It was Margot who gave him the letter: Oswyn remembered that
afterwards with a kind of superstition. She came to meet him,
wearing an air of immense importance, when his quick step fell upon
the bare wooden stairway which led to his rooms.
"There's a letter for you," she said, nodding impressively, "a big
letter, with a seal on it; and Mrs. Thomas had to write something on
a piece of green paper before the postman would give it to her."
Then she followed him into the twilight of the attic which was his
studio, and watched him gravely while he lighted the gas and, in
deference to her curiosity, broke the seal.
The envelope contained a letter, and a considerable bundle of
papers, folded small, and neatly tied together with red tape.
When he had read the letter, he turned the package over with a sigh,
reflectively eying it for some minutes, and then put it aside.
Later, when Mrs. Thomas, his landlady, had carried the child away to
bed, he took, the papers up again, and, after some hesitation,
slowly untied the tape which encircled them.
The letter was from Messrs. Furnival and Co., the firm of solicitors
who had acted for Rainham, and were now representing Oswyn as his
friend's sole executor.
It contained a brief intimation that the grant of probate of the
late Mr. Rainham's will had been duly extracted, and ended with a
request that the executor would consider the inclosed bundle of
documents, which appeared to be of a private nature, and decide
whether they should be preserved or destroyed.
When he had removed the tape, Oswyn noticed that a great many of the
letters had the appearance of being in the same handwriting; these
were tied up separately with a piece of narrow faded silk riband,
and it was evident that they were arranged more or less in order of
date; the writing in the case of the earliest letter being that of a
child, while the most recent, dated less than a year ago, was a
short note, an invitation, with the signature "Eve Lightmark."
Oswyn contemplated the little bundle with an air of indecision,
falling at last into a long reverie, his thoughts wandering from the
letters to the child, the woman who had written them, the woman
whose name his friend so rarely breathed, whose face he had seen for
the first time, proud, and cold, and beautiful, that very afternoon.
Did she, too, care? Would she guard her secret as jealously?
Suddenly he frowned; the thought of Lightmark's effrontery recurred,
breaking his contemplative calm and disturbing his speculations. He
laid the papers aside without further investigation, and, after
gazing for a few minutes vacantly out of the uncurtained window,
rolled a fresh cigarette and went out into the night.
Next morning he made an expedition to Lincoln's Inn Fields to see
Messrs. Furnival and Co., taking the packet with him. The partner
who had the matter in hand was engaged, and he was kept waiting for
nearly half an hour, in a dusty room with an elaborately moulded
ceiling, and a carved wooden chimney-piece and scrolled panelling of
some beauty, both disfigured with thick layers of dingy brown paint.
A fire had just been lighted, in deference to the unseasonable
coldness of the June day, and the room was full of pungent smoke.
As he waited his irritation increased. Lightmark's impertinent
intrusion (such it appeared to him) and the scene which had ensued,
had entirely aroused him from the state of indifference into which,
when the incident occurred, he was beginning to relapse. The man was
dangerous; a malign passion, a craving for vengeance, slept in him,
born of his southern blood, and glancing out now and again at his
eyes, like the fire which darts from the windows of a burning
building.
He wondered now, as he thought of the wrongs he had borne, as it
seemed to him, so patiently; in Rainham's lifetime there had
doubtless been reasons, but was he never to retaliate? Had not he
considered other people enough? His forbearance struck him now as a
kind of weakness, as something almost contemptible, to be thought of
with a feeling akin to shame.
Finally he was ushered up into Mr. Furnival's room, a pleasant
apartment on the first floor, with windows looking out upon a
charming oasis of grass and trees. The lawyer apologized for keeping
him waiting, intimated delicately that he had a pressing appointment
in five minutes' time, and expressed his sympathy with Oswyn's
difficulty as to the letters.
"It's quite a matter for you to decide," he said. "If you like to
take the responsibility you may burn them forthwith, unread; or you
may give them to me, to file with the other papers. But I should
advise you to glance through the later letters, at all events. May I
look at them? Thanks."
