In The Fulness Of Time
:
The Doomsman
The streets were as light as noonday, and Constans found no difficulty
in keeping the dying figure in sight. But, run as he would, he could not
gain a yard.
"Arcadia House," muttered Constans, under his breath, as he noticed the
direction taken by the runner. What more natural than that a man should
seek his own home at such a time? But Constans's brow was clouded as he
followed in Quinton Edge's footstep
.
Arcadia House, and why? There could be but one answer to that question
after Nanna's message, conveyed to him through Ulick's dying lips. Esmay
had disappeared, and yet had remained in Arcadia House. He, who knew
Quinton Edge, would understand.
Constans told himself grimly that he did understand. This insolent
wanted the girl, just as he had desired many another thing in life, and
it had always been his way to take what he coveted. But this
time--Constans set his teeth hard, and now, at last, Arcadia House was
in sight.
During this last quarter of an hour the progress of the conflagration
had been perceptibly slower, and the great sheaf of flame in the western
sky had almost disappeared. It was like the lull that so often takes
place in a storm, a period of sudden quiet in the element strife that
should warn the prudent that the worst is still to come. To Constans it
was the most fortunate of happenings, the comparative darkness enabling
him to keep close upon Quinton Edge without risk of discovery.
As though satisfied that he had arrived in time, Quinton Edge now
slackened his pace, making for the gateway on the side street. Whereupon
Constans determined to scale the wall at the rear and take the short cut
through the garden, so as to intercept the Doomsman at the entrance.
Once over the wall, the way was clear. Disdaining caution, he crashed
recklessly through the shrubbery, the wet and tangled grass wrapping
itself exasperatingly about his ankles as he ran. At the carriage-drive
he stopped, flinging himself full length on the ground and close against
the wall that marked the sunken way. The run had winded him, and he was
thankful for the moment's breathing-space.
From where Constans lay he could command sight of the north terrace that
connected the porticos of the river and western fronts. Suddenly it
seemed to him that the terrace was occupied by some living thing. A
moment before he had noticed a darker blur in the shadows at the river
corner; it had appeared to move. He heard a soft padding on the
flag-stones as of an animal moving cautiously. He strained his eyes,
striving to resolve that dusky blotch into shape intelligible; then a
new burst of flame lit up the western sky and he saw clearly--it was
Fangs, the hound.
The dog stood motionless, her head thrown upward as though listening.
She could not possibly see Constans where he lay, but the smallest noise
must betray him.
His revolver was in a side pocket, and he drew it forth with infinite
care. Then he discovered that it was unloaded and that he had no more
cartridges. His knife also had disappeared from its sheath; he realized
that he was absolutely unarmed and helpless.
The hound leaped lightly from the terrace and began ranging in great
half-circles. Constans looked on with fascinated eyes. It could be a
matter of seconds only when she must cross his scent, and he knew that
she would remember it--there was a blood-feud between them--the death of
Blazer, who had been her mate.
The pass-key rattled in the lock of the postern-door, and Quinton Edge
entered the sunken way. Fangs heard the noise, hesitated a moment, then
tossed her black muzzle in the air and bounded forward to meet her
master. Constans wiped away the sweat that was blinding his eyes and
waited. Quinton Edge, with the hound by his side, went up the steps
leading to the terrace.
Some one came forward to meet him--a slim, womanish figure dressed in
white. Constans's heart gave a great bound, for who but Esmay carried
her small head with so irresistible a grace. She held out her hands as
Quinton Edge reached her side, but he crushed her into his arms and
kissed her on the lips. They walked slowly along the terrace, turned the
corner of the eastern portico, and disappeared. Constans, running up,
was just an instant too late; he heard Quinton Edge calling the dog
inside, then the sound of the closing door.
By a supreme exercise of will Constans stopped short of the insanity
that impelled him to thunder on the barrier and demand admittance. Yet
he must gain instant entrance to the house, and he ran around the
terrace to the river portico. As he had expected, the hall-door was
fastened, but he had no difficulty in forcing one of the long windows of
the drawing-room; he stepped into the dark and empty room and stood
listening.
