swift, furtive movement brought tears to Dolly’s eyes. There was
reverence in his touch, there was even awe; and so, for the first time,
Dolly tasted the grace of true humility.
“Well”—she picked up the thread of her confession with a sigh—“I
suppose it has to be told. As I say, I could not see what to do; and I
did not care myself; and Bernard would advise me till I was mazed with
thinking. So I ended by leaving it to chance.”
“And how did you settle it?”
“I said I would accept the one who reached me first.”
“I reached you first, Dolly.”
“And do you want more of me than you’ve got?” Dolly said, turning on
him her face, full of sweetness and fire.
“What have I got? A bare ‘Yes,’ and nothing more!”
“Your own fault, for asking such a question in such a place. I longed
to sink into the ground. Besides, I gave you the promise of my marriage
vows; isn’t that enough?”
“What marriage vows?”
“Love; honour; obedience.”
“Love—honour,” Lal repeated, strongly moved. “Do you give those to me,
Dolly? You make me ashamed.”
“You know I give them. I give everything.”
“Even obedience? Dolly, will you ever obey anybody?”
“Certainly I shall,” Dolly said, with proud humility. “I take my stand
with other women; we all promise to obey, and I shall obey. I always
keep my promises. There, dearest, let me go now and write. Afterwards—”
* * * * *
Noel Farquhar came into his library at The Lilacs and unlocked his
writing-table, one of those elegant roll-top American contrivances
full of drawers and pigeon-holes. He took out his blotter, his
writing-paper, and his revolver. He made sure that this was properly
loaded, and then dipped pen in ink and began to write.
“TO THE CORONER
“DEAR SIR,—I wish it clearly to be understood that I write in
sound physical health, and that my brain is not, and never has
been, in danger of insanity. I purpose shortly to commit suicide
by shooting myself, and I do not wish my body to receive rites in
which I never have had a shadow of belief. In plain English, I, not
being a Christian, do not desire Christian burial. I have neither
hope nor wish for a joyful resurrection. This has been my lifelong
creed. I have been at the pains to belie it, and live as the model of
virtue, both in public and private, in order to earn the esteem of my
respectable British fellow-citizens. I challenge any man living to
say I have not succeeded. Honesty is unquestionably the best policy
for the man who wishes to thrive: _experto crede_. I would not wish
to die with a lie on my lips; the taste of truth is pleasantly novel.
“Within the last few months the issue of a love-affair, together with
certain pecuniary losses which endanger my political position, have
contrived to make life uninteresting, and even burdensome. I see no
chance of improvement, and have not the patience to undergo present
discomfort in the vague hope of a problematical future gain. I take
the only logical course. In shooting myself I carry out a purpose
conditionally framed as soon as I was old enough to think for myself.
Let me again repeat that I am not mad; and let me beg, let me beseech
the twelve worthy gentlemen who shall sit upon my body to burden
their consciences with no unnecessary perjury, but to cap the inquest
with a truthful verdict of _felo de se_.
“In conclusion, I commend to my biographers the study of my
birthplace, parentage, and nationality. I refer them for information
to the records of the province of Kiew, South Russia.
“I am, sir, faithfully yours,
“NOEL DMITRI FARQUHAR.
“The Lilacs, Monkswell, 2/7/03.”
When he had finished, he read over the letter with satisfaction.
While he was so doing, somebody opened the door and came noiselessly
in. Farquhar glanced angrily over his shoulder; but, seeing only
Lucian de Saumarez, he went on with his reading, after taking the
precaution of drawing his blotter across the revolver to hide it. With
an indescribably guilty and shamefaced air, like a dog that has been
caught stealing, Lucian went and lay down on the sofa. He was holding a
handkerchief to his lips.
Farquhar closed the letter and took the revolver, glancing again at
Lucian. Lucian heard the movement, turned his head, and for the moment
took away the stained handkerchief.
“Farquhar, old man—” he began; he could not get any further.
Farquhar set his teeth on his underlip and swore. He sat immovable,
looking dangerous, all rebellion; and then the inevitable law of his
nature asserted itself, as it had done before, as in him it always
would: the power that held him in bondage. He tore the letter across
and across and across again and flung the fragments into the grate; he
took up the revolver by the barrel and hurled it through the window
across the flower-beds into the fountain on the lawn. He came and knelt
by Lucian’s side, and lifted him with fierce tenderness against his
breast.
“Confound you! What have you been doing to yourself?” he said.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources.
Some hyphens in words have been silently removed, some added,
when a predominant preference was found in the original book.
Except for those changes noted below, alternative spellings,
misspellings and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.
Page 52: “chestnut gown” replaced by “chestnut gown.”.
Page 83: “streaming with blood” replaced by “streaming with blood.”.
Page 125: “gossipped” replaced by “gossiped”.
Page 138: “disqualifications” replaced by “disqualifications.”.
Page 161: “gallon a day,’”” replaced by “gallon a day,””.
Page 165: ‘I’d like to replaced by
“I’d like to.