The Raveled Sleeve

O,” SAID Carberry Stark, reflectively, lowering the revolver, “I don't think we had better settle it that way, after all.” The young man opposite stared at him with life coming back into his face.

Lucrezia Stark was very beautiful. Half Italian, born near the toe of the boot of Italy where the sun sinks into the stones of old palaces like a dye, her skin had the pallor and texture of a camellia-bud, her hair was black as the coat of a black stallion, her mouth young and wise. The knight in the Morte D'Arthur who, seeing a raven light upon a field of new-fallen snow, and blood upon that snow, swore never to quit his quest until he had found a woman with skin as white as that white, lips red as that red, hair black as that black, might, beholding Lucrezia, have called himself quits with God.

Those who are interested in such things as the beauty and pleasantness of women admitted enviously that Carberry Stark had never driven a better bargain in his life than when he married Lucrezia—and yet Stark was known as a man successful in bargains wherever bargains are made. Many mothers of marriageable daughters were careful to remark that, rich or not rich, they wouldn't have their darlings marry a man as old as Carberry Stark, and with his reputation—not for anything—and, nevertheless, regarded the aforesaid daughters with an arid eye when the announcement of the marriage appeared.

For one thing, Carberry Stark was a little man—a grim little man. They had called him, somewhat scoffingly, “The Pint-Size Plunger” when he first began—later the nickname had changed to “Hagenbeck” Stark; for, among the bigger, softer men who were his rivals, he moved with the unerring dominance of a skilful trainer disciplining a herd of performing elephants.

He had started out as a gambler—a faro-dealer said some—and now, though his counters were mines and railroads and the wheat of the world, he was still a gambler, though on a heroic scale. Two things he had preserved from the first, his emotionless stare in victory or defeat, and his boast that he had always given the other man at least an even chance. “But, hell,” as one of the men he had broken remarked disgustedly, “an even chance with Stark in the street is worth just about as much as an even chance with Houdini to get out of a pair of handcuffs. You don't know how he does it—all you know is you don't. Which was more or less true.

He must have made a rather scary husband. At least everybody said so—and everybody is so apt to be right. A beautiful young thing like Lucrezia—and that grim little man. “I'd just as soon marry a porcupine!” said Mrs. Trimble with a shiver—but then Mrs. Trimble had three marriageable daughters. Mrs. Trimble so seldom realized that a man may be able to hold a woman to him by other ties than those of money or youth. Nor had Mrs. Trimble ever studied Lucrezia's heredity.

Nevertheless, it may be admitted at once that, in marrying Lucrezia, for the first time in his life Carberry Stark had hardly given himself an even chance. A man who marries beauty twenty years younger than himself seldom does. No, we are not talking of the Warrens, whom you know, and whose home-life is so ideal in spite of Ted's being fifty and Elsie thirty, but of the usual thing. The gamble appealed to him, doubtless—unkind people said that he was born with a roulette-ball instead of a heart. But the gamble seemed to be going well enough, when Harvey Verity was shuffled into the pack.

Harvey was pleasant in his twenties—very pleasant indeed. When he rented the big place next to Starkwood on Long Island, he made an agreeable neighbor. He was blond and ruddy and tall—the best of the North in body as Lucrezia was the best of the South. Together, they made a striking couple. They were often together—for Harvey Verity Senior had once been a partner of Carberry Stark's.

The contrast to Carberry Stark was rather unfair: between the two of them, he faded to nothing but a grim little smile—the gnome that held the horses of the proper prince and princess. But if Stark felt that contrast, he never showed it—and always made Harvey a welcome guest in his dry way. Perhaps he had grown too sure of himself in the daily contest with Fate—men do. In any event that happened which was bound to happen, given the conditions. Harvey and Lucrezia from being thrown together fortuitously, became more and more drawn together—youth going to youth—and after not such a lengthy period, Harvey, at least, discovered himself in love with his neighbor's wife.