Oswyn had given him the packet of letters, and he spread them out on
the table at which he was sitting, methodically, in little heaps,
clearing a space among the piles of drafts and abstracts which lay
before him.
"I think we may destroy these," said Oswyn, pointing to the little
bundle tied up with riband. "I think I know what they are."
"As you like," said Mr. Furnival; "they appear to be from a lady.
Yes, I don't think you need read them."
"And these," continued Oswyn. "They are all from Lady Garnett, and
it is extremely unlikely that they can have any business reference."
"That disposes of nearly all," said the lawyer cheerfully. "I may
put them on the fire, then?"
Oswyn bowed a grave assent, and Mr. Furnival dropped the little
packets quickly into the hottest part of the fire.
"Now, here is a letter with a very recent postmark," he continued.
"A man's writing, too, I should say. Will you read this, while I go
through the others? It looks like rather a long epistle."
The handwriting seemed familiar to Oswyn, and his hand trembled
slightly as he turned to the signature for corroboration. As he
guessed, it was from Lightmark.
"I think I had better read this," he said grimly, half to himself.
He glanced quickly through the letter, and then read it a second
time slowly, and while he was reading it his expression was such as
to confirm the solicitor's previous opinion, that the man was a
little bit mad.
When he had finished his perusal (he thought at the time that he
should never forget a single word of that disgraceful letter), Oswyn
sat in silence for some minutes, intently watching Mr. Furnival's
struggles with a large bundle of papers and a small black bag.
The letter had, if such a thing were possible, increased his
contempt for the writer; that the man was insincere (Oswyn would
have used a far stronger term) he had been aware from the beginning;
now he knew that he was a coward, a creature almost unworthy of his
hatred.
A quick thought struck him, and he smiled.
"We won't burn this--at present, at any rate," he said quietly. "Is
there anything else for me to read?"
The lawyer shuffled the remaining papers together quickly.
"I think not: these are chiefly bills which have since been paid.
Will you keep that letter, or do you wish us to do anything about
it?"
Oswyn deliberated for a moment, with a curious expression flitting
over his face, biting his lip and frowning slightly, as he gazed at
the fireplace, where Rainham's long-cherished letters from Eve and
Lady Garnett's delicate, witty compositions were represented by a
little heap of wavering black ashes.
The lawyer looked at his watch uneasily.
"I beg your pardon," said Oswyn quickly; "I needn't keep you any
longer. Will you let me have an envelope? I dare say they can give
me Mr. Sylvester's address downstairs--Mr. Charles Sylvester, the
barrister?"
"The new member, you mean, of course?" said the lawyer. "He has
chambers in Paper Buildings, No. 11. Do you know him?"
"I am going to send him this letter," said Oswyn briefly, folding it
up and bestowing it in the envelope which Mr. Furnival had given
him. "Thanks, no, I needn't trouble you to have it posted: I prefer
to leave it at Mr. Sylvester's chambers myself."
"He was a great friend of the late Mr. Rainham, as, of course, you
know," said the lawyer, as they parted at the door. "Mr. Rainham
introduced him to us when he was quite a young man--soon after he
was called, in fact, and we gave him his first brief--the first of a
good many! He's been one of our standing counsel for years.
Good-day!"
As he made his way towards the Temple, Oswyn smiled to himself
rather savagely, tasting in anticipation the sweets of long-deferred
revenge. The flame of his ancient discontent with the academical art
of the day, which had been fed by his personal hatred of one
particularly successful exponent of it, was fanned into fury. And,
at the same time, as he proceeded, with short, hasty steps, amply
armed for the vindication of his friend, in his grim fatalism he
seemed to himself immensely the instrument of destiny, which had so
given his enemy into his hands.
He paused when he reached Fleet Street; entering the first
public-house, at haphazard, to order six pennyworth of brandy, which
he drank neat across the counter, with slow, appreciative sips, as
he reminded himself that, the excellence of his ammunition
notwithstanding, he was still without any definite plan of campaign.
