Death in Silhouette. John Russell Fearn
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“Oh, it’s you, Pat.” He had a sombre, judicial way of speaking. “Quite a long time since I’ve seen you. When was it, now?” he reflected. “Be the last time I called on your father, I think.”
“It was,” Pat agreed, with a nervous little smile. “But of course Keith and I have seen a lot of each other in the interval. We—er—take walks together.…”
Pat’s voice faded out as she caught a sharp warning glance from Keith. Ambrose Robinson made no comment. He simply loomed, his bulgy eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
“Oh—really?” he said, with intense quietness. “I didn’t know that.”
For a reason she had never yet fathomed, Pat always found that the gaunt, lanky ironmonger made her feel scared. She wondered if perhaps it was his irresistible resemblance to a vulture, typified in his hooked nose and jutting chin, the prominent eyes boring down from the great height.
Keith made a sudden effort to deal with the impasse that seemed to have arisen. He said:
“Pat and I are engaged, Dad. That’s why I brought her along to see you. I felt it was only right that I should.”
Ambrose Robinson considered this statement for a moment or two, then he reached behind him for his chair and sank down into it.
“Engaged?” he repeated, and Keith nodded.
“That’s what I said. See!” He caught Pat’s hand and Ambrose Robinson gazed concentratedly at the ring. After a moment or two he half-mumbled to himself:
“‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.’ You’re all I’ve got, Keith! Why did you have to do this? With your poor mother gone I was hoping that you and I—”
“It isn’t a surprise to you; it just can’t be!” Keith broke in, his tone suddenly rough. “I’ve my own life to live and if I’ve decided to get married, that’s the end of it. At least you might congratulate us!”
Pat gave Keith a wondering glance. “After all, Keith, there surely isn’t any need to fly off the handle like that?” she asked. “You haven’t even given your dad a chance to speak yet.”
“Be all same if I had!” Keith answered, his lips taut. “Since there’ll be a row anyway, I may as well get my piece in first.”
Ambrose Robinson got to his feet again and took hold of Pat’s hand. He looked at Keith.
“You’ve chosen Pat.… All right, that’s the end of it.”
Pat found herself kissed lightly on the cheek and tried not to wince. For some reason Ambrose Robinson looked at her in sudden sharpness. Then he said:
“I wish it hadn’t been Keith, that’s all.”
Pat smiled uncomfortably. “But it is, Mr. Robinson! And I’m glad of it. After all, we’ve no intention of leaving town or anything like that. We’re hoping to get some rooms in Gladstone Avenue, so we’ll be quite near. Remember the old saying—you’re not losing a son, you’re gaining a daughter.”
“As far as I am concerned, Pat, I am losing a son. No more, no less.… Don’t misunderstand,” Ambrose Robinson added, his voice still extraordinarily gentle. “I like you, Pat; I know you and your family well; only.… Well, perhaps I’ve sort of become selfish, regarded Keith as my own precious possession. I’ve always feared this would happen one day, yet now it is here I—I just don’t know what to say or think.” He sighed. “So be it.… ‘He that is greedy of gain troubleth his own house.’ That’s from Proverbs,” he explained, and sat down again.
“Oh, I see.” Pat gave Keith a glance. “Keith, don’t you think—”
What Pat thought was never expressed, for at that moment Keith Robinson fainted.
There was no warning beyond his rubbing his forehead once or twice, then suddenly his knees gave way and he fell flat on his face. Pat stared down at him in horror.
“It’s this room!” Ambrose Robinson declared, jumping up. “Too confoundedly hot for words! Keith never could stand a hot room.” He stooped, lifted Keith’s slight body across to the sofa and eased him onto it. Then he opened his collar.
Without waiting to be told, Pat hurried out into the back kitchen and returned with water in a basin. Ambrose Robinson whipped up his napkin from the table and dipped it in the water, began to smooth it across Keith’s forehead. He stirred but did not revive.
“Shall I get a doctor?” Pat asked urgently
Ambrose Robinson did not reply. He held Keith’s wrist gently, taking his pulse. There was a brooding look on his gaunt face.
“No,” he said finally; “he’ll be all right in a while. I can handle him.” He turned his head towards Pat again and she studied his vulture-like features. “I think you’d better go, Pat,” he said deliberately.
“But I don’t want to go! I want to be sure he’s all right. I can’t think what made him pass out like that.…”
“I can,” Ambrose Robinson said. “Drink! His breath is defiled with it—and so is yours!” He got to his feet and towered over the girl. “I noticed it when I kissed you. Where have you led my boy? What do you plan to do to do to him?”
Pat gestured helplessly. “But—but it’s nothing. We drank some wine. My dad insisted that we should—to celebrate.”
“You behold the result!” Ambrose Robinson snapped, pointing a bony finger at Keith. “To the best of my knowledge Keith has never taken intoxicant in his life. Wine—a hot room —and the fact that he is not an overstrong young man.… So he collapsed. ‘My heart is smitten and withered like grass.’ Psalms.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” Pat demanded angrily.
Ambrose Robinson ignored her question. “Young woman,” he said coldly, “I live to rule. You have chosen to become engaged to my son. Inevitably his feet will be directed out of the narrow path I had chosen for him. This is the beginning: that he falls under the curse of drink.”
“A glass of wine isn’t the curse of drink! It’s just Keith’s hard luck that he couldn’t stand it.… And I’m staying until he comes round.”
“No!” Ambrose Robinson said. “You are leaving, Pat— and ‘confounded be they that serve graven images’!”
Pat hesitated, looked again at the deeply sleeping, sprawled figure, then without another word she turned and went. With a harassed face she returned home through the quiet, hot streets. The moments with Ambrose Robinson had been intensely disturbing. Her expression gave her away the moment she entered the living room at home.
“Say, wait a minute,” her father said slowly, tossing aside his newspaper and getting up from the chesterfield. “What’s happened to you, Pat? You should be full of smiles and yet you look as though you’re nearing crying.”
“I am!” she declared fiercely, and burst out weeping as she threw herself down at the table. Irritably she pushed away the plate that had been laid for her tea.
“What’s the matter?” her father asked. “Quarrel?”
“No,” Pat mumbled, her face buried.
“Must have been to get you in this state.”
Pat did not answer. Her mother put an arm about her shoulders.
“What is it, dear? What’s wrong?”
“Look here,” her father said, “if that eagle-nosed old Ambrose scared you I’ll go over there this minute and tell him just—”
“It’s all because you gave Keith that wine!” Pat complained, looking up, and between gasps she got out the whole story. Instead of her father looking contrite, he began to laugh.
“When