Oh, you shall walk in the mummers' train,
And dance for a beggar's boon,
And wear as mad a motley
As any under the moon,
And you shall pay the piper—
But I will call the tune.
OLD Mr. Mottisfont had been dead for about a fortnight when the
letter arrived. David Blake found it upon his breakfast table when he
came downstairs. It was a Friday morning, and there was an east wind
blowing. David came into the dining-room wishing that there were no
such thing as breakfast, and there, propped up in front of his plate,
was the letter. He stared at it, and stared again. A series of
sleepless or hag-ridden nights are not the best preparation for a
letter written in a dead man's hand and sealed with a dead man's seal.
If David's hand was steady when he picked up the letter it was because
his will kept it steady, and for no other reason. As he held it in his
hand, Mrs. Havergill came bustling in with toast and coffee. David
passed her, went into his consulting room and shut the door.
“First he went red and then he went white,” she told Sarah, “and he
pushed past me as if I were a stock, or a post, or something of that
sort. I 'ope he 'asn't caught one of them nasty fevers, down in some
slum. 'Tisn't natural for a man to turn colour that way. There was only
one young man ever I knew as did it, William Jones his name was, and he
was the sexton's son down at Dunnington. And he 'd do it. Red one
minute and white the next, and then red again. And he went of in a
galloping decline, and broke his poor mother's heart. And there 's
their two graves side by side in Dunnington Churchyard. Mr. Jones, he
dug the graves hisself, and never rightly held his head up after.”
David Blake sat down at his table and spread out old Mr.
Mottisfont's letter upon the desk in front of him. It was a long
letter, written in a clear, pointed handwriting, which was
characteristic and unmistakable.
“My dear David,”—wrote old Mr. Mottisfont,—“My dear David, I have
just written a letter to Edward—a blameless and beautiful letter—in
which I have announced my immediate, or, as one might say, approximate
intention of committing suicide by the simple expedient of first
putting arsenic into a cup of tea and then drinking the tea. I shall
send Edward for the tea, and I shall put the arsenic into it, under his
very nose. And Edward will be thinking of beetles, and will not see me
do it. I am prepared to bet my bottom dollar that he does not see me do
it. Edward's letter, of which I enclose a copy, is the sort of letter
which one shows to coroners, and jurymen, and legal advisers. Of course
things may not have gone as far as that, but, on the other hand, they
may. There are evil-minded persons who may have suspected Edward of
having hastened my departure to a better world. You may even have
suspected him yourself, in which case, of course, my dear David, this
letter will be affording you a good deal of pleasurable relief.” David
clenched his hand and read on. “Edward's letter is for the coroner. It
should arrive about a fortnight after my death, if my valued
correspondent, William Giles, of New York, does as I have asked him.
This letter is for you. Between ourselves, then, it was that possible
three years of yours that decided me. I could n't stand it. I don't
believe in another world, and I 'm damned if I 'll put in three years'
hell in this one. Do you remember old Madden? I do, and I 'm not going
to hang on like that, not to please any one, nor I 'm not going to be
cut up in sections either. So now you know all about it. I 've just
sent Edward for the tea. Poor Edward, it will hurt his feelings very
much to be suspected of polishing me off. By the way, David, as a sort
of last word—you 're no end of a damn fool—why don't you marry the
right woman instead of wasting your time hankering after the wrong one?
That 's all. Here 's luck.
“Yours.
“E.M.M.”
David read the letter straight through without any change of
expression. When he came to the end he folded the sheets neatly, put
them back in the envelope, and locked the envelope away in a drawer.
Then his face changed suddenly. First, a great rush of colour came into
it, and then every feature altered under an access of blind and
ungovernable anger. He pushed back his chair and sprang up, but the
impetus which had carried him to his feet appeared to receive some
extraordinary check. His movement had been a very violent one, but all
at once it passed into rigidity. He stood with every muscle tense, and
made neither sound nor movement. Slowly the colour died out of his
face. Then he took a step backwards and dropped again into the chair.
His eyes were fixed upon the strip of carpet which lay between him and
the writing-table. A small, twisted scrap of paper was lying there.
David Blake looked hard at the paper, but he did not see it. What he
saw was another torn and twisted thing.