Would his luck desert him again? Would Sylvester be away, or refuse
to see him? or, while receiving him, contrive by some sinuous legal
device, adroitly to divert his attack? The mere contemplation of any
such frustration dulled him strangely.
He called for his glass to be replenished, and emptied it sharply:
and immediately the generous spirit moved his pulse, rebuked him for
his depression, sent him briskly on on his way.
As he lifted the ponderous knocker upon Sylvester's door, he
remembered vividly the only other occasion upon which he had visited
those chambers. With the member for Mallow, too, indiscreet busybody
that he was, had he not a reckoning to settle? The choice of him as
an instrument of his punishment, which, if it was primarily directed
against another, should not leave him wholly unscathed, gave a zest
to his malice, and increased firmness to his manner, as he curtly
ordered the clerk to take in his card.
"Is it an appointment?" this youth had asked dubiously, "because if
it isn't----"
"Mr. Sylvester will see me," said Oswyn with irritation, "if you
will have the goodness to do as you are told, and give him my name."
At which the youth had smiled loftily and retired, only to return
five minutes later with an air of greater humility and information
that the legislator was disengaged.
Charles looked up at him from the table at which he was sitting,
with an open volume of Hansard before him, coldly waving him to a
chair--an offer which Oswyn, mentally damning his superciliousness,
ignored.
"My business is very brief," he said quickly; "I can explain it
standing."
"I understand that it is urgent, Mr.--Mr. Oswyn. Otherwise, you
know, I am a busy man."
"You mean that my call is inconvenient? I can quite imagine it. I
should hardly have troubled you if you had not once taken the
trouble to send for me--you, perhaps, have forgotten the occurrence;
that seemed to give me a sort of right, a claim on your attention."
"I recognised it," said Charles gravely, in a tone which implied
that, had he not given this nicety the benefit of his liberal
consideration, the intruder would never have penetrated so far.
"Since that is agreed, may I ask you to explain your business as
expeditiously as possible?"
Oswyn smiled with some irony; and Sylvester suppressed a little
shudder, reflecting that the man's uncouthness almost transgressed
the bounds of decency.
"I can quote your own words on a previous occasion: it concerns the
honour of a friend--the honour of your family, if you like it
better."
Sylvester shut his volume sharply, glanced up at the other with
suppressed irritation.
"That is not a matter I can discuss with you," he said at last.
"I simply intend you to read," went on Oswyn calmly, "a letter which
your brother-in-law wrote to my friend, Philip Rainham, a few weeks
before his death."
Charles rose from his chair quickly, avoiding the other's face.
"I regret that I can't assist you," he said haughtily; "I have no
interest whatever in the affairs of the late Mr. Rainham, and I must
decline to read your letter."
He glanced significantly at the door, not suppressing a slight yawn;
it was incredible how this repulsive little artist, with his
indelicate propositions, bored him.
But Oswyn ignored his gesture; simply laid the missive in question
on the table; then he glanced casually at his watch.
"I can't compel you to read this letter," he said in the same
studiously calm voice. "I warn you that your honour is gravely
interested in its contents, and I will give you five minutes in
which to decide. If you still persist in your determination, I have
no course left but to send copies of it to some of Rainham's most
intimate friends, and to your sister, Mrs. Lightmark."
He had his watch in one hand, but his gaze, curiously ironical,
followed the direction of Charles's irresolute eyes, and the five
minutes had not elapsed before he realized--and a touch of triumph
mingled with his immense contempt of the man and his pompous
unreality--that Charles's resolution had succumbed.
He stretched out his hand for the letter, unfolded it deliberately,
and read it once, twice, three times, with a judicial slowness,
which the other, who was now curiously moved, found exasperating.
When at last he looked up at Oswyn he shaded his eyes with one hand,
but his face remained for the rest imperturbable and expressionless.
The painter saw that his discretion was larger than he had imagined.
