Strange Yesterday (4 page)

But wistfully:

“Yes—once, years ago, you killed a man—a man with one arm and a yellow face, whom nobody knew. Still he was an officer in the Continentals, for they found his uniform coat in his bag. He must have lived. If only they knew his name, they would have discovered more, and perhaps the horror of the thing would not be with you even now. But he had no name. (Unless Peter had lied, and for what conceivable reason would Peter lie?) Nowhere about him was there a name …”

Rising, he looked towards the sea; then he looked down beneath him where the inn lay. A light came into his eyes; his nostrils spread as he gulped in the flowing air. Half walking, half running, he went down the hill.

Quickly he walked towards the inn, and when he was in the yard before it, he called for Peter. He sat down at a table in that place, which was a garden, an inn-yard only by usage, and he cried: “Peter!—Peter, where are you, you lout? Must I shout until the blood bursts from my head!”

Yet in coming, Peter moved slowly, for he was contained in his sixty years, and not at all disturbed by John Preswick's commands. A large man, he was, in a white apron, and with white hair. Nodding, he wiped his hands upon his apron.

“Sit down,” John Preswick said. “Sit down, Peter, over there. You and I shall have a little talk.”

When the other had seated himself across from John Preswick at the table, the younger man laid his hands together and went on. Slowly and convincingly he spoke, that he might not have to state the thing over again. He said:

“Peter, you have taken care of me for a long time. You have been good to me, and you have been a mother and a father to me. And you have done all this with no hope of real reward. It is almost twenty years since I was first given into your charge.”

“That is true,” old Peter agreed gravely.

“But I am not so ungrateful as you might have thought me—nor am I so unseeing. I have not spoken because I could see no way to reward you.” This he said with complete and calm satisfaction in the lie. “It is not that I have considered you unworthy of reward; it is only that I have never chanced upon a reward worthy of you. Things must be taken into consideration.”

“Labor is reward in itself,” old Peter pronounced sagely. “You have been like my own son.”

“Yes, that is all true enough. But that will not take care of you in your old age, nor will that buy you a coach or a team of four for you to ride about in, nor will that get you a wife to warm your bed, which has been so long cold. You have worked hard, and it is not fitting that you should see your work to no purpose. I have thought much upon it, and I have decided that you shall be served justly.”

“And how is that?” old Peter inquired doubtfully. “You speak in a manner I hardly understand.”

“Tell me, Peter, do you not love this place? Do you not love this garden and the fields all about it? Do you not take satisfaction in the fashion of the coaches, in the way they drive up, announcing their arrival with a blast upon the horn that hangs at the cab's side?”

Old Peter answered: “Yes, you are right—although how you should know these things so surely is more than I can understand.”

“I know of them because I see it all in your face as you walk about. Peter, you are a thrifty person; you must have saved, if only a little, in the twenty years you have had charge of the inn of the Steer's Horn?”

“Yes, I have saved,” old Peter told him. “A little I have saved for myself. More I have saved for you.”

“And how much, if I should ask, is there for me?—and how much for yourself?”

“In your name, there is almost two thousand dollars—in good money. For myself there is a little less than half of that.”

“And how much would you say the house is worth, with the land about belonging to it, with the large coach, the chaise, the two work horses, and the two fillies?”

Leaning back, old Peter closed his eyes and calculated. “Surely,” said he, “the value of the house is eight thousand dollars.” Much more, thought John Preswick. “And the fields are worth at least fifteen hundred more. The coach is old and hung in leather, but you could not buy a better one for less than five hundred dollars. The chaise is good for almost half of that. Now, the price of horses has gone down, but they should bring at least sixty dollars apiece.”

“And there are the two plows, the hay rick, the mud cart, and the sledge.”

“A few hundred for the lot. They are old. But to what end is all this, since you will not sell what has been your grandfather's and his father's?”

“I have often thought of the matter, Peter, and now I am quite decided. Let us tally the thing.”