A man's professional honour is a very delicate thing. David had
never held his lightly. If he had violated it, he had done so because
there were great things in the balance. Mary's happiness, Mary's
future, Mary's life. He had betrayed a trust because Mary asked it of
him and because there was so much in the balance. And it had all been
illusion. There had been no risk—no danger. Nothing but an old man's
last and cruelest dupe. A furious anger surged in him. For nothing, it
was all for nothing. He had wrenched himself for nothing, forfeited his
self-respect for nothing, sold his honour for nothing. Mary had bidden
him, and he had done her bidding, and it was all for nothing. A little
bleak sunlight came in at the window and showed the worn patches upon
the carpet. David could remember that old brown carpet for as long as
he could remember anything. It had been in his father's consulting
room. The writing-table had been there too. The room was full of
memories of William Blake. Old familiar words and looks came back to
David as he sat there. He remembered many little things, and, as he
remembered, he despised himself very bitterly. As the moments passed,
so his self-contempt grew, until it became unbearable. He rose, pushing
his chair so that it fell over with a crash, and went into the
dining-room.
Half an hour later Sarah put her head round the corner of the door
and announced, “Mr. Edward Mottisfont in the consulting room, sir.”
David Blake was sitting at the round table with a decanter in front of
him. He got up with a short laugh and went to Edward.
Edward presented a ruffled but resigned appearance. He was agitated,
but beneath the agitation there was plainly evident a trace of
melancholy triumph.
“I 've had a letter,” he began. David stood facing him.
“So have I,” he said.
Edward's wave of the hand dismissed as irrelevant all letters except
his own. “But mine—mine was from my uncle,” he exclaimed.
“Exactly. He was obliging enough to send me a copy.”
“You—you know,” said Edward. then he searched his pockets, and
ultimately produced a folded letter.
“You 've had a letter like this? He 's told you? You know?”
“That he 's played us the dirtiest trick on record? Yes, thanks,
Edward, I 've been enjoying the knowledge for the best part of an
hour.”
Edward shook his head.
“Of course he was mad,” he said. “I have often wondered if he was
quite responsible. He used to say such extraordinary things. If you
remember, I asked you about it once, and you laughed at me. But now, of
course, there is no doubt about it. His brain had become affected.”
David's lip twitched a little.
“Mad? Oh, no, you need n't flatter yourself, he was n't mad. I only
hope my wits may last as well. He was n't mad, but he 's made the
biggest fools of the lot of us—the biggest fools. Oh, Lord!—how he 'd
have laughed. He set the stage, and called the cast, and who so ready
as we? First Murderer—Edward Mottisfont; Chief Mourner—Mary, his
wife; and Tom Fool, beyond all other Tom Fools, David Blake, M.D. My
Lord, he never said a truer word than when he wrote me down a damn
fool!”
David ended on a note of concentrated bitterness, and Edward stared
at him.
“I would much rather believe he was out of his mind,” he said
uncomfortably. “And he is dead—after all, he 's dead.”
“Yes,” said David grimly, “he 's dead.”
“And thanks to you,” continued Edward, “there has been no
scandal—or publicity. It would really have been dreadful if it had all
come out. Most—most unpleasant. I know you did n't wish me to say
anything.”
Edward began to rumple his hair wildly. “Mary told me, and of course
I know it 's beastly to be thanked, and all that, but I can't help
saying that—in fact—I am awfully grateful. And I 'm awfully
thankful that the matter has been cleared up so satisfactorily. If we
had n't got this letter, well—I don't like to say such a thing—but
any one of us might have come to suspect the other. It does n't sound
quite right to say it,” pursued Edward apologetically, “but it might
have happened. You might have suspected me—oh, I don't mean really—I
am only supposing, you know—or I might have suspected you. And now it
's all cleared up, and no harm done, and as to my poor old uncle, he
was mad. People who commit suicide are always mad. Every one knows
that.”
“Oh, have it your own way,” said David Blake. “He was mad, and now
everything is comfortably arranged, and we can all settle down with
nothing on our minds, and live happily ever after.”
There was a savage sarcasm in his voice, which he did not trouble to
conceal.
“And now, look here,” he went on with a sudden change of manner. He
straightened himself and looked squarely at Edward Mottisfont. “Those
letters have got to be kept.”
“Now I should have thought—” began Edward, but David broke in
almost violently.
“For Heaven's sake, don't start thinking, Edward.” He said: “Just
you listen to me. These letters have got to be kept. They 've got to
sit in a safe at a lawyer's. We 'll seal 'em up in the presence of
witnesses, and send 'em off. We 're not out of the wood yet. If this
business were ever to leak out—and, after all, there are four of us in
it, and two of them are women—if it were ever to leak out, we should
want these letters to save our necks. Yes—our necks. Good Lord,
Edward, did you never realize your position? Did you never realize that
any jury in the world would have hanged you on the evidence? It was
damning—absolutely damning. And I come in as accessory after the fact.
No, thank you, I think we 'll keep the letters, until we 're past
hanging. And there 's another thing—how many people have you told?
