The Dark Tower

There was no more violence now; his failing breath shook him hardly at all. Even as he spoke, something in him was suddenly freed; his chest rose slowly, his arm lifted then fell back, and Winn saw that he was no longer holding Mr. Bouncing.

CHAPTER XVIII

He closed the balcony door; the cold air filled the room as if it were still trying to come to the rescue of Mr. Bouncing. Winn had often done the last offices for the dead before, but always out of doors. Mr. Bouncing would have thought that a very careless way to die; he had often told Winn that he thought nature most unpleasant.

When Winn had set the room in order he sat down by the table and wondered if it would be wrong to smoke a cigarette. He wanted to smoke, but he came to the conclusion that it wasn’t quite the thing.

To-night was the ball for the international skaters — he ought to have been there, of course. He had made Lionel go in his place, and had written a stiff little note to Claire, asking her to give his dances to his friend. He had Claire’s answer in his pocket. “Of course I will, but I’m awfully disappointed.” She had spelled disappointed with two s’s and one p. Win had crushed the note into his pocket and not looked at it since, but he took it out now. It wasn’t like smoking a cigarette. Bouncing wouldn’t mind. There was no use making a fuss about it; he had done the best thing for her. He was handing all that immaculate, fresh youth into a keeping worthy of it. He wasn’t fit himself. There were too many things he couldn’t tell her, there was too much in him still that might upset and shock her. He would have done his best, of course, to have taken care of her; but better men could take better care. Lionel had said nothing so far; he had taken Claire skiing and skating, and once down the Schatz Alp. When he had come back from the Schatz Alp he had gone a long walk by himself. Winn had offered to accompany him, but Lionel had said he wanted to go alone and think. Winn accepted this decision without question. He knew Lionel was a clever man, but he didn’t himself see anything to think about. The thing was perfectly simple: Lionel liked Claire or he didn’t; no amount of being clever could make any difference. Winn was a little suspicious of thinking. It seemed to him rather like a way of getting out of things.

The room was very cold, but Winn didn’t like going away and leaving Mr. Bouncing. By the by he heard voices in the next room. He could distinguish the high, flat giggle of Mrs. Bouncing. She had come back from the dance, probably with young Rivers. He must go in and tell her. That was the next thing to be done. He got up, shook himself, glanced at the appeased and peaceful young face upon the pillow, and walked into the next room. It was a sitting-room, and Winn had not knocked; but he shut the door instantly after him, and then stood in front of it, as if in some way to keep the silent tenant of the room behind him from seeing what he saw.

Mrs. Bouncing was in a young man’s arms receiving a prolonged farewell. It wasn’t young Rivers, and it was an accustomed kiss. Mrs. Bouncing screamed. She was the kind of woman who found a scream in an emergency as easily as a sailor finds a rope.

It wasn’t Winn’s place to say, “What the devil are you doing here, sir?” to Mr. Roper; it was the question which, if Mr. Roper had had the slightest presence of mind, he would have addressed to Winn. As it was he did nothing but snarl — a timid and ineffectual snarl which was without influence upon the situation.

“You’d better clear out,” Winn continued; “but if I see you in Davos after the eight o’clock express to-morrow I shall give myself the pleasure of breaking every bone in your body. Any one’s at liberty to play a game, Mr. Roper, but not a double game; and in the future I really wouldn’t suggest your choosing a dying man’s wife to play it with. It’s the kind of thing that awfully ruffles his friends.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Mr. Roper, hastily edging toward the door; “your language is most uncalled for. And as to going away, I shall do nothing of the kind.”

“Better think it over,” said Winn, with misleading calm. He moved forward as he spoke, seized Mr. Roper by the back of his coat as if he were some kind of boneless mechanical toy, and deposited him in the passage outside the door.

Mrs. Bouncing screamed again. This time it was a shrill and gratified scream. She felt herself to be the heroine of an occasion. Winn eyed her as a hostile big dog eyes one beneath his fighting powers. Then he said:

“I shouldn’t make that noise if I were you; it’s out of place. I came here to give you bad news.”

This time Mrs. Bouncing didn’t scream. She took hold of the edge of the table and repeated three times in a strange, expressionless voice:

“George is dead! George is dead! George is dead!”

Winn thought she was going to faint, but she didn’t. She held on to the table.

“What ought I to do, Major Staines?” she asked in a quavering voice.