IN THE ROOM
A large, bare, barn-like room. The walls were colour-washed; as seen
by gaslight, an uncertain shade of grey. The floor was bare. At one
end was a wooden daïs. This, and a large skylight overhead, suggested
that the apartment had been intended for a studio. Artistic properties
there were none. The furniture was scanty. In one corner was a camp
bedstead, the bedclothes in disorder. It had evidently not been made
since it was slept in. There were two small tables, one at the side
against the wall, the other in the centre of the room. Bottles and
glasses were on both. Bottles, indeed, were everywhere; designed, too,
to contain all sorts of liquids--wines, spirits, beers. Champagne
appeared to have been drunk by the gallon. On the floor, in the
corner, opposite the bedstead, were at least seven or eight dozen
unopened bottles, of all sizes, sorts, and shapes. Three or four
chairs, of incongruous design, completed the equipment of the room;
with the exception, that is, of a tall screen covered with crimson
silk which stood upon the daïs. This screen was the first object
which caught the eye on entering. One wondered if an artist’s model
were concealed behind.
Lawrence placed his finger against his lips as he held the door open
for us to enter.
“Ssh! She’s there, behind the screen! Listen! Can’t you hear her
laughing?”
This time I, for one, heard nothing. There was not a sound. And, since
every sense was at the acutest tension, had there been, it would
scarcely have escaped my notice. Scarcely were we all in, than a door
on the opposite side of the room was opened, gingerly, and seemingly
with hesitation, as if the opener was by no means sure of his welcome.
Through it came the pertinacious Mr. Bernstein, and, of all persons,
young Tom Moore. At the sight of her brother the lady shrank closer to
my side. The inspector appeared to regard the advent of the newcomers
with suspicion, as though doubtful lest there were more to follow.
“Who are these men? Where do they come from?”
Lawrence explained.
“Inspector Symonds, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Isaac
Bernstein--dealer in forged bills and patron of penmen. Surely you
have heard of Bernstein.”
“Oh yes, I’ve heard of Bernstein. So you are Mr. Isaac Bernstein.
Who’s the other man?”
“The other man is”--this with a glance towards the lady--“merely a
thief.”
“I’m no thief! I’ll let you know I’m not to be called
thief--especially by you!”
Young Moore’s disclaimer was half whine, half snarl. Bernstein took up
his tale.
“Mr. Symonds, I’m glad to meet you, sir. Our--our friend here is fond
of his joke. You mustn’t take him seriously. It--it’s his way to say
things which he doesn’t mean. I just stepped in to say a word to him
in private--just one word; so I hope you’ll forgive me if I seem to be
intruding. Lawrence, I--I came with our young friend here along the
little back passage, which the models used to use, because I--I wanted
to speak one word to you in private. Would you mind stepping on one
side just--just for half a moment.”
“No, Bernstein, I won’t. Anything you have to say to me, you’ll say in
public; at the top of your voice; out loud. I’m going to say my say so
that every one may hear me--she and they.”
“Now, Lawrence, be reasonable, I do beg of you. Let me make to you
just this one remark.”
Drawing closer, Mr. Bernstein dropped his voice to a whisper. Taking
him by both shoulders, Lawrence began to shake him to and fro.
“Speak up, Bernstein, speak up! Shout, man, shout!”
“Don’t Lawrence, you’ll hurt me!”
“Hurt you! Hurt you! If I could only hurt you as you’ve hurt me, you
pretty fellow! Why didn’t you save your skin by taking to your heels?
For me there’s no salvation, because of her, and the face, and the
words. But for you there was a chance. Now there’s none! Now there’s
none!”
He flung the Jew away from him, so that he went reeling half across
the room. Mr. Bernstein addressed himself, with stammering lips, to
the inspector.
“Mr. Symonds, he’s--he’s not right in his head; he’s excited--he’s
been drinking; look at those bottles!”
Lawrence threw out his arms with a laugh.
“Look at those bottles! Evidences of a giant’s thirst! I’ll have
another!”
Taking a bottle of champagne out of the collection in the corner, with
what looked like a palette knife he struck the neck off with a
cleanness and dexterity which denoted practice. The wine foamed up. He
filled a soda-water tumbler, emptying it at a draught.
“That’s the stuff! It’s got a sting in it! I like my drink to have a
sting!”
Bernstein drew the inspector’s attention to his proceedings.
“You see. That’s how he goes on--drink! drink! drink! He does nothing
else but drink. You wouldn’t pay any attention to his ravings when
they reflect upon a respectable man?”
“Respectable man! Isaac Bernstein, respectable man?”
He tossed the bottle he was holding towards the Jew. If the other had
not ducked, it would have struck him.
“He’s a liar, that’s what he is; a liar to his finger-tips. No one who
knows him would believe him on his oath.”
This was young Moore. Lawrence pointed at him with his tumbler.
“A Solomon risen to judgment! See truth’s imaged superscription on his
brow.”
The lady stepped forward before I had guessed her intention.
