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Viola Gwyn, a novel by George Barr McCutcheon |
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Chapter 17. Revelations |
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_ CHAPTER XVII. REVELATIONS That sepulchral groan had issued not from a mortal in the agony of impending death but from the smiling red lips of Viola Gwyn. The grewsome "death-rattle" was the result of the means she took to suppress a shriek of laughter by frantically clapping both hands to her convulsed mouth. For some time she had been standing at the fence, her elbows on the top rail, gazing pensively at the light in Kenny's window. A clump of honeysuckle bushes was between her and the unsuspecting servants. At first she had paid little or no attention to the gabble of the darkies, her thoughts being centred on her own serious affairs. She had been considerably shaken and distressed by the unpleasant experience of the early afternoon. Somehow she longed to take her troubles to Kenneth, to rid herself of them in the comfort of his approbation, to be reassured by his brotherly counsel. She knew he was sitting beside the table in the cosy sitting-room, poring over one of his incomprehensible law books. How jolly, how consoling to her own agitated mind, if she could only be there in the same room with him, quiet as a mouse so as not to disturb his profound studies, and reposing in that comfortable new rocker on the opposite side of the table where she could watch the studious frown on his brow while she waited patiently for him to lay aside the book. Indeed, she had come out of the house animated by a sudden impulse to pay him a brief, surreptitious visit; then to run back home before she was missed by her mother. This impulse was attended by a singularly delightful sensation of guilt. She had never been over to see him at night. In fact, it had never occurred to her to do such a thing before. But even as she started forth from the house, a strange timidity assailed her. It halted her impetuous footsteps, turned them irresolutely aside, and led her not to the gate but to the barrier fence. She could not explain, even to herself, the queer, half-frightened thumping of her heart, nor the amazing shyness, nor the ridiculous feeling that it would be improper for her to be alone with him at night. But why, she argued,--why should it be improper? What could be wrong in going to see her own brother? What difference did it make whether it was night or day? Still the doubt persisted,--a nagging yet agreeable doubt that made her all the more eager to defy its feeble authority. First she sought to justify her inclination by reminding herself that her mother had never by word or look signified the slightest opposition to her intimacy with Kenneth. This attitude of resignation on her mother's part, however, was a constant thorn in her side, a prick to her conscience. It caused her many a pang. Then she called to mind certain of her girl friends who had brothers, --one in particular who declared that she had slept in the same bed with her brother up to the time she was fourteen years old. She felt herself turn scarlet. That was really quite dreadful, even though the cabin in which her friend dwelt was very tiny and there were six children in the family. She had bitterly envied certain others, those who told of the jolly good times they had had with their brothers, the fun they had in quarrelling and the way they teased the boys when they first began "going out" with the girls. What fun to have had a brother when she was little,--a brother to play with! Kenny was so unreal. He was not like a brother at all. He was no different from other men,--she did not believe she could ever get used to thinking of him as a brother,--even a half-brother. This very thought was in her mind,--perhaps it was an ever-present thought,--as she stood gazing shyly at his window. She wanted to tell him about her break with Barry. Somehow,--although she was not quite conscious of it,--she longed to have him pat her on the shoulder, or clasp her hands in his, and tell her she had done the right thing and he was glad. The corners of her mouth were drooping a little. But the pensive droop slowly disappeared as she harkened to the valiant words of Zachariah. It was not until Kenny's servant lifted his voice in praise of his own deeds at Phineas Striker's that she became acutely aware of the close proximity of the speakers. Gradually she surrendered to the spirits of mirth and mischief. The result of her awesome moan,--even though it narrowly escaped ending in a shriek of laughter,--has already been revealed. The manner of Zachariah's flight sobered her instantly. Too late she regretted the experiment. "Oh, goodness!" she murmured, blanching. "The poor fellow has hurt himself--" The slamming of the door behind Zachariah was reassuring. At any rate he was alive and far too sprightly to have suffered a broken leg or a cracked skull. A few seconds later she saw Kenny's shadow flit hurriedly past the window as he dashed toward the kitchen. For some time she stood perfectly still, listening to the confused jumble of voices in the house across the way, debating whether she should hurry over to explain,--and perhaps