The devils mountain, p.11
The Devil's Mountain, page 11
“And Lady Rosedale hid her diamond, and they were taken from her,” said Mr. Phipps with a twisted smile. “Why shouldn’t we say that Lady Rosedale stole her own jewellery?”
Marian smiled in spite of herself. She felt relieved now that she had taken someone into her confidence; one that she could talk to freely about this matter because she felt she could trust him. She did not dare hint to Lawrence the suspicions entertained about him, but Mr. Phipps was his friend, and Mr. Phipps seemed impervious to care. And he too was suspected; so here were the three of them in much the same situation. She felt drawn nearer to Mr. Phipps.
“You like Nora Hamilton?” he asked her abruptly.
“Very much,” she answered; “Nora is a nice girl, and friendly. She has been very kind to me.”
“Your brother seems to be very fond of her. I was wondering—”
“What?”
“Whether he is in love with her; he is always with her when he has a chance, you know.”
“He has no right to be!” retorted Marian warmly. “But it doesn’t matter: Nora would not think of him.”
“Why has he no right to be in love with her, and why would Nora not think of him?” asked Mr. Phipps banteringly, continuing the conversation.
“He isn’t in love with her,” replied Marian, severely. “Stephen is in love with no one but himself, and never will be. What I mean was that he has no right to make love to her, if he’s doing so. He’d simply be deceiving Nora. He’ll be gone from this country in another few weeks, and perhaps would never give her another thought. People here are very kind to us; but, after all, we are only a sort of strolling actors, you know; and we have no right to make love to people.”
“I don’t suppose that another member of your company would say as much,” mused Mr. Phipps; “I don’t believe they would even admit it to themselves—not the least of them. How long have you been connected with the moving picture business, Marian?”
It was the first time he had ever addressed her by her Christian name; but she showed no objection.
“About two years,” she said.
“And your brother?”
“Off and on, for several years.”
“And he would not think lightly of himself anyway,” said Mr. Phipps emphatically.
“No; just the countrary.”
“And Nora may think highly of him. He is young, handsome, dark. She is young, pretty, fair. There’s the attraction of opposites to begin with. He is being made much of here, as much of as my friend Lawrence Beaman is made little of, for no good reason in the world except his cold manner. If your brother is making love to Nora, what is to prevent her from falling in love with him? There is nothing impossible in that, surely.”
“It would be a calamity,” said Marian bitterly.
“You and your brother are not on very good terms, if you will allow me to say so,” commented Mr. Phipps. “I have seen that, and I mention it as I consider myself a friend of the family. I think you know your brother fairly well. I am a friend of Nora and her family too, and that’s why I am talking to you like this. I don’t myself quite see Stephen settling down into a model stay-in-one-place husband, and I don’t see Nora travelling about with him making pictures: do you?”
“She should wish rather to die first!” exclaimed Marian.
“Perhaps she might wish to die very shortly after,” said Mr. Phipps. “But I agree with you: Stephen is only passing the time with her: he is much too wrapped up in himself to love anyone—I am only agreeing with you, my little movie star, so don’t cut up rough if I seem to disparage your brother. No doubt he is a man of great talent in his line; and he’s a very nice fellow to meet. But Nora—well, Nora is still a girl, like you, and needs some looking after. Strange that her people don’t see it; but in these days it is the children who look after the parents, not the parents the children. The time is coming when children will spank their parents regularly, and perhaps in public: don’t you think so?”
But the question drew no smile from Marian. She was angrily grave. “He has no right to try to deceive Nora,” she said vehemently, reverting to the subject which Mr. Phipps now appeared not anxious to pursue. “It is wrong of him. But that is just like him.”
Mr. Phipps, however, thinking perhaps that he had said enough, rose abruptly.
Lady Rosedale had come out to the northern verandah, and was no surrounded by a number of people busily condoling with her. Since the robbery Lady Rosedale had decidedly unbent, and now graciously allowed strangers and others to tender her their respectful sympathy. “Misfortune has improved her,” someone had said: she positively looked happy just now as she found herself the centre of attraction and knew that she and her necklaces were the hourly talk, not only of the hotel, but of the island.