If the reading had been disagreeably illuminative--and Oswyn
believed that under his surface composure he concealed, at least, a
terrible wound to his pride--he was not going to allow this
impression to appear.
"I might suggest that this document is a forgery," he said after a
moment.
Oswyn indulged in a little, harsh laugh, shrugging his shoulders.
"That would be too fatuous, Mr. Sylvester."
"I might suggest it," went on Charles slowly. "Perhaps, then, you
will be surprised when I tell you that I believe it to be genuine.
May I ask, Mr. Oswyn, why you move in this matter?"
"As Rainham's friend," said Oswyn quickly, "I intend to expose the
miserable calumny which clouded his last days."
"A public scandal would be greatly to be deplored," Charles hazarded
inconsequently, in the tone of a man who argued with himself.
Oswyn made as if he would have taken up the letter with a gesture of
sudden impatience; but Charles intercepted him quickly, and his
voice had a grave simplicity in it which arrested the other's
attention.
"Don't mistake me, Mr. Oswyn; I have not the least desire or
intention to suppress this document. I must expect you to judge me
harshly; but you will surely see that my honour is as deeply
concerned in the redressing of Mr. Rainham's reputation as anyone's
can be, only I am naturally desirous of sparing my--of sparing the
innocent persons who are unfortunately mixed up in the affair
unnecessary pain, the scandal of publicity."
"There are certain persons who must absolutely know the truth," said
Oswyn bluntly.
"If I pledge you my word that the persons whom you mean shall be
immediately enlightened, will you leave me to act alone?"
The other was silent for a moment revolving the proposition, half
surprised at the unwonted humility of the barrister's eagerness. At
last he said, with a short, ambiguous laugh:
"I will leave it in your hands, Mr. Sylvester."
He underwent a momentary repentance of his own readiness when he was
in the street, and had turned his face to Soho again; it seemed
almost childishly trusting. But presently, remembering he knew not
what shade of curious sternness in Sylvester's manner, he decided
that he had done wisely--it was on some such result as this that he
had counted in his coming--and that the score, stupendous as it was,
would be accurately settled.
For a long while, after his unwelcome visitor had departed, Charles
sat silent and buried in deep thought.
From time to time he glanced vaguely at the letter which Oswyn had
abandoned, and he wondered--but quite inconsequently, and with no
heart to make the experiment--whether any further perusal of those
disgraceful lines could explain or palliate the blunt obloquy of the
writer's conduct. His concise, legal habit of mind forbade him to
cherish any false illusions.
Lightmark, writing in an hour of intimate excitement, when the
burden of his friend's sacrifice seemed for a fleeting moment more
intolerable than the wrench of explanation with his wife, had too
effectually compromised himself. He had cringed, procrastinated,
promised; had been abject, hypocritical, explicit.
It seemed to Sylvester, in the first flush of his honourable
disgust, that there was no generous restitution which the man had
not promised, no craven meanness to which he had not amply
confessed.
He dropped his correct head upon his hands with something like a
moan, as he contrasted the ironical silence which had been Rainham's
only answer to this effusion--a silence which had since been
irrevocably sealed. He had never before been so disheartened, had
never seemed so intimately associated with disgrace.
Even the abortive ending of his passion--he knew that this was
deep-seated and genuine, although its outward expression had been
formal and cold--seemed a tolerable experience in comparison.
But this was dishonour absolute, and dishonour which could never be
perfectly atoned.
Had not he in his personal antipathy to Philip Rainham--the tide of
that ancient hostility surged over him again even while he vowed
sternly to make the fullest amends--had he not seized with indecent
eagerness upon any pretext or occasion to justify his dislike?
He had, at least, assisted unjustly to destroy Rainham's reputation,
giving his adherence to the vainest of vain lies; and however
zealous he might be in destroying this elaborate structure which he
had helped to build, however successful the disagreeable task of
enlightening his sister and the maligned man's most interested
friends might prove, the reproach upon his own foresight would
remain.