There was perfect silence everywhere, but he could not trust to it--eyes
and ears might be in waiting at every turn, and, above all, there was
the dog. He wondered that the hound had not already detected his
presence in the house, and his pulse thumped at the thought; he fancied
that he could hear deep breathing and the oncoming of padded feet.
The minutes passed, and the silence remained unbroken. Then the sense of
his cowardice smote him; the jaws of the brute would be preferable to
this intolerable inaction, and he went forward through the half-opened
door and into the main hall.
This, too, was empty, and, having windows that faced the west, it was
sufficiently well lighted by the conflagration to make the fact of its
desertion certain. And Constans owed it to the friendly flames that he
was once more provided with a weapon. There was a rapier hanging upon
the wall, slender and yet strong, of very ancient make; in an instant he
had it down and was trying the temper of its blade upon the hearthstone.
The touch of the cold steel was like a tonic; heart and blood responded
immediately. Its discovery had been a fortunate chance, for again the
illumination in the west died down the final pianissimo before the full
crash of the orchestra--and the darkness returned deeper than before.
Constans, with the rapier held shortened in his hand, found his way to
the staircase and began the ascent. At the turn of the second landing he
stopped, feeling instinctively that there was something in the way. When
he could bear no longer to wait and listen, he put his hand down and
felt beneath it the smooth, hairy coat of the hound's body. The dog was
quite dead, and lying in a pool of her own blood; there was a warm,
sickly smell of salt in the air, and Constans's hand was wet when he
fetched it away. Who had done this thing, and why?
He went on, with every sense on edge. He could hardly have mistaken his
way now, for the door before him stood partly ajar, and there was a
light in the room; Constans guessed that it must be the first of the
private apartments belonging to Quinton Edge.
He looked in. The room was a large one and luxuriously furnished. An
ancient hanging-lamp of brass hung from the ceiling, diffusing a soft
radiance; the curtains that concealed the deep window-seat were closely
drawn, and, had Constans made his observations with more care, he might
have noticed that something moved behind them, an unwieldy bulk that
gathered itself as though for a spring.
But he took no account of these smaller things, his eyes being full of
Esmay only, and surely that was she who stood there in the shelter of
Quinton Edge's arms; now she half turned her head, the better to look
into her lord's face, and Constans could trace the outline of her
profile--the upper lip, so deliciously short, and the exquisite curve
of her throat. His breath came quick as he watched them, and his grasp
tightened upon the rapier hilt. So she had deceived him, after all; she
had played the traitress from the very beginning. Twice, now, she had
smiled into his eyes and sold him for some piece of trumpery--a bracelet
of carbuncles or a kiss from Quinton Edge's lips. Well, he could kill
them both, and almost at a single stroke, since they stood with their
backs to the doorway and were quite unconscious of his presence. But,
upon further thought, he determined to wreak positive vengeance on
Quinton Edge alone. It was shame to strike a woman, and unnecessary--it
would be her punishment to live.
Dispassionately he reviewed his decision and reaffirmed it; it was now
the time for action. But he had delayed just a moment too long. Before
he could take that first forward step the one who waited behind the
window-curtains had passed before him, an ungainly figure of a man, who
limped upon one knee and whose black beard fell like a curtain before
his cruel mouth and lips--Kurt, whom men called the "Knacker." A knife
was in his hand, and he struck once and twice at Quinton Edge.
"This for the thirty lashes at Middenmass!" he shouted; "and this----"
But here Constans's rapier passed through his throat, and he fell back,
gurgling horribly and tearing at his windpipe.
It had all happened so quickly that the two living men could only stare
alternately at each other and at the burden that lay in Quinton Edge's
arms. A slim, white figure, with that red stain upon her
breast--spreading, spreading.
Constans gathered himself with a mighty effort. "Let me help you," he
said, and between them they carried her over to the couch and laid her
down. On a near-by table stood a ewer of water; Constans fetched it and
began moistening the bloodless lips. They parted with a little sigh, and
then the eyes of his sister Issa opened upon him. "Little brother," she
whispered, and smiled.
Constans looked over at Quinton Edge, but he shook his head and stood
back among the shadows.
"Little brother," said Issa again, and put out a wavering hand.