Mary, of course?”
“Yes, Mary, but no one else,” said Edward.
David made an impatient movement.
“If you 've told her, you 've told her,” he said. “Now what you 've
got to do is this: you 've got to rub it into Mary that it 's just as
important for her to hold her tongue now as it was before the letter
came. She was safe as long as she thought your neck was in danger, but
do, for Heaven's sake, get it into her head that I 'm dead damned
broke, if it ever gets out that I helped to hush up a case that looked
like murder and turned out to be suicide. The law would n't hang me,
but I should probably hang myself. I 'd be broke. Rub that in.”
“She may have told Elizabeth,” said Edward hesitatingly. “I 'm
afraid she may have told Elizabeth by now.”
“Elizabeth does n't talk,” said David shortly.
“Nor does Mary.” Edward's tone was rather aggrieved.
“Oh, no woman ever talks,” said David.
He laughed harshly and Edward went away with his feelings of
gratitude a little chilled, and a faint suspicion in his mind that
David had been drinking.
“Whatever ways we walk in and whatever dreams come true,
You still shall say, “God speed” to me, and I, “God go with you.”
SOME days later Elizabeth Chantrey went away for about a month, to
pay a few long-promised visits. She went first to an old school-friend,
then to some relations, and lastly to the Mainwarings. Agneta
Mainwaring had moved to town after her mother's death, and was sharing
a small flat with her brother Louis, in a very fashionable quarter. She
had been engaged for about six months to Douglas Strange, and was
expecting to marry him as soon as he returned from his latest, and most
hazardous journey across Equatorial Africa.
“I thought you were never coming,” said Agneta, as they sat in the
firelight, Louis on the farther side of the room, close to the lamp,
with his head buried in a book.
“Never, never, never!” repeated Agneta, stroking the tail of
Elizabeth's white gown affectionately and nodding at every word. She
was sitting on the curly black hearth-rug, a small vivid creature in a
crimson dress. Agneta Mainwaring was little and dark, passionate,
earnest, and frivolous. A creature of variable moods and intense
affections, steadfast only where she loved. Elizabeth was watching the
firelight upon the big square sapphire ring which she always wore. She
looked up from it now and smiled at Agneta, just a smile of the eyes.
“Well, I am here,” she said, and Agneta went on stroking, and
exclaimed:
“Oh, it 's so good to have you.”
“The world not been going nicely?” said Elizabeth.
Agneta frowned.
“Oh, so, so. Really, Lizabeth, being engaged to an explorer is the
devil. Sometimes I get a letter two days running, and sometimes I
don't get one for two months, and I 've just been doing the two months'
stretch.”
“Then,” said Elizabeth, “you 'll soon be getting two letters
together, Neta.”
“Oh, well, I did get one this morning, or I should n't be talking
about it,” Agneta flushed and laughed, then frowned again. Three little
wrinkles appeared upon her nose. “What worries me is that I am such a
hopeless materialist about letters. Letters are rank materialism. Rank.
Two people as much in touch with one another as Douglas and I oughtn't
to need letters. I 've no business to be dependent on them. We ought to
be able to reach one another without them. Of course we do—really
—but we ought to know that we are doing it. We ought to be conscious of
it. I 've no business to be dependent on wretched bits of paper, and
miserable penfuls of ink. I ought to be able to do without them. And I
'm a blatant materialist. I can't.”
Elizabeth laughed a little.
“I should n't worry, if I were you. It 'll all come. You 'll get
past letters when you 're ready to get past them. I don't think your
materialism is of a very heavy order. It will go away if you don't fuss
over it. We 'll all get past letters in time.”
Agneta tossed her head.
“Oh, I don't suppose there 'll be any letters in heaven,” she said.
“I 'm sure I trust not. My idea is that we shall sit on nice comfy
clouds, and play at telephones with thought-waves.”
Louis shut his book with a bang.
“Really, Agneta, if that is n't materialism.” He came over and sat
down on the hearth-rug beside his sister. They were not at all alike.
Where Agneta was small, Louis was large. Her hair and eyes were black,
and his of a dark reddish-brown.
“I did n't know you were listening,” she said.
“Well, I was n't. I just heard, and I give you fair warning, Agneta,
that if there are going to be telephones in your heaven, I 'm going
somewhere else. I shall have had enough of them here. Hear the bells,
the silver bells, the tintinabulation that so musically swells. From
the bells, bells, bells, bells—bells, bells, bells.”
Agneta first pulled Louis's hair, and then put her fingers in her
ears.
