Finished, H. Rider Haggard [easy readers TXT] 📗
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
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“My partner ought to go to bed. Don’t you think we should stop?” I said.
“On the whole I do,” replied Rodd, glowering at Marnham, who, somewhat unsteadily, was engaged in wiping drops of brandy from his long beard.
“D–-d if I do,” exclaimed that worthy. “When I was young and played with gentlemen they always gave losers an opportunity of revenge.”
“Then,” replied Anscombe with a flash of his eyes, “let us try to follow in the footsteps of the gentlemen with whom you played in your youth. I suggest that we double the stakes.”
“That’s right! That’s the old form!” said Marnham.
The doctor half rose from his chair, then sat down again. Watching him, I concluded that he believed his partner, a seasoned vessel, was not so drunk as he pretended to be, and either in an actual or a figurative sense, had a card up his sleeve. If so, it remained there, for again we won; all the luck was with us.
“I am getting tired,” drawled Anscombe. “Lemon and water are not sustaining. Shall we stop?”
“By Heaven! no,” shouted Marnham, to which Anscombe replied that if it was wished, he would play another hand, but no more.
“All right,” said Marnham, “but let it be for double or quits.”
He spoke quite quietly and seemed suddenly to have grown sober. Now I think that Rodd made up his mind that he really was acting and that he really had that card up his sleeve. At any rate he did not object. I, however, was of a different opinion, having often seen drunken men succumb to an acces of sobriety under the stress of excitement and remarked that it did not last long.
“Do you really mean that?” I said, speaking for the first time and addressing myself to the doctor. “I don’t quite know what the sum involved is, but it must be large.”
“Of course,” he answered.
Then remembering that at the worst Anscombe stood to lose nothing, I shrugged my shoulders and held my tongue. It was Marnham’s deal, and although he was somewhat in the shadow of the hanging lamp and the candles had guttered out, I distinctly saw him play some hocus-pocus with the cards, but in the circumstances made no protest. As it chanced he must have hocus-pocused them wrong, for though his hand was full of trumps, Rodd held nothing at all. The battle that ensued was quite exciting, but the end of it was that an ace in the hand of Anscombe, who really was quite a good player, did the business, and we won again.
In the rather awful silence that followed Anscombe remarked in his cheerful drawl—
“I’m not sure that my addition is quite right; we’ll check that in the morning, but I make out that you two gentlemen owe Quatermain and myself #749 10s.”
Then the doctor broke out.
“You accursed old fool,” he hissed—there is no other word for it—at Marnham. “How are you going to pay all this money that you have gambled away, drunken beast that you are!”
“Easily enough, you felon,” shouted Marnham. “So,” and thrusting his hand into his pocket he pulled out a number of diamonds which he threw upon the table, adding, “there’s what will cover it twice over, and there are more where they came from, as you know well enough, my medical jailbird.”
“You dare to call me that,” gasped the doctor in a voice laden with fury, so intense that it had deprived him of his reason, “you—you—murderer! Oh! why don’t I kill you as I shall some day?” and lifting his glass, which was half full, he threw the contents into Marnham’s face.
“That’s a nice man for a prospective, son-in-law, isn’t he?” exclaimed the old scamp, as, seizing the brandy decanter, he hurled it straight at Rodd’s head, only missing him by an inch.
“Don’t you think you had both better go to bed, gentlemen?” I inquired. “You are saying things you might regret in the morning.”
Apparently they did think it, for without another word they rose and marched off in different directions to their respective rooms, which I heard both of them lock. For my part I collected the I.O.U.‘s; also the diamonds which still lay upon the table, while Anscombe examined the cards.
“Marked, by Jove! he said. “Oh! my dear Quatermain, never have I had such an amusing evening in all my life.”
“Shut up, you silly idiot,” I answered. “There’ll be murder done over this business, and I only hope it won’t be on us.”
MISS HEDA
It might be thought that after all this there would have been a painful explanation on the following morning, but nothing of the sort happened. After all the greatest art is the art of ignoring things, without which the world could scarcely go on, even among the savage races. Thus on this occasion the two chief actors in the scene of the previous night pretended that they had forgotten what took place, as I believe, to a large extent truly. The fierce flame of drink in the one and of passion in the other had burnt the web of remembrance to ashes. They knew that something unpleasant had occurred and its main outlines; the rest had vanished away; perhaps because they knew also that they were not responsible for what they said and did, and therefore that what occurred had no right to a permanent niche in their memories. It was, as it were, something outside of their normal selves. At least so I conjectured, and their conduct seemed to give colour to my guess.
The doctor spoke to me of the matter first.