to assist in dressing poor Zachariah's cuts and bruises. Suddenly she decided; and, without thought of her garments, she scrambled hastily over the fence. Just as her feet touched the ground, the front door of Kenneth's house flew open and a figure, briefly revealed by the light from within, rushed out into the yard and was swallowed up by the darkness. She whirled and started to climb back over into her own yard, giggling hysterically. She heard the rush of feet through the weeds and shrubbery. They halted abruptly, and then: "Stop where you are, damn you! I've got you covered and, so help me God, I'll put a bullet through--" "Kenny! Kenny!" she cried out. "It's I--Viola!" There was a moment's silence. "My God! You? Viola?" came in suppressed, horrified tones from the darkness. "Drop down,--drop to the ground! They may begin firing at me. You--" "Firing at you?" she cried, shakily. "What on earth are you talking about? There's--there's no one here. I am all alone. I did it. I'm the ghost. It was all in fun. I didn't dream--" "Do as I tell you!" he called out sharply. "There is a pack of ruffians--" "Pack your granny!" she cried, with a shrill laugh. "I tell you I am all alone. My goodness, what on earth did Zachariah think was after him? A regiment of soldiers?" As he came quickly toward her she shrank back, seized by a strange, inexplicable panic. He loomed above her in the darkness as she half-crouched against the fence. For a few seconds he stood looking down at her, breathing sharply. She heard something drop at his feet, and then both his hands gripped her shoulders, drawing her roughly up to him. "Oh-h! Wh-what are you doing?" she gasped as his arm went around her. That arm of steel drew her so close and held her so tightly to his breast that she could feel the tremendous thumping of his heart. She felt herself trembling--trembling all over; the light in the window up beyond seemed to draw nearer, swelling to vast proportions as it bore down upon her. She closed her eyes. What was happening to her,--what was causing this strange languor, this queer sensation as of falling? As abruptly as he had clasped her to him, he released her, springing back with a muttered execration. She tottered dizzily, and involuntarily reached out to clutch his arm for support. He shook her hand off. "What is the matter, Kenny?" she murmured, hazily. He did not answer. He leaned heavily against the fence, his head on his arm. She did not move for many seconds. Then he heard her gasp,--a gasp of actual terror. "Who are you?" she whispered tensely. "You are not my brother. You are not the real Kenneth Gwynne! Who are you?" She waited for the answer that did not come. Then as she drew farther away from him: "You are an impostor. You have deceived us. You have come here representing yourself to be--to be my brother,--and you are not--you are not! I know it--oh, I know it now. You are--" This aroused him. "What is that you are saying?" he cried out, fighting to pull his disordered wits together. "Not your brother? Impostor? What are you saying, Viola?" "I want the truth," she cried. "Are you what you claim to be?" "Of course I am," he answered, stridently. "I am Kenneth Gwynne. Your brother. Have you lost your senses?" "Then, why--" she began huskily. "Why did you--Oh, Kenny, I don't know what I am saying," she murmured piteously. "I--I don't know what has come over me. Something--something--Oh, I don't know what made me feel--I mean, what made me say that to you. You are Kenneth Gwynne. You are my half-brother. You are not--" "There, there!" he interrupted, his voice shaking a little. "You were frightened. I came so near to shooting--Yes, that is it. And I was so happy, so relieved that I--I almost ate you alive,--my little sister. God, what a horrible thing it would have been if I had--fired and the bullet had--" She interrupted him, speaking rapidly, breathlessly in her effort to regain command of herself. "But you didn't--you didn't, you see,--so what is the use of worrying about it now?" She laughed jerkily. "But, my goodness, it is a good lesson for me! I'll never try to scare anybody else again as I did poor Zachariah." He stooped and, feeling among the weeds, recovered not one but both of the long duelling pistols. "I was after bigger game than you," he muttered. "Here are my pistols,--all primed and ready for business." She stretched out her hand and touched one of the weapons. "Ready for what business?" she inquired. "What did you mean by a pack of ruffians?" As he did not answer at once, she went on to explain what had actually occurred, ending with, "I suppose Zachariah ran in and told you that old Black Hawk and his warriors were attacking the town." "I couldn't get much out of him, he was so excited. But I was mortally afraid they had stolen a march on us, and you were already in their hands. You see, Isaac Stain was to have kept me informed and we were to have laid a trap for them. Oh, Lord!" he exclaimed in sudden consternation. "I am letting the cat out of the bag." "Will you please tell me what you are talking about, Kenneth Gwynne?" she said impatiently. He came to a quick decision. "Yes, I will tell you everything. I guess I was a fool not to have told you before,--you and your mother. There is a