“Stop! stop this minute! Oh, Louis, please. Oh, Lizabeth, make him
stop. That thing always drives me perfectly crazy, and he knows it.”
“All right. It 's done. I 've finished. I 'm much more merciful than
Poe. I only wanted to point out that if that was your idea of heaven,
it was n't mine.”
“Oh, good gracious!” cried Agneta suddenly. She sprang up and darted
to the door.
“What 's the matter?”
“I 've absolutely and entirely forgotten to order any food for
to-morrow. Any food whatever. All right, Louis, you won't laugh when
you have to lunch on bread and water, and Lizabeth takes the afternoon
train back to her horrible Harford place, because we have starved her.”
Louis gave a resigned sigh and leaned comfortably back against an
empty chair. For some moments he gazed dreamily at Elizabeth. Then he
said: “How nicely your hair shines. I like you all white and gold like
that. If Browning had known you he need n't have written. 'What's
become of all the gold, used to hang and brush their bosoms.' You 've
got your share.”
“But my hair is n't golden at all, Louis,” said Elizabeth.
Louis frowned.
“Yes, it is,” he said, “it 's gold without the dross—gold
spiritualised. And you ought to know better than to pretend. You know
as well as I do that your hair is a thing of beauty. The real joy for
ever sort. It 's no credit to you. You did n't make it. And you ought
to be properly grateful for being allowed to walk about with a real
live halo. Why should you pretend? If it was n't pretence, you would
n't take so much trouble about doing it. You 'd just twist it up on a
single hairpin.”
“It would n't stay up,” said Elizabeth.
“I wish it would n't. Oh, Lizabeth, won't you let it down just for
once?”
“No, I won't,” said Elizabeth, with pleasant firmness.
Louis fell into a gloom. His brown eyes darkened.
“I don't see why,” he said; and Elizabeth laughed at him.
“Oh, Louis, will you ever grow up?
Louis assumed an air of dignity. “My last book,” he said, “was not
only very well reviewed by competent and appreciative persons, but I
would have you to know that it also brought me in quite a large and
solid cheque. And my poems have had what is known as a succèss
d'estime, which means that you and your publisher lose money, but
the critics say nice things. These facts, my dear madam, all point to
my having emerged from the nursery.”
“Go on emerging, Louis,” said Elizabeth, with a little nod of
encouragement. Louis appeared to be plunged in thought. He frowned,
made calculations upon his fingers, and finally inquired:
“How many times have I proposed to you, Lizabeth?”
Elizabeth looked at him with amusement.
“I really never counted. Do you want me to?”
“No. I think I 've got it right. I think it must be eight times,
because I know I began when I was twenty, and I don't think I 've
missed a year since. This,” said Louis, getting on to his knees and
coming nearer, “this will be number nine.”
“Oh, Louis, don't,” said Elizabeth.
“And why not?”
“Because it really is n't kind. Do you want me to go away to-morrow?
If you propose to me, and I refuse you, every possible rule of
propriety demands that I should immediately return to Market Harford.
And I don't want to.” Louis hesitated.
“How long are you staying?”
“Nice, hospitable young man. Agneta has asked me to stay for a
fortnight.”
“All right.” Louis sat back upon his heels. “Let's talk about books.
Have you read Pender's last? It 's a wonder—just a wonder.”
Elizabeth enjoyed her fortnight's stay very much. She was glad to be
away from Market Harford, and she was glad to be with Agneta and Louis.
She saw one or two good plays, had a great deal of talk of the kind she
hade been starving for, and met a good many people who were doing
interesting things. On the last day of her visit Agneta said:
“So you go back to Market Harford for a year. Is it because Mr.
Mottisfont asked you to?”
“Partly.”
There was a little pause.
“What are you going to do with your life, Lizabeth?”
Elizabeth looked steadily at the blue of her ring. Her eyes were
very deep.
“I don't know, Neta. I 'm waiting to be told.”
Agneta nodded, and looked understanding.
“And if you are n't told?”
“I think I shall be.”
“But if not?”
“Well, that would be a telling in itself. If nothing happens before
the year is up, I shall come up to London, and find some work. There 's
plenty.”
“Yes,” said Agneta. She put her little pointed chin in her hands and
gazed at Elizabeth. There was something almost fierce in her eyes. She
knew very little about David Blake, but she guessed a good deal more.
And there were moments when it would have given her a great deal of
pleasure to have spoken her mind on the subject.
They sat for a little while in silence, and then Louis came in, and
wandered about the room until Agneta exclaimed at him:
“Do, for goodness' sake, sit down, Louis! You give me the fidgets.”
Louis drifted over to the hearth. “Have you ordered any meals,” he
said, with apparent irrelevance.
