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In the Library · The Lady of the Barge and other Stort Stories

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Section six of the Lady of the Barge. This is a LibriVox recording.
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All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer,
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please visit LibriVox dot org. Read by Leslie Langstone. The Lady of
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the Barge by W. W. Jacobs, Section six. In the library,
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the fire had burnt low in the library for the night, was wet
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and warm. It was now little more than a gray shell, and looked
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desolate. Trayton Burly, still hot, rose from his arm chair, and,
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turning out one of the gas jets, took a cigar from a box
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on a side table, and resumed his seat again. The apartment, which
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was on the third floor at the back of the house, was a combination
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of library, study and smoke room, and was the daily despair of the
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old housekeeper, who, with the assistance of one servant, managed the house.
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It was a bachelor establishment and had been left to Trayton Burley and James
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Fletcher by a distant connection of both men some ten years before. Trayton Burley
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sat back in his chair, watching the smoke of his cigar through half closed
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eyes. Occasionally he opened them a little wider and glanced round the comfortable,
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well furnished room, or stared with a cold gleam of hatred at Fletcher as
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he sat sucking stolidly at his brier pipe. It was a comfortable room and
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a valuable house, half of which belonged to Trayton Burley. And yet he
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was to leave it in the morning and become a rogue and a wanderer over
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the face of the earth. James Fletcher had said so. James Fletcher,
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with the pipe still between his teeth and speaking from one corner of his mouth,
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only had pronounced his sentence. It hasn't occurred to you, I suppose,
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said Burley, speaking suddenly, that I might refuse your terms. No,
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said Fletcher, simply. Burley took a great mouthful of smoke and let
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it roll slowly out. I am to go and leave you in possession,
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he continued. You will stay here sole proprietor of the house. You will
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stay at the office, sole owner and representative of the firm. You are
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a good hand at a deal, James Fletcher. I am an honest man,
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said Fletcher, And to raise sufficient money to make your defalcations good will
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not by any means leave me the gainer. As you very well know,
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there is no necessity to borrow, began Burley eagerly. We can pay the
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interest easily, and in course of time make the principle good without a soul,
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being the wiser that you suggested before, said Fletcher. And my answer
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is the same. I will be no man's confederate in dishonesty. I will
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raise every penny at all costs, and save the name of the firm and
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yours with it. But I will never have you dark in the office again,
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or sit in this house after to night. You won't, cried Burley,
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starting up in a frenzy of rage. I won't, said Fletcher.
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You can choose the alternative disgrace and penal servitude. Don't stand over me.
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You won't frighten me. I can assure you sit down. You have arranged
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so many things in your kindness, said Burley, slowly, resuming his seat.
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Again, have you arranged how I am to live? You have two
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strong hands and health, replied Fletcher. I will give you the two hundred
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pounds I mentioned, and after that you must look out for yourself. You
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can take it now. He took a leather case from his breast, pocket
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and drew out a roll of notes. Burley, watching him, calmly,
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stretched out his hand and took them from the table. Then he gave way
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to a sudden access of rage, and crumpling them in his hand, threw
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them into the corner of the room. Fletcher smoked on. Missus marl is
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out, said Burley suddenly. Fletcher nodded. She will be away the night,
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he said slowly, and Jane too. They have gone together somewhere,
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but they will be back at half past eight in the morning. You are
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going to let me have one more breakfast in the old place, then said
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Burley. Half past eight half past He rose from his chair again. This
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time Fletcher took his pipe from his mouth and watched him closely. Burley stooped,
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and, picking up the notes, placed them in his pocket. If
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I am to be turned adrift, it shall not be to leave you here,
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he said in a thick voice. He crossed over and shut the door.
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As he turned back, Fletcher rose from his chair and stood confronting him.
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Burley put his hand to the wall, and, drawing a small Japanese
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sword from its sheath of carved ivory, stepped slowly toward him. I give
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you one chance, Fletcher, he said, grimly, you are a man
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of your word. Hush this up and let things be as they were before,
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and you are safe. Put that down, said Fletcher, sharply.
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By I mean what I say, cried the other. I mean what I
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said, answered Fletcher. He looked round at the last moment for a weapon.
