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Game and the Candle

<h1>THE GAME AND THE CANDLE</h1> <h2>By ELEANOR M. INGRAM</h2> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>CHAPTER I</h2> <h3>THE DECISION</h3> "It will last about six months," stated John Allard. "Afterward—" His brother looked up at him helplessly. "Afterward?" he echoed drearily. "Afterward there must be more. It is not possible, simply is not, for poverty to approach Theodora and Aunt Rose. Look around you, Robert." Under the clear California moonlight the jade-green lawns and terraces dropped one below the other to the distant road. Through them writhed the long serpentine drive and paths; dotted over them stood dark masses of flowering bushes or trees, with here and there the snowy gleam of a statue; over all floated the rhythmic tinkle of the central fountain. Untroubled calm was the spirit of the place, hereditary comfort. "I have looked so often, John. Yet, I find nothing." "We must find not a little money, but a fortune, and we must find it in six months," John answered, his low voice just reaching his listener. "There is no way to earn it, we know. Inside the law there are ways to acquire it. Wall Street, for instance; a new popular song or two, an inexplicable conjuring trick, or a fresh breakfast food. But we have no such talents, you and I; we are just the ordinary gentlemen of leisure,—dilettanti. We are useless, within the limits set for us. Outside the limits, outside the law—" The suggestion was left unfinished, the two men falling silent before it. They were young; so young that the morning mists of romance still blurred the sharp landscape of reality, and for the moment, daring appealed more than endurance. "We could not do anything low," Robert demurred hesitatingly. "Not about the mortgages or business tangles, John." "No, no," John agreed, flushing. "Of course not that. I suppose there is an honor even in crime, a class distinction. Sir Henry Morgan probably despised a common thief, and Paul Clifford would not pick his neighbor's pocket at dinner. No; we will pay our inherited debts, if we have to steal for it. What a comédie-héroïque!" Robert regarded him seriously. "You are just playing?" he doubted. "I am not playing at all; only looking at things. For the time left us is not long. If we do nothing, this place will go, and with it all that Theodora and Aunt Rose call life. We must then take these women, Aunt Rose an invalid, Theo a spoiled and petted patrician, to some cheap city lodging, and there strive to support them. How, I haven't any idea. Some one might employ us as clerks, possibly. I have traveled all over Europe and speak French and Italian; that is all my stock in trade, except an education." "Mine is less." "We have wasted our time thoroughly, if innocently. Now we pay. Do you wonder that I look at the outlaw's path that offers itself?" His brother moved, startled. "Offers itself, John?" "Yes; I did not think of this without the prompting of circumstance. Are you dismayed, or shocked?" "I can not see very clearly," Robert answered simply. "Or, rather, I keep seeing the wrong things. Nothing dismays me to-night except the idea of pain coming to Theo and her mother. I do not say it should be so; merely that it is. We are more ornamental than useful, we Allards, as you point out, but we have the art of loving. I think most people have a less capacity for it; I believe it is a certain intensity born with one—a gift, a talent. And we have it. Tell me more." "I shall not tell you very much, because the work is only for one of us," John said. "One of us must go, the other stay here and live as always. One must still be master of Sun-Kist, still the head of this household of ours and an irreproachable citizen. He had better not know too accurately what the one who goes is doing." "John!" John Allard slipped impulsively from the veranda rail and came to sit on the arm of Robert's chair, drawing him into a caressing embrace. "I know; we've always played together, dear old fellow. School and college, and the short time since,—the two years' difference between us got lost pretty early. But we must learn to go alone at last. And if we undertake this insanity—for it is little better—we must stand without flinching all it brings. Is it worth while? I do not know, but I know many a man has gone into the underworld to protect a woman. How many cashiers have misused funds entrusted to them, how many business men have stooped to illegal methods, in order to give their wives—not necessities, but luxuries? We see it every day, this cowardice for some one loved. Only they do it by degrees, and we do it all at once." Robert laid his hand over the one on his shoulder. "It does not sound very pretty," he acknowledged wistfully. "It is the old legend of selling your ego to Mephistopheles. Only, I wouldn't so much mind going to Hades afterward; it is the clasping Mephisto's smudgy fingers that hurts." "I am not asking you to do it, Bertie. We will just forget this half-hour, if you like. You know it was a suggestion, not a conviction, I voiced. You are right, of course. But I was ready for rebellion against all laws to-day; and then Desmond came to me—" "Desmond! He is out of prison?" "A week ago. He came to me for money to go East. 'Do you mind how you and Master Robert used to sneak away from your nurse to play with Tommy, the coachman's boy?' he said to me. 