The Purchase Price - Emerson Hough (the unexpected everything TXT) 📗

The swift flush on the face of the other man made his answer.
Dunwody went on mercilessly:

"He played then much as you do now. There was against him then, as there is now against you, a man who admired not so much just one woman in all the world as, let us say, one particular woman then and there present. Perhaps you remember his name—Mr. Parish—later ennobled by the German government and long known as a land baron in New York. Come! Think of it! Picture that snowbound train, that great citizen, and Parish, playing and playing, until at last it came to the question of a woman—not so beautiful as this one here, but in her own way shrewd, the same sort of woman, I might say—mysterious, beautiful, and—no, don't protest, and I'll not describe. You remember very well her name. It was pleasant property not so long ago for everybody. They played for the love, not for the hand, of that woman. Parish won her. Do you remember now?"

The younger man sat looking at him silently, his face now grown quite pale. "I am unwilling, sir, to allow any man to mention such details regarding the past life of my commander-in-chief, a president of the United States. It is not seemly. My profession should free me, by its very nature, from conversation such as this. My errand should free me. My place as a gentleman should free me, and her, from such discussion. It must, it shall, sir!"

"Forgive me," said Dunwody, coloring. "Your rebuke is just. I ask your pardon freely; but remember, what I say here is between us two, and no one else. Why deny yourself the luxury of remembering such a game as that? It was a man's game, and well worth the playing. Your former head of the army, at least, lost; and he paid. The other won. All Ogdensburg can tell you about that to-day. They lived there—together—Parish and the woman, till he went abroad. Yes, and she was a prisoner there not simply for a short time; she lived and died there. Whatever Parish did, whoever he was, he never loved any other woman as he did that one. And by the Lord! when it comes to that, no other woman in that town ever was loved more than she by everybody. Odd creatures, women, eh? Who can find them out? Who can weigh them, who can plumb their souls? But, my God! who can do without them?"

Carlisle made no answer, and Dunwody went on. "She had political intrigues back of her, just as this woman here has, for all I know. But one lost in that game, and the other, won. I've often wondered about that particular game of cards, my friend,—whether after all she loved the man who won her, right or wrong,—what became of her,—who she was? But now, tell me, was not our drunken friend right? Has human nature changed since Rome? And has not the conqueror always ruled? Have not the spolia opima, the rarest prizes, always been his?"

Carlisle only sat silent, looking at him, pale now, and rigid. He still made no comment.

"So now I say," went on Dunwody, "here is that same situation, twice in one lifetime! It's ominous, for somebody. There is trouble in the air, for some or all of us. But I say I offer you fair play, even, man to man. I ask no questions. I will not take any answers, any more than those two would have allowed any, that day on the train there, when they played, ten years or more ago. That was a foreign woman. So is this, I think. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I have looked her in the face. I shall never see such another face again. Man, I'm mad over her. And you've just said you'd loose your hold on her, whatever it is—for her sake. By God! once my hold was on her, she never should get away—again."

"What do you propose?" asked the other hoarsely.

"I propose only to offer you that same game over again!" replied Dunwody. "Man, what an uncanny thing this is! But, remember one thing,—no matter what comes, I shall never mention our meeting here. I am not your keeper."

"Sir," broke out the other, "you embarrass me unspeakably. You do not know the circumstances. I can not tell—"

"Pardon me, I make no taunts, and I have said I tell no tales. But my word of honor, man,—I will play you,—two out of three, to see—who takes her." His voice was low, tense, savage.

The younger man sat back in his chair. One knowing his tempestuous nature might have expected anger, consternation, resentment, to remain on his face. On the contrary, a sudden light seemed to come into his countenance. Suddenly he stifled a smile! He passed a hand across his brow, as though to assure himself. It was not so much confidence or resolution as half deliberation which shone in his eye as he cast a glance upon the heap of money on the opposite side of the table. Yet no sordid thought, no avarice was in his gaze. It was the look of the fanatic, the knight errant, resolved upon deed of risk or sacrifice for sake of a woman's wish; but with it was the amusement of a man who foresaw that difficulties lay ahead of him who essayed the role of jailer to Josephine, Countess St. Auban. What now passed across his countenance, little by little, therefore, was relief, relaxation from a strain, a solution of some doubtful problem. In brief, there seemed offered to him now the opportunity to terminate an errand which suddenly had grown distasteful to him and dangerous both to him and to his charge. At one stroke he might secure for himself riddance of the company of an embarrassing companion who already had served notice of her intention to desert him; and might also keep silent this man, whom she had asked for aid. As for him, she would take his measure quickly enough if he presumed in any way. Would not the purpose of his journey have been accomplished, might not he himself return to his work, would not each of these three have been served to his or her own liking, should now the suggestion of this eager man be accepted? If he won at the cards, why then—if he lost—but that he resolved not to do! The greatest misfortune possible, to his perplexed soul, was that the cards should not be against him. As he reflected upon these things, he hesitated. It was but to gain time.