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Then he turned suddenly at a sharp, sudden pain, and saw Burley's
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clenched fist nearly touching his breastbone. The hand came away from his breast again,
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and something with it It went a long way off Trayton Burly suddenly went
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to a great distance, and the room darkened. It got quite dark,
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and Fletcher, with an attempt to raise his hands, let them fall to
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his side instead, and fell in a heap to the floor. He was
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so still that Burley could hardly realize that it was all over, and stood
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stupidly waiting for him to rise again. Then he took the handkerchief as though
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to wipe the sword, and thinking better of it, put it back into
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his pocket again, and threw the weapon on to the floor. The body
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of Fletcher lay where it had fallen, with white face turned up to the
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gas in life, he had been a commonplace looking man, not to say
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vulgar. Now burly, with a feeling of nausea, drew back toward the
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door until the body was hidden by the table, and relieved from the sight,
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he could think more clearly. He looked down carefully and examined his clothes
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and boots. Then he crossed the room again, and, with his face
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averted, turned out the gas. Something seemed to stir in the darkness,
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and with a faint cry, he blundered toward the door. Before he had
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realized that it was the clock, it struck twelve. He stood at the
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head of the stairs, trying to recover himself, trying to think. The
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gas on the landing below, the stairs, and the furniture all looked so
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prosaic and familiar that he could not realize what had occurred. He walked slowly
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down and turned the light out. The darkness of the upper part of the
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house was now almost appalling, and in a sudden panic, he ran down
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stairs into the lighted hall, and, snatching a hat from the stand,
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went to the door and walked down to the gate. Except for one window,
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the neighboring houses were in darkness, and the lamp shone upon a silent
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street. There was a little rain in the air, and the muddy road
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was full of pebbles. He stood at the gate, trying to screw up
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his courage and enter the house again. Then he noticed a figure coming slowly
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up the road and keeping close to the palings. The full realization of what
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he had done broke in upon him when he found himself turning to fly from
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the approach of the constable, the wet case heap glistening in the lamp light.
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The slow, heavy step made him tremble. Suppose the thing upstairs was
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not quite dead and should cry out. Suppose the constable should think it strange
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for him to be standing there and follow him in. He assumed a careless
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attitude which did not feel careless, and as the man passed, bade him
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good night and made a remark as to the weather. Ere the sounds of
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the other's footsteps had gone quite out of hearing. He turned and entered the
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house again. Before this sense of companionship could have quite departed, the first
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flight of stairs was lighted by the gas in the hall, and he went
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up slowly. Then he struck a match and went up steadily passed the library
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door, and with firm fingers, turned on the gas in his bedroom and
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lit it. He opened the window a little way, and, sitting down
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on his bed, tried to think he had got eight hours, eight hours
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and two hundred pounds in small notes. He opened his safe and took out
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all the loose cash it contained, and, walking about the room, gathered
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up and placed in his pockets such articles of jewelry as he possessed. The
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first horror had now to some extent passed and was succeeded by the fear of
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death. With this fear on him, he sat down again and tried to
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think out the first moves in that game of skill of which his life was
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the stake. He had often read of people of hasty temper evading the police
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for a time and eventually falling into their hands for lack of the most elementary
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common sense. He had heard it said that they always make some stupid blunder
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left behind them some damning clue. He took his revolver from a drawer and
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saw that it was loaded. If the worst came to the worst, he
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would die quickly. Eight hours start two hundred odd pounds, He would take
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lodgings at first in some populous district, let the hair on his face grow.
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When the hue and cry had ceased, he would go abroad and start
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life again. He would go out of a night and post letters to himself,
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or better still, post cards which his landlady would read. Postcards from
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cheery friends, from a sister, from a brother. During the day he
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would stay in and write as became a man who described himself as a journalist.
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Or suppose he went to the sea, who would look for him in
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flannels, bathing and boding with ordinary happy mortals. He sat and pondered one
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might mean life and the other death, which his face burned as he thought
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of the responsibility of the choice. So many people went to the sea at
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that time of year that he would surely pass unnoticed. But at the sea
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one might meet acquaintances. He got up and nervously paced the room again.
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It was not so simple now that it meant so much as he had thought.
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The sharp little clock on the mantel piece rang out one, followed immediately
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by the deeper tone of that in the library. He thought of the clock.
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It seemed the only live thing in that room, and shuddered. He
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wondered whether the thing lying by the far side of the table heard it,
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he wondered. He started and held his breath with fear. Somewhere downstairs aboard
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creaked loudly, then another. He went to the door, and opening it
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a little way, but without looking out, listened. The house was so
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still that he could hear the ticking of the old clock in the kitchen below.