'And now Tommy Desmond is nursed by the police far and near. I am a master at my trade, I am.' He has not changed much since we recognized him at his trial, five years ago, and tried to help him." Robert turned to see the face above him in the moonlight. "He said more than that." "He was very frank," John answered laconically. "Then, go on, please. I never meant that we should give up the last chance because it was unpleasant, or unsafe. Theo—she has just tasted her girlhood, just commenced to live; how can we let her lose it all? I would rather smudge my fingers in saving her than wear the bar sinister of cowardice. There are laws I know you will not break, because, being yourself, you can not. Go on, and tell me what Desmond said." A white moth, hunting some star across the dark, dashed itself against Allard's coat and hung quivering there. He paused to disentangle the delicate wings before replying, the careful seriousness of the little action in itself a characterization. "There has been shown to me a way to make enough money to thrust poverty out of sight for the present and find comfort for the future. A way to save Sun-Kist in the short time left us to command. But it is by a crime, a crime which the world calls as ugly as forgery. You know for what Desmond was punished. Yet it is in a certain sense the crime magnificent, in that one wrongs a government instead of an individual, and dashes the gauntlet into the face of the state itself. It is the crime that to the least degree smudges, because, after all, it offers a fair equivalent for value received." "What do you mean?" "The old mine is no longer worth operating; but there is silver in small quantities," Allard replied quietly. "Enough for Desmond's use. Naturally, he never dreamed of making such a proposition to me. He simply told me how the affair could be carried out, as he told me a dozen other amazing possibilities and reminiscences. I encouraged him to talk, at first merely to dull the clamor of thought at my inner ear. In the end, I kept him near here." "It's so real, John?" "It's so real and so possible. I have satisfied myself of that. Either of us could carry the plan through, with Desmond; but we must realize that the one who undertakes it steps out of this life. For, facing the fact, disaster in the end is almost certain. The government machinery is very perfect; he who breaks the law can scarcely hope to escape arrest sooner or later. And if that happens, our world must never guess. Whoever accepts the work must leave here for an indefinite journey abroad, ostensibly; and in reality lose his identity absolutely somewhere. The one who goes must endure in silence whatever happens; the one who stays—" "Go on." "The one who stays," John finished gently, "must not interfere or try to save." Robert shuddered slightly and sat still for an instant. "It is for the women," he said, his boyish voice quite steady. "Shall we draw lots, or will you let me go?" "Bertie, Bertie!" John exclaimed, and, rising abruptly, walked to the rail. When he came back to the seat beside his brother, it was with his face turned from the silver light pouring through the arches of the veranda. "We are spared the pain of choosing our rôles, Bertie," he declared with grave finality. "The decision is not ours. Theodora cares for one of us. Aunt Rose admitted as much to me, although she herself could not say which. Of course that one is the one who stays. You see I am just taking it for granted that we both love her. We have never talked about it, but we knew, I think." "Yes." John waited, but no more was volunteered. "You agree with me?" he at last questioned. "Oh, I suppose so!" Robert flung savagely. "John, I am not blind; if you propose this, it is because you are satisfied Theo will choose me. If you sacrifice everything to save Sun-Kist for the women, it is because you mean the sacrifice to be yourself. Tell the truth; if I were to go, you would refuse to carry out the plan." "I said either of us could do the work." "Yes, but you mean to do it yourself." "I mean to leave the decision to Theodora." "Honestly?" "Honestly. And our time is short, Robert; ask her to-night when she comes home." "I will not," he refused flatly. "Take your right as eldest and tell her your story before I tell mine. I will not take that advantage of you. Oh, if she were only less delicate, less fastidiously reared, less unable to endure even vexation! If we could fight it out, you and I!" "Hush, hush; this is the fight. We are paying the penalty of being fit for no better battle; he who can use neither sword nor gun must be sent to dig in the muddy trenches." "We could take care of ourselves." "Without doubt, or starve decently. But we have to take care of others." "John, let me go." "Play fair, Bertie." "John—" "And Theo?" The younger dropped his head against the other's knee. "I think your part will be harder than mine," John rejoined, after a long silence. "It is less difficult to suffer than to watch another endure. I can very well believe we are taking the wrong way, but I do not see a better. And for the—smudge—I have one consolation." "That is, John?" "The crime chosen is one the state finds it advisable to condemn for reasons of policy. It is not so actual a wrong to our fellow-men as a fortune made in Wall Street or in speculating on their necessities. I am going to break man's regulations, not God's law." "I hope you are right," said Robert with equal reverence. "But you are taking an unblazed trail, and the safe road lies far aside." Down the smooth slope of the country-side crept the vibrating throb of an automobile, accompanied by laughter and the faint sound of gay voices. Some one in the party was singing—a man whose clear tenor reached the two on the veranda, filtered to purest pathos through the veil of distance: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Sconto col sangue mio L'amor que posi in te! Non ti scordar—non ti scordar di me—" </div> </div> "That is Billy Clive," Robert identified wearily. "He is an arrant humbug, is Billy; I do not believe he ever had a serious moment in his life. Theo is coming; will you speak to her? It may be you, after all, you know." "I think not, Bertie." "But you will try?" Through the night air pierced the crescendo wail of a horn, startling the insect choirs into silence and waking a sleepy bird in the wistaria vines. Both men rose. "If I must," John yielded. "Yet I have an idea it will not matter who speaks first, and perhaps you are not quite up to the task to-night. Yes, I will try." "And try fairly. I," as the white lights of the car swung into the avenue, "I am going in." Their