He made the usual mental gestures of a gentleman in his position—and Harvey was a gentleman, let it be said. He put her out of his mind and she came back—he tried to avoid meeting her; but, after all, they were friends as well as neighbors, and it is a little difficult to go to a man old enough to have begotten you and say, “Look here—I can't come over to dinner any more—I've fallen in love with your wife.” He tried to run away, but he didn't run very far or very long. In fact, he acted with a certain lack of originality that is rather common—and Harvey's kind of love feeds most easily upon just that kind of infirmly attempted resistance. He was not a deliberately dishonorable young man—but he did love Lucrezia. And, as the days passed, he loved her more and more.

His last attempt was to shut up his place in the country temporarily. But then the Starks invited him down for week-ends, and he fiddled with his principles and came. It was on one of these week-ends that the crisis came. A summer night, after dinner, on the porch, when Carberry had gone into his study for a moment to get some cigars, and the moon was a thin curved bangle pinned glitteringly to the sky—and Harvey was kissing Lucrezia and holding her in his arms.

It wasn't more than five minutes before Carberry came back, walking with a loud tread for so light a man, and when he appeared in the doorway his wife and his friend were composed and distant enough. But five minutes is quite long enough in which to make a girl a good many desperate promises, when one is young.

The rest of the evening wore out in talk chiefly sustained by an unusually loquacious Carberry. As soon as she could, Lucrezia announced that she was going to bed.

They bade her good night and sat smoking for a while in silence. After a time, Harvey knocked off his ash and said he thought he'd better go up too—he was staying the night.

“Want a-nightcap?” said Carberry, with casual hospitality. “Come into the study a minute—don't generally need a nightcap to put me to sleep—but this evening”

He left the sentence trailing, and rose. Harvey followed him unwillingly. He would have given a good deal to be able to refuse the proffered drink, but—could Carberry have seen? One never could be quite sure how much Carberry saw or didn't see with those cold marbles of eyes. And, thinking of that—and Lucrezia—Harvey didn't quite dare.

When they had reached the study—“Sit down,” said Carberry, with a friendly wave of his hand. Harvey hesitated, and sat. The next moment the door was locked behind them, the key in Carberry's pocket—and Harvey was looking into the black, round ring at the muzzle of a revolver that Carberry with catlike quickness had plucked from a drawer of his desk.

A little wheel somewhere inside of Harvey seemed to jolt and stop. “What the dev” he began hoarsely.

“Oh, hush!” said Carberry, dispassionately. “What's the use? The porch was well lighted—considering.”

“If you think” began Harvey again.

But, “I don't think. I know,” said Carberry, quite unmoved. “Don't be silly. I saw quite plainly.”

Harvey exhaled a long sigh. “All right, then,” he said, rather decently on the whole. “You saw. All right. If you want to shoot—go ahead.”

After a while, “Why don't you shoot then, damn you?” said Harvey, tormented a trifle beyond his powers, for the little black ring still pointed straight at his heart, and still Carberry had not replied. Another pause came, that seemed ages, while a clock ticked.

Then, “No,” said Carberry Stark reflectively, lowering the revolver. “I don't think we had better settle it that way after all.”

He laid the revolver carefully on the desk within easy reach, but no longer directly ominous, and sat down in the desk-chair opposite Harvey. “How long?” he said.

“Ever since I first saw your wife,” said Harvey, believing it thoroughly. “But”

“H'm,” said Carberry. 'Yes. I believe you. Yes.”

He leaned forward a little in his chair.

“You are—very much in love with Lucrezia?” he said, the words coming slowly. “Die for her I suppose—all that—yes?”

Harvey flushed. But the man had the right. “Yes,” he said.

“And—Lucrezia?” said Carberry, sketching a meaningless pattern in the air.

“Yes. She does,” said Harvey, firmly, though in his heart of hearts he was not quite sure. That moment on the porch—perhaps he had only swept her off her feet—she was young. Whether it would have been the same in the sunlight—how could he tell? But proverb admits the fairness of all things in love or war—and this was both.

“H'm,” said Carberry in a flat voice. “I wonder. If I were quite convinced....” He picked up the revolver again.

“That'll make a noise, you know,” said Harvey, oddly.