“Tea, dinner, breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner again.” Agneta's
tone was vicious. “Is that enough for you?”
“Very well, then, run away and write a letter to Douglas. I believe
you are neglecting him, and there 's a nice fire in the dining-room.”
Agneta rose with outraged dignity. “I don't write my love-letters to
order, thank you,” she said “and you need n't worry about Douglas. If
you want me to go away, I don't mind taking a book into the
dining-room. Though, if you 'll take my advice—but you won't—so I 'll
just leave you to find out for yourself.”
Louis shut the door after her, and came back to Elizabeth.
“Number nine,” he observed.
“No, Louis, don't.”
“I 'm going to. You are in for it, Lizabeth. Your visit is over, so
you can't accuse me of spoiling it. Number nine, and a fortnight
overdue. Here goes. For the ninth time of asking, will you marry me?”
Elizabeth shook her head at him.
“No, Louis, I won't,” she said.
Louis looked at her steadily.
“This is the ninth time I have asked you. How many times have you
taken me seriously, Lizabeth? Not once.”
“I should have been so very sorry to take you seriously, you see,
Louis dear,” said Elizabeth, speaking very sweetly and gently.
Louis Mainwaring walked to the window and stood there in silence for
a minute or two. Elizabeth began to look troubled. When he turned round
and came back his face was rather white.
“No,” he said, “you 've never taken me seriously—never once. But it
's been serious enough, for me. You never thought it went deep—but it
did. Some people hide their deep things under silence—every one can
understand that. Others hide theirs under words—a great many light
words. Jests. That 's been my way. It 's a better mask than the other,
but I don't want any mask between us now. I want you to understand. We
've always talked about my being in love with you. We 've always
laughed about it, but now I want you to understand. It 's me, the whole
of me—all there is—all there ever will be—”
He was stammering now and almost incoherent. His hand shook.
Elizabeth got up quickly.
“Oh, Louis dear, Louis dear,” she said. She put her arm half round
him, and for a moment he leaned his head against her shoulder. When he
raised it he was trying to smile.
“Oh, Lady of Consolation,” he said, and then, “how you would spoil a
man whom you loved! There, Lizabeth, you need n't worry about it. You
see, I 've always known that you would never love me.”
“Oh, Louis, but I love you very much, only not just like that.”
“Yes, I know. I 've always known it and I 've always known that
there was some one else whom you did love—just like that. What I 've
been waiting for is to see it making you happy. And it does n't make
you happy. It never has. And, lately, there 's been something
fresh—something that has hurt. You 've been very unhappy. As soon as
you came here I knew. What is it? Can't you tell me?”
Elizabeth sat down again, but she did not turn her eyes away.
“No, Louis, I don't think I can.” she said.
Louis's chin lifted.
“Does Agneta know?” he asked with a quick flash of jealously.
“No, she does n't,” said Elizabeth, reprovingly. “And she has never
asked.”
Louis laughed.
“That 's for my conscience, I suppose,” he said, “but I don't mind.
I can bear it a lot better if you have n't told Agneta. And look here,
Lizabeth, even if you never tell me a single word, I shall always know
things about you—things that matter. I 've always known when things
went wrong with you, and I always shall.”
It was obviously quite as an afterthought that he added:
“Do you mind?”
“No,” said Elizabeth, slowly, “I don't think I mind. But don't look
too close, Louis dear—not just now. It 's kinder not to.”
“All right,” said Louis.
Then he came over and stood beside her. “Lizabeth, if there 's
anything I can do—any sort or kind of thing—you 're to let me know.
You will, won't you? You 're the best thing in my world, and anything
that I can do for you would be the best day's work I ever did. If you
'll just clamp on to that we shall be all right.”
Elizabeth looked up, but before she could speak, he bent down,
kissed her hastily on the cheek, and went out of the room.
Elizabeth put her face in her hands and cried.
“I suppose Louis has been proposing to you again,” was Agneta's
rather cross comment. “Lizabeth, what on earth are you crying for?”
“Oh, Neta, do you hate me?” said Elizabeth in a very tired voice.
Agneta knelt down beside her, and began to pinch her arm.
“I would if I could, but I can't,” she observed viciously. “I 've
tried, of course, but I can't do it by myself, and it 's not the sort
of thing you can expect religion to be any help in. As if you did n't
know that Louis and I simply love your littlest finger-nail, and that
we 'd do anything for you, and that we think it an honour to be
your friends, and—oh, Lizabeth, if you don't stop crying this very
instant, I shall pour all the water out of that big flower-vase down
the back of your neck!”