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He opened the door a little wider and peeped out. As he did
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so, there was a sudden, sharp outcry on the stairs, and he
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drew back into the room and stood trembling. Before he had quite realized that
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the noise had been made by the cat. The cry was unmistakable, but
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what had disturbed it? There was silence again, and he drew near the
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door once more. He became certain that something was moving stealthily on the stairs.
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He heard the boards creak again, and once the rails of the balustrade
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rattled. The silence and suspense were frightful. Supposed that the something which had
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been Fletcher waited for him in the darkness outside. He fought his fears down,
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and opening the door, determined to see what was beyond the light from
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his room streamed out on to the landing, and he peered about fearfully.
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Was it fancy? Or did the door of Fletcher's room opposite close as he
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looked? Was it fancy? Or did the handle of the door really turn?
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In perfect silence? And watching the door as he moved to see that
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nothing came out and followed him, he proceeded slowly down the dark stairs.
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Then his jaw fell and he turned sick and faint again. The library door,
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which he distinctly remembered closing, and which moreover he had seen was closed
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when he went upstairs to his room, now stood open some four or five
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inches. He fancied that there was a rustling inside, but his brain refused
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to be certain. Then plainly and unmistakably, he heard a chair pushed against
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the wall. He crept to the door, hoping to pass it before the
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thing inside became aware of his presence. Something crept stealthily about the room.
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With a sudden impulse, he caught the handle of the door, and,
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closing it, violently, turned the key in the lock, and ran madly
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down the stairs. A fearful cry sounded from the room, and a heavy
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hand beat upon the panels of the door. The house rang with the blows,
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but above them sounded the loud, hoarse cries of human fear. Burly,
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half way down to the hall, stopped with his hand on the balustrade
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and listened the beating sea beast, and a man's voice cried out loudly for
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God's sake, to let him out. At once Burley saw what had happened
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and what it might mean for him. He had left the hall door open
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after his visit to the front, and some wandering bird of the night had
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entered the house. No need for him to go now, no need to
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hide either from the hangman's rope or the felon's cell. The fool above had
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saved him. He turned and ran upstairs again, just as the prisoner,
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in his furious efforts to escape, wrenched the handle from the door. Who's
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there, he cried loudly. Let me out, cried a frantic voice.
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For God's sake, open the door. There's something here. Stay where you
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are, shouted Burley sternly. Stay where you are. If you come out,
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I'll shoot you like a dog. The only response was a smashing blow
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on the lock of the door. Burley raised his pistol, and aiming it
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at the height of a man man's chest, fired through the panel. The
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report and the crashing of the wood made one noise, succeeded by an unearthly
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stillness, then the noise of a window hastily opened. Burley fled hastily down
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the stairs, and, flinging wide the hall door, shouted loudly for assistance.
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It happened that a sergeant and the constable on the beat had just met
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on the road. They came toward the house at a run. Burly,
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with incoherent explanations, ran up the stairs before them and halted outside the library
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door. The prisoner was still inside, still trying to demolish the lock of
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the sturdy oaken door. Burley tried to turn the key, but the lock
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was too damaged to admit of its moving. The sergeant drew back and shoulder
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foremost, hurled himself at the door and burst it open. He stumbled into
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the room, followed by the constable, and two shafts of light from the
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lanterns at their belts danced around the room. A man lurking behind the door
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made a dash for it, and the next instant the three men were locked
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together. Burly, standing in the doorway, looked on coldly, reserving himself
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for the scene which was to follow. Except for the stumbling of the men
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and the sharp catch of the prisoner's breath, there was no noise. A
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helmet fell off and bounced and rolled along the floor. The men fell.
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There was a sobbing snarl and a sharp click. A tall figure rose from
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the floor. The other on his knees, still held the man down.
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The standing figure felt in his pocket and striking a match, lit the gas.
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The light fell on the flushed face and the fair beard of the sergeant.
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He was bareheaded and his hair disheveled. Burly entered the room and gazed
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eagerly at the half insensible man on the floor, a short, thick set
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fellow with a white, dirty face and a black mustache. His lip was
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cut and blood down his neck. Burly glared glanced furtively at the table.