“Yes—it would make a noise,” said Carberry laying it down. “But, nevertheless, there is only one way out of this—unless you give me your word to leave for—Kamchatka—tomorrow—say”

He went on. “Understand—I do not intend to shoot you—if I shoot you—merely because I happened to—find you—kissing my wife. Life goes deeper than a single kiss—and that would be a little disproportionate, even for me. Besides—I don't quite believe you when you say she loves you—yet. We have been married some time, Verity—and I know Lucrezia. She has faults, but she can't conceal. If she loved you as you imply she does—she could not conceal it—from me at least. No. But I do think this—I think you could make her love you.” (He beat down Harvey's exultant exclamation with a motion of his hand.) “Yes, I think you could—in time. It is natural—you are young and personable—she is young—I am older—well But I do not intend you shall, Verity, while I live!” (And his voice rang sharp). “Lucrezia is mine while I live, Verity—and what I have I hold!”

He leaned forward again. “Will you give me your word to leave for—Kamchatka—tomorrow, Verity—with all that implies?”

Harvey looked at him steadily. “No,” he said.

“Then,” said Carberry, sighing, “there is only that one way out.”

He took the revolver and went to a closet in the wall. Harvey watched him, fascinated, as he mixed two glasses of whisky-and-soda, came back, and set them down on the table. Then he produced a little paper spill from his pocket, and quite openly divided its powdery contents between the two glasses. Then he pushed one over to Harvey. “Bottoms up!” he said.

Harvey took the glass with reluctant fingers. Carberry sighed. “No—it isn't poison,” he said. “I assure you it isn't. You are perfectly at liberty to exchange glasses with me if you wish.” Then, seeing Harvey still hesitated, “I assure you it isn't poison—but, of course, if you prefer—there is always the other alternative” and he tapped the revolver.

After an instant of furious thought, Harvey took up the glass and drank—gingerly at first, and then long, for he needed the liquor. He even felt a little ashamed of his suspicions—the powder in both glasses had been obviously the same and Carberry was sipping with every appearance of enjoyment.

“So,” said Carberry, when both glasses were drained to the bottom. “Now,” and from the drawer where the revolver had lain, he produced an ordinary hypodermic syringe and laid it on the desk.

“What's that?” said Harvey, clearing his throat.

“Death,” said Carberry, smiling. “A wise man always keeps easy death very close at hand. You see that colorless stuff in it? Yes—it's filled and ready. I always have it ready. There.”

“You mean to say” said Harvey, aghast.

“I mean to say,” said Carberry, picking his words, “that that is death. Employ it—and you die—quite painlessly—within a few hours. It also has the advantage that almost any ordinary doctor will diagnose heart disease. Now do you see?”

“No,” said Harvey, shivering.

“Well,” said Carberry, “you see—I always like to give a man an even chance. They called me 'Even Chance' once—out in the West. And I have always been somewhat proud of that reputation. The difficulty, Verity, between you and me, can only be solved by one of two things—your death or mine. Well—there is death—and here, as you perceive are we.”

“But I don't understand!” cried Harvey, desperately.

“You will,” said Carberry, sighing. “I could have shot you, Verity—and done it with as little compunction as when I have shot the head from a rattlesnake. But I prefer to give you an even chance for—life—and, well—Lucrezia—I suppose. I would have fought you with my bare hands till one of us died, had I been able. But you are twenty years younger and ten times stronger. I would be no match for you. With revolvers we would be equal—but there is the noise, as you say, and the scandal, too. I don't like noise. So I shall put this aside for a moment,” and he pushed the revolver a little away from him.

“Now. This desk is wide as you perceive—very wide. I take death” and he picked up the syringe, “and put it so, between us—quite out of reach of both of us, when we sit. It is midnight now. The drink I shared between us contained a sedative—a sleep-maker. It should act in an hour. Till then we sit—and wait. You see?”

“Yes,” said Harvey with dawning horror.

“You see. Good. We sit here—it is late—time to go to bed. We are both about equally tired. You have been out playing golf—I've been working hard. The normal need of our bodies for sleep has been a good deal increased by the action of the sedative. But we sit here—and wait—and try to keep from going to sleep—till the body of one of us rebels and he can try no longer. Then—the other—the winner” and with his hands he made the gesture of one inserting the needle of a syringe into a sleeping companion's arm. “That's all.”

“Look here, though” said Harvey, defiantly, but Carberry went on.

