, as children wander and get lost. After a long time they saw a silver
gleam far ahead and below them.

"That must be the bay," said Keith. "If we turn to the right we ought to
get back to town."

"I suppose so," said Nan.

A very long time later the horse stopped short with an air of finality, and
refused absolutely to proceed. Keith descended to see what was the matter.

"The road seems to end here," he told her. "There's a steep descent just
ahead."

"What now?"

"Nothing," he replied, climbing back into the buggy.

The horse slumbered profoundly. They wrapped the lap robe around
themselves. For a tune they whispered little half-forgotten things to each
other. The pauses grew longer and longer. With an effort she roused herself
to press her lips again to his. They, too, slept. And as dawn slowly
lighted the world, they must have presented a strange and bizarre
silhouette atop the hill against the paling sky--the old sagging buggy, the
horse with head down and ears adroop, the lovers clasped in each other's
arms.

Silently all about them the new day was preparing its great spectacle. The
stars were growing dim; the masses of eastern hills were becoming visible.
A full rich life was swelling through the world, quietly, stealthily, as
though under cover of darkness multitudes were stealing to their posts.
Shortly, when the signal was given, the curtain would roll up, the fanfare
of trumpets would resound--A meadow lark chirped low out of the blackness.
And another, boldly, with full throat, uttered its liquid, joyous song.
This was apparently the signal. The east turned gray. Mt. Tamalpais caught
the first ghostly light. And ecstatically the birds and the insects and the
flying and crawling and creeping things awakened, and each in his own voice
and manner devoutly welcomed the brand-new day with its fresh, clean
chances of life and its forgetfulness of old, disagreeable things. The
meadow larks became hundreds, the song sparrows trilled, distant cocks
crowed, and a dog barked exuberantly far away.

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