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The cloth had come off in the struggle and was now in the place where
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he had left Fletcher hot work, Sir, said the sergeant with a smile.
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It's fortunate we were handy. The prisoner raised a heavy head and looked
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up with unmistakable terror In his eyes. All right, sir, he said,
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trembling, as the constable increased the pressure of his knee. I ain't
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been in the house ten minutes altogether, by I've not, The sergeant regarded
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him curiously. It don't signify, he said, slowly. Ten minutes or
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ten seconds won't make any difference. The man shook and began to whimper.
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It was ear when I come in, he said, eagerly. Take that
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down, sir. I've only just come, and it was ear when I
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come. I tried to get away then, but I was locked in.
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What was demanded the sergeant that? He said desperately. The sergeant, following
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the direction of the terror stricken black eyes, stooped by the table. Then,
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with a sharp exclamation, he dragged away the cloth burly with a sharp
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cry of horror, reeled back against the wall. All right, sir,
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said the sergeant, catching him, all right, turn your head away.
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He pushed him into a chair, and, crossing the room, poured out
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a glass of whiskey and brought it to him. The glass rattled against his
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teeth, but he drank it greedily, and then groaned faintly. The sergeant
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waited patiently. There was no hurry. Who is it, sir? He
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asked at length. My friend, Fletcher said burly, with an effort.
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We lived together. He turned to the prisoner. You damned villain. He
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was dead when I come in the room, gentlemen, said the prisoner strenuously.
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And when I see him, I tried to get out. So help
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me. He was You heard me call out, sir. I shouldn't had
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called if i'd killed him, all right, said the sergeant, gruffly.
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You'd better hold your tongue in. You keep quiet, urged the constable.
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The sergeant knelt down and raised the dead man's head. I had nothing to
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do with it, repeated the man on the floor. I had nothing to
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do with it. I never thought of such a thing. I've only been
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in the place ten minutes. Put that down, sir. The sergeant groped
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with his left hand, and picking up the Japanese sword, held it at
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him. I've never seen it before, said the prisoner, struggling. It
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used to hang on the wall, said Burley. He must have snatched it
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down. It was on the wall when I left Fletcher a little while ago.
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How long, inquired the sergeant. Perhaps an hour, perhaps half an
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hour, was the reply. I went to my bedroom. The man on
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the floor twisted his head and regarded him narrowly. You done it, he
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cried fiercely. You done it, and you want me to swing for it.
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That'll do, said the indignant constable. The sergeant let his burden gently
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to the floor. You hold your tongue, you devil, he said.
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Menace. He crossed to the table and poured a little spirit into a glass
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and took it in his hand. Then he put it down again and crossed
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to Burly. Feeling better, sir, he asked. The other, nodded
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faintly. You won't want this thing anymore, said the sergeant. He pointed
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to the pistol which the other still held, and taking it from him gently
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put it into his pocket. You've hurt your wrist, sir, he said
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anxiously. Burley raised one hand sharply, and then the other. This one,
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I think, said the sergeant. I saw it just now. He
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took the other's wrists in his hand, and, suddenly, holding them in
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the grip of a vice, whipped out something from his pocket, something hard
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and cold, which snapped suddenly on Burley's wrist, and held them fast.
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That's right, said the sergeant. Keep quiet. The constable turned round in
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a maze. Burley sprang toward him furiously. Take these things off, he
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choked, Have you gone mad? Take them off all in good time,
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said the sergeant. Take them off, cried Burly again. For answer,
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the sergeant took him in a powerful grip, and, staring steadily at his
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white face and gleaming eyes, forced him to the other end of the room
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and pushed him into a chair. Collins, he said, sharply, Sir,
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said the astonished subordinate. Run to the doctor at the corner, as
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hard as you can run, said the other. This man is not dead.
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As the man left the room, the sergeant took up the glass of
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spirits he had poured out, and, kneeling down by Fletcher, again,
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raised his head and tried to pour a little down his throat. Burly,
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sitting in his corner, watched like one in a trance. He saw the
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constable return with a breathless surgeon, saw the three men bending over Fletcher,
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and then saw the eyes of the dying man open and the lips of the
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dying man move. He was calm just that. The sergeant made some notes
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in a pocketbook and that all three men eyed him closely. The sergeant stepped
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toward him and placed his hand on his shoulder, and obedient to the touch,
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he arose and went with him out into the night. End of Section six