“What he is he in great part owes to you--and to him!”--pointing to
the Jew. “You are an older man than he, with a wider knowledge of the
world. You have used him as a tool with which to save yourselves. You
found him in a ditch--in the same ditch in which you were yourselves.
Instead of helping him out you dragged him farther in, pressing him
down in the mire, so that, by dint of standing on his body, you might
yourselves reach the bank, at the cost of his entire destruction.
Though he is guilty, your guilt is a thousand times as great.”
“There speaks the actress. Your sentiments, Miss Moore, do you credit;
though, being of the stage, they’re stagey. They suppose that you can
make a good man bad. I doubt it, be he old or young. All that you can
do, is to bring to a head the badness which is in a bad one.
Bernstein, your brother, and I, were born with a twist in us; a moral
malformation; a trend in the grain which, as we got our growth, gave a
natural inclination in a particular direction. I doubt if we could
have gone straight if we had tried. You may take it for granted that
we did not weary ourselves with vain efforts. I know that I did not.
The things I liked had to be, like ginger, hot in the mouth; my
pleasures had all to be well peppered. Your insipidities I never
relished; nor was the fact that they happened to be virtuous a
sufficient sauce.
“As it happens, in this best of all possible worlds, spice costs
money. And there’s the rub. For I had none--or as good as none. But
I’d a brother who had. An all-seeing Providence and an
indiscriminating parent, had caused him to be amply dowered with
worldly goods. I made several efforts with my own hands and brains to
supply myself with money. Sometimes they’d succeed; oftener they would
fail. When they failed, in the most natural possible manner, I looked
to my brother--my only brother--to make good the deficiency. To do
this he now and then objected; which was odd. Until, one day, I came
upon a man named Bernstein.”
The Jew, who had been listening with parted lips and watchful,
troubled eyes, to what the other had been saying, now went forward to
him, cringingly.
“Lawrence, good old friend, remember all I’ve done for you, and--and
be careful what you say.”
“I’ll remember, and so shall you; you never will be able to accuse me
of forgetting. This man, Bernstein, was a Jew--an usurer.”
“I lend money to gentlemen who are in need of it, that’s all; there’s
no harm in it. If I didn’t some one else would.”
“He negotiated loans on terms which varied--as I quickly learned. I
had had some experience of usurers; but this was a new type.”
“How new? Circumstances compel one to alter one’s terms--it’s only
business.”
“He lent me a little money on what he considered reasonable terms.”
“And so they were--most reasonable. You know yourself they were.”
“‘When you want more,’ he said, ‘you must bring me another name upon
the bill.’ I asked, ‘Whose name?’ He said, ‘Your brother’s.’ ‘Do you
think my brother would back a bill of mine? He’d see me farther
first!’ ‘That,’ he said, ‘is a pity.’ And so it was a pity. Brothers
should be friendly; they should help each other; it’s only right.
“‘Come,’ he said, ‘and dine with me.’ I dined. After dinner he began
again about the bill. ‘I’ll give you £700 for a three months’ bill
for a thousand with your brother’s name on it.’ ‘I tell you that
nothing would induce my brother to back a bill of mine.’ ‘If you were
to bring me such a bill I shouldn’t ask how it got there.’ Then he
looked at me, and I saw what he meant. ‘That’s it, is it? I’ve sailed
pretty close to the wind, but I’ve never got quite so far as that.’ He
filled himself another glass of wine. ‘You say you want the money
badly. The sooner you let me have the bill, the sooner your wants will
be relieved.’ I let him have the bill in the morning. At the end of
three months there was a storm in the air.”
“I knew nothing of it--he invents it all. The bill was duly met when
it was presented.”
“After my brother and I had come pretty near to murder, I was still,
as ever, in want of money. But this time it was Bernstein who came to
me.
“‘I hear you’re pressed.’ I complimented him on the correctness of his
information. ‘It’s no good,’ said he, ‘peddling with hundreds. It’s a
good round sum you want to set you clear.’ I admitted it; and wondered
where the good round sum was coming from. ‘I tell you what I’ll do,’
he said. ‘You bring me five bills for a thousand each, with your
brother’s name on them, and I’ll give you two thousand five hundred
for the lot.’ I told him that it couldn’t be done. I’d promised my
brother that I wouldn’t play any more tricks with his name, and I
meant to keep my word. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘that’s a pity.’”
“I said nothing of the kind. It is not to be believed; those who know
me will tell you it is not to be believed. It is against my nature.”
“‘I think,’ he continued, ‘I know how it can be managed. I know a
young fellow whom I’ll introduce to you. You may find him of use. He’s
a first-rate penman.’ ‘Do you mean that he’s an expert forger?’
‘Lawrence,’ cried Mr. Bernstein, ‘you shouldn’t use such words--you
really shouldn’t.’”
“You hear him admit it? I said, ‘You should not use such words.’ I
have always said it--always.”
“He made me known to this expert penman, getting up a three-cornered
dinner for that especial purpose. The expert penman was our young
friend here--Tom Moore.”
“I never wanted to know you--never. I told him that I didn’t.”