“She sure is enjoying herself some,” remarked Mr. Phipps glancing in her direction, “she’s still on a pedestal, but another kind of pedestal this time. Will you join her Miss Marian? I’ve got to be going now to look after that picnic of mine: I am going to get some cars to take down those folks who have none. Remember, you travel in my care.”
“I shall love to,” said Marian, and Mr. Phipps jauntily took himself away.
XIII
“AN IRON STRAIN IN HIM”
A February morning in Jamaica is a supreme delight. The sun rises at sometime after six o’ clock, but long before its coming the skies are a shining blue from horizon to horizon; blue tinted with gold to east, and patterned with delicate streaks of frosted silver and pink.
The atmosphere exhilarates, there is a tang in the air that awakens pleasant memories and touches one’s mind to romantic fancies. The new day means a new life; no feeling of enervation blunts the keen edge of enthusiasm; even the old are fired with something of the fervour that thrills through the soul of youth. One awakens to a delicious coolness, to brightness of spirits, to the splendour of glorious sunshine and magnificent sweep of sky, to the call of joy and gladness and a sense of the worth of living.
All the guests of Mr. Phipps, assembled early on Sunday morning by the porch of the Mrytle Bank Hotel, were affected by the spirit of the morning. Mr. Phipps had arranged everything beforehand, and now moved about busily, an efficient master of ceremonies. At his summons the first car rolled up to the porch, and into this went Lady Rosedale, with the righteous consciousness of doing something to promote Marian’s welfare and progress in the moving picture life, had graciously invited to ride with her.
Lady Rosedale had done so, however, only after having asked Marian and Stephen to share the car with her and Major Fellspar. But Marian had excused herself by mentioning her promise to ride in Mr. Phipps’s car, and Lady Rosedale had perforce to be content with this arrangement. She did not altogether approve of it, but admitted that if Mr. Phipps, their host for the day, had arranged that Marian should ride with him, there could be no reasonable objection. Stephen also had thanked her warmly for her invitation, but had mentioned that Mrs. and Miss Hamilton would take him over to St. Ann. So the moving picture director and Miss Hellingworth had been invited to travel with Lady Rosedale, to their own intense satisfaction, but somewhat to the uneasiness of Major Fellspar.
Truth to tell, Major Fellspar was not quite certain that it fully consorted with the dignity of His Majesty’s Inspector General of Police (albeit only for the island of Jamaica)that the said Inspector General should be going to a picnic with one whom he secretly regarded as a vulgar if presumably talented moving picture man. Major Fellspar was not sure that he would relish being seen in such society. But Lady Rosedale’s presence might be held sufficient to cover a multitude of minor social indiscretions, and the moving picture lady was undoubtedly pretty and extremely vivacious. Then the morning was so fine, the atmosphere so inspiriting, that Major Fellspar almost felt himself a boy again: he forgot his mission, he was conscious mainly of very agreeable sensations. He was attired, it may be mentioned, as a sort of tourist; that is to say, he had donned a flannel shirt, a gray tweed suit, and a soft felt hat; across his shoulders, by a leather strap, hung a camera which he sometimes took with him on excursions like the present. He did not expect to be called upon to operate this camera today, because of a circumstance which, he believed, would happily prevent his having personally to take snapshot pictures of Mr. Phipps and his guests, though, after leaving the Governor on the day before, he had decided that he would have to attempt something of the kind, however much against his will and his instincts it might be.