He summed up: “Eight thousand for the house, and a thousand and a half more for the fields, and five hundred dollars for the coach bring it to ten thousand. Odds and ends make it eleven thousand—conservatively estimated. I have no doubt that it is worth far more, but that is neither here nor there.” It was almost laughable, this manner of burning bridges. “Your money and mine taken together, we have three thousand dollars. For that I will write you out a deed to the property. It is yours.”

But the old man could not grasp the insanity he suggested. Bending forward, he stared at John Preswick with wide-open eyes. He shook his head, looking at the young man doubtfully.

“Yes,” John Preswick said impatiently, “it is a gift; it is for what you have done; it is only fitting that you should be rewarded.”

“But you could sell it for so much more than three thousand dollars,” old Peter protested in bewilderment. “Perhaps you could not dispose of all at the full price, but nevertheless you would at least realize many times the thousand dollars of mine. An inn is not only property; it is a business, a way of life, even if it is off the main road and caters to so few people as we do.”

Thrusting him aside, John Preswick declared: “That is nonsense. I do not want money. I am giving it to you, and you have no choice but to take it.”

“How can I? It would be taking from you what I have sworn to preserve for you. I am an old man, and childless.”

“It is mine, and I am signing it over to you. That is all. You may go.” He was harsh, commanding, his lips a suddenly bitter line. Very rarely had the old man seen him thus, and he was afraid of him. Something dark burnt through his blond skin.

He sat there until Peter was gone; and after that he sat there, while the sun crept away to the west, losing itself in streamers of spun wool cloud that made of the horizon a long and lovely woof. As he sat there, he thought to himself that he had won, but the thought was not without a quality of fear. All security he was throwing off, and, aimlessly, he was casting himself adrift. Impulsively the thing had been done, quite upon the spur of the moment, and without too much of thought. This he knew: that if he hesitated, he would be lost. Consideration would have burst it like a bubble. After all, Peter was an old man.

When he rose to go inside, he stopped at the door, looking up at the painted sign of the Steer's Horn; and, looking past the sign, he could see, barely lit by the reflected rays of a sun that had already set, the hill called Steer's Head.

2

T
HE
next morning he left. Before he went, he said his good-by to Peter, and to Lilian, the maid, and to the hostler. Into a small bag, he put two broadcloth shirts, a pair of thin yellow breeches, and several large handkerchiefs. Then he set off, three thousand dollars in a belt about his waist, to the place where the sea was.

Once he looked behind him to the Steer's Head, and the yearning thought came that if he climbed the hill, he could look at the sea, and that, after all, there was much—so much, perhaps—in merely staring at it, so far off. But, knowing that it was too late, he put the thought aside.

In perhaps an hour the stage passed him, and he hailed it, ran after it, and swung aboard just as the horses rolled back into their stride. He found a seat, paid his fare, and set himself to watch the landscape rocking by. By evening they came into the city, and he went to a small but good inn that he knew, and where he had stopped before.

The room he took was snug and clean, with a large and soft bed—such a room as he invariably preferred; and the supper he ate was large, satisfying, and filling, with a cut of beef, a pie, and three heavy puddings, leaving him at the finish comfortably stuffed, an inviting bottle of port before him. Now, the landlord of that tavern was a Mr. Kwalkee, whom John Preswick had known for many years, and with whom he was upon terms of some intimacy. He beckoned him, when he had eaten, urging him to bring a glass and to partake of the port; nor was the landlord slow to accept.

John Preswick said: “The port is good. Your cellars are older than mine.” He spoke in the easy manner taken between men of the same trade, but not in competition.

“Yes,” Mr. Kwalkee nodded. “To your health.”

“That I shall need,” John Preswick remarked gravely.

“Eh—?” Mr. Kwalkee raised a brow.

“My friend,” mused John Preswick, “you are an honorable man. I know that, so I can speak freely to you, as I would not to another. I need sound advice. Beneath my belt, I have three thousand dollars in good United States currency. And that is all I have, being no longer an innkeeper. But that is of my own choosing. I want other things: to trade, to invest, to buy cargo, to see other parts of the world and, eventually, to wield power. You know the city. You can help me. And I trust you. So I have come to you.”