hands met in passing, Robert turning to the house door and John descending the wide steps to greet the arrival. "The most delicious time," pealed the sweet, high voice of a girl above the noise of the halted automobile. "Good night, Mrs. Preston. Until to-morrow, Sue and Billy. Oh, John, you!" "Come over to-morrow, Allard," rang the merry chorus. "Don't forget the hunt." "Bring Robert, old man." "Adiós, Theo." The car started noisily, and whirled down the driveway. "I am so tired," sighed the girl on the steps, gathering up her shimmering skirts and throwing back the hood of her cloak. "Mama has gone to bed, John? Oh, and I do want tea! Why should I not have tea at midnight, if I like? I love to be revolutionary." "Why not, indeed? Sit down there in your chosen divan, my lady." "You will bring me tea?" "Wait only." She sank laughing into a chair and began to draw off her long gloves, watching him as he moved to the little tea-table in a nook of the veranda. Allard possessed an almost feminine deftness at such tasks; perhaps it was as well that Robert was not busied with the fragile china and glass that evening. "It was a nice dance," Theodora mused aloud. "But then, almost everything is nice. Only I missed you and Robert. A dance without Robert is like a salad without cayenne." "And a salad with cayenne?" "Is the chief joy of life's dinner." He brought the cup and she extended a slim, jeweled hand to receive it. Theodora had a somewhat oriental taste; odors of sandalwood and rose breathed from her laces, her white wrist sparkled with slender bracelets, and the high comb in her blonde hair held the glint of gems. "Why do you not laugh at my epigram?" she demanded. "Thank you; I would say you were adorable if you did not already know it. Please give me a biscuit, and give yourself some tea. Why are you so serious to-night?" "I had something to tell you, I think." She waved a commanding spoon. "Then sit down and begin." But Allard remained silent, regarding her. It was not easy to begin. Moreover, the glamour of the future had fallen away, leaving the naked ugliness; and he was held by a prescient certainty that to-night ended for ever this gracious life. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus2.jpg" alt=""/></div> <h3>Allard remained silent, regarding her.</h3> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> "Robert is not up?" Theodora queried presently, too fine to insist on the suggested confidence. "No. Are you sorry, Theo?" Surprised at the tone, she glanced up, but the shadows were heavy where he sat. "Why, yes, of course." And recovering herself, "Certainly; how could we exist without him?" "How, indeed?" he echoed, rather too quietly for naturalness. "Suppose he were to go away?" "I should expire immediately of ennui. You see, he and I have a bond of frivolity; while against you we all lean for support. You are very supporting, John; now, this tea," she laughed gleefully. "Robert probably would have pressed champagne upon me, because it is less trouble to get." "You might have made tea yourself," he suggested, drawing a branch of the wistaria to shade his face more completely. "I hate to do things for myself. I hope that I never will have to." "I hope not. But I promised to tell you something. I am going on a trip to South America; part business, part restlessness." "You!" "Why not? I can not play all the time, you know, not being a girl myself. I may be away only a few months, or—much longer. But let me be quite frank; surely you are aware Robert loves you, Theo. If I should not be home before you are married, still you will understand how much good I wish you both, and remember that I said this now. Forgive me for speaking of this; it is ventured because I start to-morrow." She sat very still, and he heard her hurried breathing in the hush. "I did not know you meant that," she said at last, her accents unsure. "Or you would not have confessed? Never mind my blundering interference, little cousin; I have no wish so dear as that you two should care for each other. You are not angry?" She rose abruptly to set down the cup, the shadows now a cloak for her. "Angry? Oh, no; I have never learned to be angry with you. I—It is damp out here; I must go in. Good night, John." "Good night, Theo," he responded with all gentleness. It was so wonderful, this exquisite timidity, this virginal shyness that only Robert should have seen. He saw her quivering as she passed him in the moonlight, her head averted. But in the doorway she turned back. "John, as we entered the avenue to-night, there was a man standing near the olive-trees. Mr. Preston stopped the car and called to ask what he did there. The man answered that he was waiting to see you about some gardening work, but it was so late that you must have forgotten. He sounded honest, but Mr. Preston bade me warn you, saying that a man, once your father's servant, had just been released from prison, and might use a knowledge of Sun-Kist to attempt burglary. You will be careful?" "I will be careful," he answered calmly. "Thank you, dear." She slipped hurriedly across the threshold, as if in escape, ruthlessly tearing her thin gown upon the door-latch. Allard wearily rested his head against the column behind him, and so remained. At the end of an hour he rose and went down across the moon-blanched lawns, walking steadily and directly toward the group of olive-trees. He knew for what Desmond was waiting, knew what answer would be given, and it seemed to him that he had already severed the connection between the present and the future. It seemed to him that not to-morrow, but to-night, he was taking leave of all things; that the unblazed trail led straight on from behind those dark trees just beyond him. The white statues stirred with the wavering shadows as he passed; the rich scent of the tuberoses called as a familiar voice; like a patter of tiny footsteps the ripple of the fountain followed. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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