plot afoot, Viola, to abduct you. Stain got wind of it, through--well, he got wind of it. He came to me with the story. I don't suppose you will believe me,--and you will probably despise me for what I am about to say,--but the man you love and expect to marry is behind the scheme. I mean Barry Lapelle. He--" "When did you hear of this?" she interrupted quickly. "After the Revere came in?" "More than a week ago. He came home on the Revere to-day. His plan is to--" "I know. I saw him. We quarrelled. It is all over between us, Kenny. He was furious. I thought he may have--but you say you knew of this a week ago? I don't--I can't understand it. A week ago there was no heed of--of carrying me off against my will." "It is all over between you?" he cried, and he could not disguise the joy in his voice. "You have ended it, Viola?" "Yes,--it is all over," she said stiffly. "I am not going to marry him. I was coming over to tell you. But--go on. What is this cock-and-bull story about abducting me? Goodness, I am beginning to feel like a girl in a story-book." "It is no laughing matter," he said, a little gruffly. "Does it look like it when I come rushing out here with two loaded pistols and come near to shooting you? Come up to the house. We will talk it all over, and then,--" he hesitated for a moment,--"then I'll go over and see your mother." He took her arm and led her up to the house. As they entered the front door, Zachariah's groans fell upon their ears. She looked at Kenny in alarm, and for the first time realized that he was without coat or waistcoat. His hair was tousled in evidence of his studious application to the open law books that lay on the floor. "He must be quite badly hurt," she cried miserably. "Oh, I'm SO sorry." Kenny went to the kitchen door. "Zachariah! Stop that groaning. You're not hurt. Here! What are you doing with that rifle?" "Ah was jes' co-comin' out, Marse Kenny, fo' to he'p yo' kill--yas, suh! Ah was--" The remainder was lost as Kenneth deliberately closed the door behind him and walked over to the negro, who was squatting in a corner with a rifle in his hands. Viola, left alone, crossed to the window and looked out. She was pale and anxious. Her wide, alarmed eyes tried to pierce the darkness outside. Suddenly she started back, pressing her hands to her cheeks. "Oh, my soul!" she murmured. "They could have shot him dead. He could not have seen them." She felt herself turn faint. Then a thrill of exaltation swept over her and she turned quickly toward the kitchen door, her eyes glowing. "And he was not afraid! He ran out to face them alone. He thought they were out there,--he risked being shot to save me from--" The door opened and Kenneth came swiftly into the room. He stopped short, staring at her radiant face. "Oh, Kenny, you--you really believed they were out there,--a crowd of them,--trying to carry me off? Why,--why, that was the bravest thing a man--" "Shucks!" he scoffed. "My tragedy turns out to be the most uproarious farce. I've never seen a funnier one in the theatre. But there is a serious side to it, Viola. Sit down for a minute or two, and I'll tell you. Zachariah is all right. Barked his shins a little, that's all." At the conclusion of his short, unembellished recital, he said: "There is nothing for you to be worried about. They cannot carry out the plot. We are all forewarned now. I should have told you all this before, but I was afraid you would think I was trying to blacken Lapelle. I wanted to catch him red-handed, as the saying is. Isaac Stain is coming in to sleep here to-morrow night, and Zachariah, for all his fear of ghosts and lightning, is not afraid of men. We will be ready for them if they come,--so don't you worry." There was a puzzled frown in her eyes. "I don't see why he should have planned this a week ago, Kenny. I had told him I would marry him. There must be something back of all this." "Do you know anything about a friend of his who is going to be married soon? He spoke to me about it the other day, and asked if a parent could legally deprive a daughter of a share in her deceased father's--" "Why,--that's me, Kenny," she cried excitedly. "I told him that mother would disinherit me entirely if I married him without her consent." A light broke over him. "By jingo!" he cried. "I am beginning to see. Why, it's as plain as day to me now. The beastly scoundrel!" "What do you mean?" "Could your mother very well carry out her threat if he made off with you by force and compelled you to marry him, whether or no?" She stiffened. "I would never,--never consent, Kenny. I would die first." "I suppose you imagine there could be no worse fate than that?" he said, pity in his eyes. She looked puzzled for a moment and then grasped his meaning. Her face blanched. "I said I would die first," she repeated in a low, steady voice. "Well," he cried, starting up briskly from his chair, "I guess we'd better hurry if we want to catch your mother before she goes to bed. And that reminds me, Viola,--I would like to speak with her alone. You see," he went on lamely, "you see, we're not friends and I don't know how she will receive me." She nodded her head without speaking and together they left the house. _ |
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