It was notable that, in the somewhat hard integrity of his
character, he did not for a moment seek to persuade himself, as a
man of greater sympathy might have done, that Eve was a person to
whom the truth could legitimately be spared.
How she would suffer it, and whither her indignation might lead her,
he did not care to inquire; these were matters with which henceforth
he should decline to meddle. His part would be done when he had
given her the simple information that was her due--that they had
made a great mistake; that her husband was not to be trusted.
He tried to prepare the few set phrases in which the intelligence
would be couched, but found none that were satisfactory. The effort
appeared more and more stupendous as the afternoon advanced, until
at last, with astonishment at his weakness which refused to be
analysed, he recognised that, after all, it was not possible. It was
news which he could not give to his sister with his own lips.
Mary Masters as a possible mediator suddenly occurred to him. He
recognised by some occult instinct that she was one of the persons
for whom Oswyn had stipulated, to whom restitution was due, and at
once he resolved to appeal to her.
He reminded himself that the Lightmarks were entertaining that
evening on a scale of quite exceptional grandeur, that he had a card
for their fancy-dress ball, from which Lady Garnett and her niece
would hardly be absentees. If he could see the girl beforehand, she
would doubtless find the time and occasion to say what was
necessary.
He had recovered his composure when, at no considerable interval
after the formation of this resolve, he was ushered into Lady
Garnett's drawing-room. It was his first appearance there since the
rejection of his suit (he had not had the courage to renew it,
although he was by no means prepared to admit that it was hopeless),
and in the slight embarrassment which this recollection caused him
he hardly regretted the presence of a second visitor, although his
identification as a certain Lord Overstock, whom he believed to be
opposed to him in more ways than in his political views (he was a
notorious Tory), was not made without a jealous pang. He greeted
Mary, however, without undue formality, and went over to Lady
Garnett.
The old lady glanced up at him rather listlessly. She was growing
deaf, or feigned deafness. He said to himself that perhaps she was
much older than they knew--was growing tired. Her _persiflage_, which
Charles had never much appreciated, was less frequent than of old,
and she no longer poured out her witticisms with the placid
sweetness of a person offering you _bonbons_. There were sentences in
her talk--it was when she spoke of the couple opposite them, who
were conveniently out of ear-shot--which the barrister found
deliberately malignant.
"You mean that it is settled?" she asked, affecting to misunderstand
some trivial remark. "Ah, no, but it will arrange itself--it is
coming. You think she will make an admirable duchess? She has
sometimes quite the grand air. Have you not found that out? You know
his father is very old; he cannot in reason live much longer. And
such estates! Personally, too, the nicest of boys, and as proper as
if he had something to gain by it. And yet, in England, a Duke can
do almost anything and be respected. Ah, Mr. Sylvester, you did not
use your opportunity!"
"I want one now," he said rather coldly, "of saying two words to
Miss Masters."
She just raised her delicate eyebrows.
"Will it be very useful?"
Charles flushed slightly, then he frowned.
"It has nothing to do with myself. I have some news she should hear.
Perhaps you yourself----"
She interrupted him with a little mirthless laugh.
"I will not hear anything serious, and you look to me very serious.
I am old enough to have promised never again to be serious in my
life."
She submitted, however, to listen to him, seeing that his weighty
confidences would not be brooked; and when he had finished--he said
what he had to say in very few words--she glanced up at him with the
same air of impenetrable indifference.
"Come!" she said, "what does it matter to me that you acted in
exceedingly bad taste, and repent it? It made no difference to me--I
am not the _police des moeurs_. If I were you, I would hold my tongue."
Then she added, as he glanced at her with evident mystification,
shrugging her shoulders:
"When one is dead, Mr. Sylvester, what does it matter?"
He turned away rather impatiently, his eyes following the fine lines
of Mary's face, which he saw in profile.
He noticed that she talked with animation, and that Lord Overstock's
expression was frankly admiring. At last the old lady said:
"But, yes; you must tell Mary--by all means. To her it will mean
much. See, the Marquis is going; if you wish I will leave you alone
together."