“I fear there was a row last night,” he said; “it has happened here before over cards, and will no doubt happen again until matters clear themselves up somehow. Marnham, as you see, drinks, and when drunk is the biggest liar in the world, and I, I am sorry to say, am cursed with a violent temper. Don’t judge either of us too harshly. If you were a doctor you would know that all these things come to us with our blood, and we didn’t fashion our own clay, did we? Have some coffee, won’t you?”
Subsequently when Rodd wasn’t there, Marnham spoke also and with that fine air of courtesy which was peculiar to him.
“I owe a deep apology,” he said, “to yourself and Mr. Anscombe. I do not recall much about it, but I know there was a scene last night over those cursed cards. A weakness overtakes me sometimes. I will say no more, except that you, who are also a man who perhaps have felt weaknesses of one sort or another, will, I hope, make allowances for me and pay no attention to anything that I may have said or done in the presence of guests; yes, that is what pains me—in the presence of guests.”
Something in his distinguished manner caused me to reflect upon every peccadillo that I had ever committed, setting it in its very worst light.
“Quite so,” I answered, “quite so. Pray do not mention the matter any more, although—” These words seemed to jerk themselves out of my throat, “you did call each other by such very hard names.”
“I daresay,” he answered with a vacant smile, “but if so they meant nothing.”
“No, I understand, just like a lovers’ quarrel. But look here, you left some diamonds on the table which I took to keep the Kaffirs out of temptation. I will fetch them.”
“Did I? Well, probably I left some I.O.U.‘s also which might serve for pipelights. So suppose we set the one against the other. I don’t know the value of either the diamonds or the pipelights, it may be less or more, but for God’s sake don’t let me see the beastly things again. There’s no need, I have plenty.”
“I must speak to Anscombe,” I answered. “The money at stake was his, not mine.”
“Speak to whom you will,” he replied, and I noted that the throbbing vein upon his forehead indicated a rising temper. “But never let me see those diamonds again. Throw them into the gutter if you wish, but never let me see them again, or there will be trouble.”
Then he flung out of the room, leaving his breakfast almost untasted.
Reflecting that this queer old bird probably did not wish to be cross-questioned as to his possession of so many uncut diamonds, or that they were worth much less than the sum he had lost, or possibly that they were not diamonds at all but glass, I went to report the matter to Anscombe. He only laughed and said that as I had got the things I had better keep them until something happened, for we had both got it into our heads that something would happen before we had done with that establishment.
So I went to put the stones away as safely as I could. While I was doing so I heard the rumble of wheels, and came out just in time to see a Cape cart, drawn by four very good horses and driven by a Hottentot in a smart hat and a red waistband, pull up at the garden gate. Out of this cart presently emerged a neatly dressed lady, of whom all I could see was that she was young, slender and rather tall; also, as her back was towards me, that she had a great deal of auburn hair.
“There!” said Anscombe. “I knew that something would happen. Heda has happened. Quatermain, as neither her venerated parent nor her loving fiance, for such I gather he is, seems to be about, you had better go and give her a hand.”
I obeyed with a groan, heartily wishing that Heda hadn’t happened, since some sense warned me that she would only add to the present complications. At the gate, having given some instructions to a very stout young coloured woman who, I took it, was her maid, about a basket of flower roots in the cart, she turned round suddenly and we came face to face with the gate between us. For a moment we stared at each other, I reflecting that she really was very pretty with her delicately-shaped features, her fresh, healthy-looking complexion, her long dark eyelashes and her lithe and charming figure. What she reflected about me I don’t know, probably nothing half so complimentary. Suddenly, however, her large greyish eyes grew troubled and a look of alarm appeared upon her face.
“Is anything wrong with my father?” she asked. “I don’t see him.”
“If you mean Mr. Marnham,” I replied, lifting my hat, “I believe that Dr. Rodd and he—”
“Never mind about Dr. Rodd,” she broke in with a contemptuous little jerk of her chin,” how is my father?”
“I imagine much as usual. He and Dr. Rodd were here a little while ago, I suppose that they have gone out” (as a matter of fact they had, but in different directions).
“Then that’s all right,” she said with a sigh of relief. “You see, I heard that he was very ill, which is why I have come back.”
So, thought I to myself, she loves that old scamp and she—doesn’t love the doctor. There will be more trouble as sure as five and two are seven. All we wanted was a woman to make the pot boil over.
Then I opened the gate and took a travelling bag from her hand with my politest bow.
“My name is Quatermain and that of my friend Anscombe. We are staying here, you know,” I said rather awkwardly.
“Indeed,” she answered with a delightful smile, “what a
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