Mr. Kwalkee emitted a long, slow whistle. “You said three thousand dollars?”

Nodding seriously, John Preswick reaffirmed it. “Three thousand dollars. It is all that is mine in the world, but it is not a sum to be ashamed of. However, I should like the advice of a man who knows ships and the ways of shipping. They tell me there are fortunes to be made in shipping.”

“Where is this money?” the innkeeper inquired, wondering that any mature person could be so absurdly simple.

“Where?—why, upon me. I have it in a canvas money belt close against my paunch, where it is safe from the sleekest of pocket lifters.”

“And when you walk about, it is with you? And when you sleep?”

“Yes. Is that so—remarkable?”

“It is upon you now?”

“Yes, but—”

Suddenly he broke off with his words, eying the innkeeper. It occurred to him that perhaps he had said too much; but, again, Mr. Kwalkee was his friend. More easily he breathed as he went on:

“I would invest it. They say that if you do right with money, it will double itself, and then doubled, will double itself again. Three thousand is six thousand, and six thousand is twelve—”

But the man is a child, thought Mr. Kwalkee, in spite of all his blond size.

“Yes, it sounds good,” Mr. Kwalkee agreed, appearing to have lost all interest in the matter, speaking to John Preswick as a host speaks to a guest, the courtesy due in any tavern. “Yes, there are places to invest money. The sea is a broad field. But it is growing late. We will drink one more bottle, a vintage of my own, and while we drink we will talk. Sit here, and I will fetch it.”

“But you must let me pay,” John Preswick protested. “While I have money, no man shall buy me food or drink. I will taste your best, but you must let me pay.”

The innkeeper smiled. “Very well. You shall pay—yes, by all means. Now I will be back in a moment.”

Left alone, John Preswick fingered the belt under his shirt. To himself, he muttered: “Yes, it is safe, safe enough, and where no man would dare to search.” He was already a little befuddled with much wine, and inclined to drowsiness. The thought of bed waiting above was very comforting.

Then the landlord returned, setting down upon the table an uncapped bottle. “From the seventies,” he explained. “It is that old! Hold it in the front of your mouth overlong.” He smiled. “And we will talk of—money.”

With the air of a connoisseur, John Preswick sipped it, nodding. “Perhaps a little of the chartreuse. It is old and soft. But the taste—”

“The age. One must expect some of that with the French.” But he had forgotten that it was a vintage of his own! He could dismiss the fear, dealing with such a fool as this.

“Hot!—is it not hot here?”

“Hot for April. Each year the weather is worse. North it is different—”

John Preswick drained his glass and put it down. “Now as to the matter—” His voice trailed away, and he passed the back of his hand across his lips.

“Of course,” said the landlord, “if one is a fool, one need not invest at all. Money grows with those who know how to care for it—hot with fools.”

But John Preswick had come to his feet with a quick exclamation. He was staring at the bottle, which he had lifted to pour himself another drink.

“Of old vintage, did you say? Of your own vintage, did you say? Of French vintage?”

Looking up at him, the innkeeper smiled wonderingly. “Yes, from before the Revolution. Only a moment ago, when I opened it, the odor of gods came out. French or American, it is a good wine.”

“You lie, you pig! What is your scheme, I do not know, but you lie! I drank from that same bottle a week past when I was in Charleston, and then I nicked the mouth in a way I cannot forget. It took the form of a star. It is the same bottle!” Lifting the bottle, he held it to his nostrils.

“Drugged!” he exclaimed, his face lighting momentarily. “And you are a man of trust! And I am a fool! Stand back, I say!” From his belt, he tore a knife, and he was holding it before him.

“Stand back!”

It was late, and they were alone in the room, except for the leaping fire and the tables, bare and yellow. Swinging from beam to beam, throwing grotesque shadows, the light of the fire mocked him. It marched in a weird circle—red, blue, orange, black even; he flung it away with a savage gesture of his head.