This fortunate circumstance was an application from Inspector Harmsworth, late on Saturday afternoon, for permission to spend the Sunday out of Kingston and in the parish of St. Ann. Strictly speaking, Inspector Harmsworth was entitled to the day: it was a Sunday when, ordinarily, he would not have to be on duty. But with the Rosedale jewellery theft still on his hands, the young man felt that every moment of his time should be at his department’s disposal. On the other hand, the search under his direction of all the burglars’ homes in Kingston had yielded absolutely no results, and his detectives had informed him that nothing of value was to be expected from any further investigation in similar quarters. It had therefore seemed to Harmsworth that no harm could be done by his going out of town for a day, especially as he was secretly convinced that he himself would never be able to do any good in this case, whether he remained in Kingston this Sunday or for the remainder of his life. Permission to leave the city, however, had first to be obtained from the Inspector General, and he had personally approached that authority, explaining to him frankly where it was that he desired to spend the following day.
He had half expected a stern rebuke. To his exceeding astonishment and joy, Major Fellspar had actually welcomed the suggestion. “And take a camera with you, Harmsworth—I know you have one—and get some pictures for me. Get the guests and the scenery, but especially the guests. I have promised to go myself, but I don’t think I’ll take any pictures.”
Inspector Harmsworth thanked him with such warmth that Major Fellspar wondered if the young man was on the same job as himself and was glad because of this opportunity to demonstrate his interest in his work. Such zeal was eminently praiseworthy, thought the Inspector General, but also most unusual. Harmsworth was a gentleman, and the Major could not understand how any gentleman, and the Major could not understand how any gentleman could rejoice in a detective’s task when he had to deal with persons among whom he moved on friendly terms. Whatever Inspector Harmsworth’s motive, however, the Major felt that his desire to go to Mr. Phipps’s picnic was the most fortunate circumstance in the world. It would save Major Fellspar from many qualms of conscience and much inconvenience.
So this morning, Inspector Harmsworth, clad in holiday attire of flannels, and with camera properly slung over the right shoulder, was among the party that had responded to Mr. Phipps’s invitation. He attached himself to Mrs. Hamilton and Nora, who had come down to the hotel in their own car. With them was Stephen Braeme, and Stephen just now was not looking altogether amiable.
Stephen had expected to be the only stranger in the car, but he had just overheard Inspector Harmsworth ask Mrs. Hamilton if she could take him with her, and that lady, a pleasant-featured Scotch matron with homely figure and kindly eyes, had readily consented. Nora seemed delighted, said openly that she was glad Harmsworth was going to the picnic, and did not appear at all to regard his company as an intrusion. This had moved Stephen to some quite natural annoyance. He would gladly have dispensed with Inspector Harmsworth’s presence for the day.
Mr. Phipps came bustling up. “You four together?” he asked, and ordered up Mrs. Hamilton’s car. “In you go, Mrs. Hamilton,” he cried cheerily, assisting her into the car. “Now, Miss Nora, you. You had better jump in, Harmsworth; Braeme will sit in front. He’ll see the scenery better there; he’ll want to: we are more used to it.”
There was nothing to do but follow Mr. Phipps’s instructions, though Stephen could not prevent himself from frowning at Mr. Phipps’s officiousness. At the least he had counted upon sitting beside Nora, and now Mr. Phipps had completely upset his calculations. But the gentleman seemed sublimely unconscious of having caused anybody the slightest annoyance.
Car after car swept away, each one following the other at intervals of five minutes to avoid the dust. Soon there were only three persons left to go: Mr. Phipps announced that he would ride beside the chauffeur: Lawrence protested, with no warmth of conviction, that three could easily be accommodated on the back seat of the car. But Mr. Phipps ignored the suggestion, and Lawrence did not persist in it. Then, swiftly and easily, they glided out of the hotel and into the street, turning their faces towards the west.
The sun was rising now; the silent, sleeping city was flooded with light and looked strangely deserted to eyes that had usually seen it when its streets were peopled by the slow-moving, loud-voiced, dark-hued men and women in nondescript attire who formed the bulk of its population. A stray dog or two, searching diligently for the early bone with a persistent but futile optimism, were visible; beyond these there was no sign of life. Two minutes’ running brought the car to the main thoroughfare of the city, Main Street as it would be called in an American town, King Street as it is styled in a colony of the British Crown; and then they turned northwards. Here were the best shops and stores in the island, two and three storey buildings of yellow-white reinforced concrete built on either side of a thoroughfare paved with hard brick and beautified by gardens in its centre, gardens of palms and green sward, and with trees which, in their season, bear a beautiful blossom of vivid gold. This street also was deserted, sleeping in the Sabbath calm; here too there was hardly a sign of life. To Lawrence it was all familiar; to Marian it wore an aspect of strangeness. She had known it raucous and busy and peopled by a motley crowd whose slow and heavy speech she could never quite understand. Now she saw it as though it were dead, while the sweet morning breeze swept through it.