“Neat, isn't it? No noise—no fuss. One of us simply dies of—heart disease—in his chair. The survivor unlocks the door, carries whoever dies upstairs to his room, if he so prefers, and goes to bed himself with a clear conscience. You can see the simplicity of the explanations. An even chance” he mused. “Yes—even better than an even chance for you—for I am older and accustomed to going to bed at eleven.”

“But—God, man” said Harvey frantically, and stopped, for Carberry's eyes had again traveled lovingly toward the revolver.

“You accept?” said Carberry.

“What else can I do?” said Harvey bitterly.

Carberry nodded. “Sensible man. Oh, one moment” he paused. “I keep the revolver here—within reach. You're young and impetuous, you know—it's merely in case you should get tired waiting and grab”

“And what guarantee have I that you won't grab?”

“Merely my word,” said Carberry with his face like steel.

He glanced at the clock. “Twelve-fifteen. Our vigil commences. By one, we shall be sleepy—by two—ah well—I have often wondered just how long a man could go without sleep—sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care—you know the quotation—tired nature's bath—all the rest of it”

“Talking to keep yourself awake?” said Harvey sneeringly.

“That might work both ways. No. From now on, I keep silence—more or less. One last word—should I be the one to fall asleep—I should wait at least five minutes if I were you before you—give me the coup-de-grace. The action of the sedative can be resisted, but once the brain has succumbed to it for five full minutes—well”

He fell silent and there was no sound in the room but the tick of the clock. Harvey sank back in his chair, then, remembering, sat up stiff. He thought he saw a smile cross Carberry's face and vanish.

Keep awake. Keep awake. For how long?

It was all so unreal, this. So damned unreal.

Carberry sat in his chair, like a mummy of himself, without stirring. But his eyes were open. Harvey tried to read those depths, but he could read nothing.

Keep awake. Think of things to keep awake. Quotations or something.

Sleep. Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care. Sleep that—no, no—mustn't think of that now.

But how long?

Twelve-thirty now.

He lost himself in thoughts of Lucrezia. Yes, he loved Lucrezia. Lucrezia was marvelous. The rise of her throat—the play of her fragile hands. Worth starving for—worth dying for—killing for. Even if he came to her—by this—he would not repent. She was wonderful. Wonderful.

And then, when you came to think of it, it was logical enough, this. After all—in older times—such a situation could only have been settled by combat to the death. A different kind of combat, true—perhaps an easier kind than this deadly duel of silences—but in its essentials the same. Only men had grown too civilized, of late, to duel for the women they loved. Well, he was not too civilized.

He had been willing to take any other way out that did not mean giving up all hope of Lucrezia forever, hadn't he? If this duel was strange and ghastly—Carberry had planned it—not he. Forced into it now, he would win; he would outlast Carberry, He was stronger than Carberry—must be—he must outlast him. If he didn't—he quivered, almost feeling the sting of that needle in his wrist.

Lucrezia—Lucrezia

One o'clock.

But it was more than even Lucrezia now—it was life—naked life itself, he realized with a jerk. That hadn't seemed real before—but, now, minute by minute, with each tick of the clock as his eyes crawled back and back to that stiff, unsleeping enemy, across the desk from him, it grew more and more terribly real. God—if he fell asleep—for five minutes only—he would never wake from that sleep—he would be dead—dead as that crushed mosquito on the blotter—and he had never felt more alive—more desirous of life. He shuddered, seeing himself stretched out upon a bed with his eyes closed stiffly and his loose hands colder than wax—forever—no! He had not meant to kill Carberry at first, not really meant it, even if he won—but now—he must kill Carberry or perish. He must kill Carberry. Fear drove the fact into his brain like a nail. His eyelids drooped for an instant—he felt drowsy—God—and he pressed his nails into his hands. There—that was better—much better.

Two o'clock.

He stole a glance at Carberry. Carberry had hardly moved his position in the last two hours, but his eyes were wide and alert. Damn him! What was he made of—rubber and steel? For a moment the horrible suspicion came to Harvey that Carberry had not played fair with the sedative—but no, he had seen him measure it out into both the glasses himself.

It wasn't fair, all the same. Carberry might talk—but everybody knew that a man of Carberry's age could do with less sleep. Much less sleep. And he, Harvey, was tired—very tired—the eighteen holes of golf—the good dinner—the whisky-and-soda—the drug. He needed sleep—needed it. His body clamored for sleep. Clamored—and was beaten down.