"Senator Dunwody," said he, at length, "you and I are from different parts of the country—from two different worlds, you might say. You believe in slavery and the extension of it—I believe in just the reverse. I would sacrifice my professional future, if need were, in that belief." The other nodded, but his eyes did not waver.

"Very good! Now, I want to say to you this much. The young lady who has been with me is dangerous. She is an abolitionist of the strictest sect. She is very likely an European revolutionist, among other things. She is dangerous as such. I think I can say this much, and break no pledge of confidence."

"That isn't how she is dangerous to me. But is that the crime for which you transport her for life?" smiled the other. His shot came so close that his companion raised a hand.

"I don't deny, don't explain, don't argue," he retorted curtly. "I only say that I shall be willing to part with her services and turn her over to your own care, if you both so like. We know she has appealed to you for aid. My own errand, if you please, is near to its close. It has been—"

"Cut the cards, man!" cried the Missourian. It was lucky that he interrupted. He was just in time to prevent the other from making the mistake of saying what was the truth—that he was in any case about to leave the young lady to her own devices, and by her own request. The game which he most valued now was not on the table before him. He was playing it in his own mind. In short, duty or no duty, he was resolved to end the role of jailer and prisoner, for sake of the prisoner herself. Let others attempt the unpleasant task if they liked. Let others condemn if they liked. He, Carlisle, could be jailer no longer. Yet he deliberated well the risk he ran.

"It would be ruin to me if this were known, Senator Dunwody, and of that you are perfectly aware."'

"I know that as well as you, but there can be honor even in politics, war, or—love. I have given you my word. Deal!"

"You are impatient. You rejoice as a strong man to run a race, my dear sir."

"I do run a race. I am strong. Play! It is in the cards that
I must win."

"But if you should lose?"

"I shall not lose!"

His insistence, his confidence, almost caused the older man to laugh. "No, my friend," said he to himself, "you shall not lose!" But what he said aloud was, "You must not be excited, Dunwody. You may need all your nerve. I thought you cooler in times of stress."

"You don't know me. I don't know myself. Perhaps it is ice in your blood—I don't know,—it's fire in mine."

"Very well,—I hope you like the cards I have given you." But there was no ice in the red flush on Carlisle's sanguine face,

"Give me four more," cried the Missourian, flinging down his own cards with hands that trembled.

"Quite right, sir, you shall have them. But how you tremble! I wouldn't have so poor a nerve as yours for all the money in the world, my dear Senator. You act as though there were four hundred acres of niggers at stake, as Mr. Jones would say!"

"Go on! You don't know what there is at stake."

"So, now. You have your four cards. For myself—though you are so excited you wouldn't notice it if I did not call your attention to it—I take but three. You are an infant, man. See that you be not delivered into the hands of the enemy."

They looked now each into his renewed hand of five cards. Dunwody swept a stack of money toward the center of the table. "A thousand dollars against one look from her eye!"

"My dear sir," rejoined the other calmly, "you are raised to the extent of two glances—one from each eye."

"Another thousand for the touch of her glove."

"I come back. You shall have a pair."

"A thousand more to hear the sound of her step—another thousand for one smile!"

Carlisle's voice trembled, but he forced himself under control. "My dear sir, you shall have all you wish! I am sure if she could see you now she herself would be disposed to smile. You do not yet understand that woman. But now, suppose that the betting has gone far enough? What cards have you? For myself, I discover that I have drawn four kings. I trust that you have four aces of your own."

There was sincerity in this wish, but Dunwody answered gloomily: "You gave me three tens and a pair of fives, with what I held. You have won the first round."

He dashed a hand, and cleared the square of matted hair from his forehead, which now was beaded. Red, florid, full-blooded, balked in his eagerness, he looked as savage as some denizen of the ancient forest, in pursuit as reckless, as ill-suited with ill-fortune.

"My deal," said he, at length, in a voice half a growl. And later,
"How many?"

"I shall, if you please, require but one card," was the quiet answer. Dunwody himself required two.