Westward they turned again; suddenly they had passed out of the region of concrete buildings into an area crowded with low wooden structures, with shops and dwellings, some of the latter in the last stages of decrepitude. Fences bankrupt of paint remained in a semi-upright position apparently from sheer force of habit; doorsteps, irregular and broken, seemed negotiable only at the peril of those who used them. In this slum there was something like activity; some early risers were already about, exiguously clad in ancient garments, with vacant expression and uncombed hair. In another minute Kingston was behind: the broad road, with green pastures and thick woods on either side, stretched out before them: the mountains, grey and mist-wreathed, lifted their immense bulk to the right, while the low-growing shrubs and grass glittered with a million dewdrops.
Marian had never come this way before. She had worked with her company to the east and north of the city, and then she had always been in the midst of a chattering, laughing group of people intent upon the trifles and trivialities of their own little world. She was now seated beside a man who was instinctively able to sympathise with her silent admiration of the beauty of plain and hills which was beginning to unroll itself before her eyes. Hers was naturally a gay personality; she loved light and laughter, the sunshine, and all the bright pleasures and amenities of life. And she was young, and reacted readily to the stimulus of enjoyment. She knew she was speeding onwards to a day which would be brimful of brightness; she was looking forward to the hours to come with glad anticipation. The very calm of the morning, its coolness, its glory of sun and majesty of solemn mountains, filled her with a sense of separation from the worries and annoyances she had so recently endured. But she did not want to talk just then; but merely to sit still and look about her, happy in the presence beside her of one who had offered her everything that a man could give, and in whose love and sincerity she implicitly believed.
They swept by level fields green with the spears of the cane and the large drooping leaves of the banana; they passed by pastures where sleek brown cattle browsed; they rushed across a great iron bridge which spanned a sluggish river, green of hue, that wound its way between cultivated land towards the sea. Soon they were passing through another town which was just awakening to the day, and ancient town it seemed, with houses of an olden type; Lawrence told her that this was the former capital of the country, St. Jago de la Vega—St. James of the Plain—as the Spaniards had named it, and to this day called Spanish Town. Their way took them through its centre, and when she saw the square around which the old administration buildings had been built by the English, as they are built around the plaza of every Spanish city in every country where Spain has ruled, she experienced for a moment the nostalgia of the past.
“This is a touch of my old home,” she cried; “there is something familiar here.”
“Of Peru?” he asked.
“Yes; but I was thinking mainly of the little town I first knew before I left Peru; I was only a child then: it is very long ago.”
“Long ago?” he smiled, glancing at her. “That is not to be taken literally of course.” To his eyes she seemed little older than a child.
“Oh, I am older than you think,” she retorted gaily. “How old do you think I am?”
“About nineteen,” he said, and truthfully.
“I am twenty-five.”
“You are jesting,” he replied, and thought she was: she could hardly be more than twenty.
“Twenty-five,” she repeated, nodding her head emphatically. “Quite a grown-up woman, you see. I spent five years in the States, and went back to Peru three years ago. I wish—”
“Yes?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Were you going to say,” he asked insistently, “that you wished you had never gone back?”
“Did my voice suggest that?”
“I thought it did; why do you wish that?”
She evaded the question. “And yet,” she said, as if merely continuing her own remarks, “only a minute ago a longing for the life of my childhood came over me, though I suppose if I were to go back to the little town that I have almost forgotten, near which my father lived, I should not be able to remain there for longer than a week. Still, in my heart, I love it.”