He was biting his fingers. As long as it still hurt when he bit his fingers—he was all right.

The syringe glittered on the desk. Damnable little machine that winked at him like an eye—like Death's pale eye—whenever the light struck it. But, thank God, the lights were on!

Sleep. Deep sleep. Deep sweet sleep. Sleep that knits up the—no!

Three o'clock. His heavy eyes rested on Carberry anew. Ah-h-h-h!

Carberry's face had changed—grown quieter. His eyes were still open but his breathing came softer, deeper; his hands were relaxing. Harvey glared at him—made his eyes move away—glared again—his lips going back.

The parchment eyelids of Carberry fluttered—steadied—fluttered again—again. The hands grew limper. Slowly, as if pressed together by an inexorable weight, the eyelids drooped—were closing—recovered again—were closing—definitely—were closed

“No, not quite yet!' said Carberry, tapping the revolver. Harvey, rising out of his chair with gradual, terrible stealth, fell back into it again, shaken all over—his nerves jangling like broken glass threads. Carberry smiled.

The man was a devil. And yet—he must last him out.

Pretty soon, dawn would come—a blue blur at the window. Then things mightn't be so bad. But till then—till then.

Pretty soon. In—three hours? Oh Lord God, sooner than that! Oh, let it be sooner than that! Pretty soon—pretty soon.

Think of Lucrezia. Fight it off by thinking of Lucrezia. But how?

Lucrezia was a pretty woman—a pretty woman. Her hair was black, yes—and her lips very red and sweet. He loved her, yes. But what was Lucrezia—what was any woman on God's earth—to this warm tide that rose from the floor, slowly, resistlessly—this warm and comfortable tide that soaked through muscle and will till they were soft—and at rest—and soft—and soft? What mattered Lucrezia—what mattered even death—as long as one could let go for an instant and rest—rest on feathers—on down—on the fleece of a cloud—on warm and buoyant air? Sleep was all that mattered—dear sleep—comfortable sleep—or not even that, but just sleep. Sleep. Slee

His head jerked up from his breast with a wrench like the parting of body and soul—his staring eyes saw Carberry's hand half way across the desk to the syringe. As he stared, the hand withdrew. A dry, tearing sob came into his throat. “Oh God!” he said.

“Getting sick of it?” said Carberry, equably. “Lots of time, you know, still.” His voice was natural enough, but to Harvey it sounded like a record played on a bad phonograph, far away. He glared at the grinning clock face on the mantel. Four-twenty-three.

From then on it was not Harvey but a red-eyed animal that made strange little sucking noises in its throat, and kept rasping one hand with a ring on the other hand till the blood came that watched the clock from Harvey's side of the desk. A desperate but stubborn animal whose head rolled on its shoulders like a drunken man's; the every pore of whose body ached for sleep—but whose eyes kept open—open—in a fixed and dreadful stare. Lucrezia was gone from its mind as if she had never existed—everything had gone from its mind but a single desire and a single fear.

It moaned, occasionally, in the depths of its torment, and when it moaned, Carberry observed it with a slight curl of humor to his mouth. Once he yawned, elaborately, and the animal was torn with unspeakable anguish. But he did not yawn more than once—there was too much danger in yawning—for it was nearly six o'clock now, and Carberry, having played quite fair with the sedative, was very near the breaking-point himself.

The dawn had come in through the window unnoticed by either. It was light—and then, soon, it was morning—and there were noises of people stirring in the house. But still Carberry watched and the red-eyed animal fought ferociously and with agony its losing fight. When sleep overcame it at last, it was as crushing as the blow of a mallet, and as sudden. The head dropped abruptly—the limbs sprawled—the fight was lost.

Carberry waited until he was entirely sure. Then he yawned again, for he could now, and stretched his arms. His own weariness had come upon him, now, in the instant of triumph—come upon him well-nigh overpoweringly—but he gestured, and put it by. He rose and switched off the electric lights. His legs were lead and he walked like a marionette, but he could walk. He unlocked the door softly with the key that had lain in his pocket. Then he tiptoed around the desk and stood for a moment looking down at Harvey with a small and secret smile.

A step came along the hall toward the study—a step that Carberry knew. His smile broadened and, bending down, he pricked the sprawling, defeated body of the red-eyed animal lightly and swiftly upon the wrist with an innocuous pin, jumped back, and stood waiting.

The animal leaped awake—and up—and to its feet—and was a man again—but a man with blind, unseemly fear bitten into his face and his nerve as utterly broken to bits as ground corn.

“Oh, God—God—God—God—God,” the man muttered incoherently. Then his eyes flew to the table, where the syringe lay unused, and then back to Carberry, who, smilingly, extended the pin for his inspection.

“Oh!” said the man in a horrible voice, and slumping back into his chair began to weep. At which moment, Lucrezia pushed open the door and entered the room, smiling, dressed for the morning.

The man in the chair saw her. She came forward, stretching out her hand as if to greet him, and Carberry could see the terror rise in his eyes like a ghost. It rose and possessed his eyes. And then, for the first time within the last few hours Carberry Stark was able to grant Harvey a definite admiration, for in spite of the terror in his eyes, he did not run. Instead a shadow almost like the shadow of a very painful mirth seemed to cross his face for an instant—he rose slowly, mastering himself, and bowed to Lucrezia with a new and astonishing dignity. For an instant his lips seemed about to frame a sentence—Carberry was never sure whether it would have been merely “Good-by,” or as one speaks of a jewel one can never possess, “Too high.” But the sentence was never spoken, for Harvey's lips closed down upon it like a trap. Then, still with that novel and hard-won dignity upon him, he walked silently past the amazed Lucrezia and out of the door.

“What is the matter with Harvey?” said Lucrezia, intensely puzzled. “Why—he still has on his dinner clothes—and he said he was staying to breakfast. He's coming back, of course?”

“No, my dear,” said Carberry taking her hand, “I think he is—cured—of week-ends in the country. At least—I am quite sure—he is not coming back.”

They looked at each other steadily for a long instant. Her eyes were as dark and deep as pools in a dark forest. Then she smiled.

“I must be silly, I think, Carberry,” she said, “For—in spite of anything—and what so many of our friends seem to take such pleasure in saying—I think you are the only man I shall ever really love. In fact—I'm quite sure of it—Carberry.”

“My dear!” said Carberry Stark, and kissed her hand. But she turned away a little and there was trouble in her face.

“But I—I'm sorry, Carberry—and yes—ashamed!”

“What fools people are! They talk of youth calling to youth—everybody—they kept on talking—it was stupid, stupid to listen to them—but, oh, Carberry!—after a while—I did get wondering And Harvey was nice—and—well—oh I am ashamed—but I thought I'd—see”

“And was there anything in it?”

She could laugh now, wholeheartedly. “Carberry dear! Of course there wasn't! Not even for a minute! Oh what fools people are! They talk of youth—as if it wasn't strength—real strength—the kind of strength you have—the kind of strength that mere youth and muscles can't touch—that matters to a woman! At least,” she added, consideringly, “to my kind of woman!”

“You do come from the South, Lucrezia,” said Carberry, reflectively. “Well—I have always told you—that what I have, I hold.”

She turned on him, flashing.

“Do you think that any man who couldn't do that could ever have held me?”

“No,” said Carberry, quietly. “But”

“But you can hold me. Yes. And you always will. Youth! Youth indeed—that for youth!” she flung out her hands in a foreign gesture. “You see, Carberry—your kind of strength—to a woman—can't grow old!”

He took her in his arms then and the eyes she raised to his were the eyes of a girl with her first lover. Then, after a moment, they parted and he spoke in a different tone.

“I think—after breakfasting with you—I shall go to my room for a little nap, dear—if you don't mind. You see—Mr. Verity and I sat up rather late—talking—and—old or young, dear—it has been a trying night.”

“Of course, dear—just as you wish,” said Lucrezia, absently, tidying up his desk. “But, Carberry dear—what is that horrid old syringe we had to use when you were so ill doing here on your desk?”

“Merely an experiment, my dear—a new way of watering your roses,” said Carberry Stark, and, picking up the syringe, he stepped to the window, opened it, and sprayed the distilled water that the syringe contained on the bed of Jacqueminot roses under the window.