Mr. Bernstein contradicted the young gentleman’s disclaimer.
“Now, Moore, that is not so. You were always willing to make his
acquaintance; why not? He was a gentleman of family, of fortune. Why
should you not have been willing to know such an one?
“He didn’t turn out like that, did he? Look how he served me!”
“Ah, that is another matter. We could not have foreseen how he was to
turn out. We supposed him to be a gentleman of reputation--of
character.”
“Innocent-minded Bernstein! Ingenuous Tom Moore! After dinner Moore
returned with me to my rooms.”
“You invited me.”
“I did--that’s true; and you came. I said to him, ‘I hear you’re a bit
of a penman.’”
“I didn’t know what you meant.”
“You wouldn’t. I laid five bill-stamps in front of him.”
“There was nothing on them.”
“True again; there wasn’t. I showed him my brother’s signature at the
bottom of a letter, and I asked him if he thought that he could make
a nice clean copy of it in the corner of each stamp.”
“You never said what you were going to do with it.”
“Still correct--I didn’t. But you said, ‘How much are you going to
give me?’”
“Well, you were a stranger to me; you didn’t expect I was going to do
you a favour for nothing?”
“Hardly. I said I’d give you a hundred pounds, which I thought was
pretty fair pay for a little copying. But you said, ‘I want five
hundred.’”
“You didn’t give me five hundred pounds, not you! You know you didn’t!
Or anything like!”
“Accurate as ever. I couldn’t see my way to quite as much as that. I
said you should have two hundred.”
“That night you never gave me any money at all.”
“No. But in the morning I carried to Mr. Isaac Bernstein five bills
for a thousand pounds apiece, with, on each, my brother’s endorsement
in the corner. In exchange, Mr. Bernstein presented me with two
thousand five hundred pounds, and out of that you had two hundred.”
“I took it as a friendly present.”
“Precisely--from a perfect stranger. Time went on. The three months
slipped by. I began to fidget. Luck was most consummately against me.
Two thousand five hundred pounds went no way at all; I had lost it,
pretty nearly every penny, before I really realised that I had ever
had it. When it was gone, I knew that breakers were ahead; a pretty
nasty lot of rocks. As I say, I began to fidget. I knew my brother,
and was well aware that, since last time it had been nearly murder,
this time it would come as near as possible to quite. Philip’s temper,
my friends, Philip’s temper was distinctly bad. We had had a few
fights together, he and I, and out of them it had not been my general
custom to come out best. Now I foresaw that the biggest fight of all
our fights was drawing comfortably close; and when I asked myself in
what condition I should probably emerge from it, I was not able to
supply my question with an answer which gave me entire satisfaction.
“I began to hate my brother. As the days stole by, I began to hate him
more and more--to fear him. The two things together, the hatred and
the fear, took such a hold of me that I began to cast about in my mind
how I could get the best of him, when the game was blown upon and the
fight began. And at last I thought of something which I had chanced
upon in India.
“It was one night when I lay awake in bed, unable to sleep. I had been
drinking. The drink had been bad. Among the goblins which it brought
to my bedside were thoughts of my brother. I thought of how the luck
had all been his; of what a grip he had; of his bone and muscle; of
how, in our quarrels, it always had gone hard with me; of how, in the
next one, which was close at hand, it would go harder still. He was
more than a match for me all round. In peace or war he was the
stronger man. How could I get even with him? How?
“Then I thought of the Goddess. It was from herself that the first
inspiration came; she precipitated herself, as the occultists have it,
into my mind. I suspected it then; I know it now. She had remained,
till then, in the packing-case in which I brought her home. She had
never been out of it, not once. I had never taken the trouble to
unpack her. She might have feared she was forgotten; felt herself
slighted. No; that’s not her way. She knows she’ll never be forgotten;
and as for slights, she never will be slighted when there’s need of
her. She had been waiting; that was all--waiting for her time. Now her
time had come. She knew it. So she reminded me that she was there.
“It struck me, at first, as a humorous idea--The Goddess. It always is
her humorous side which appeals to one at first. Indeed, it is that
side of her which continues to the front; only--the character of the
humour changes. I laughed to think that her existence should occur to
me at such a moment. And, as I laughed, she laughed too. It was the
first time I had heard her laughter. The sound of it had an odd effect
on the marrow in my bones. Even then I asked myself if by any
possibility I could be going mad. She was in the cupboard on the other
side of my dressing-room. All other considerations apart, it was an
odd thing that I should hear her so plainly from where I lay.
“‘I’ll go and look at her,’ I said. I went. As I opened the cupboard
door she laughed again--a little, soft, musical laugh, suggestive of
exquisite enjoyment. It drew me on. ‘Why,’ I cried, ‘I didn’t know
that you could laugh. Where are you? Let’s free you from your prison.
If you’re as pretty as your laughter, you should be well worth looking
at.’
“There was the packing-case, all nailed and corded, exactly as it had
been when placed on shipboard. As I touched it, she laughed again. Now
that I had become more used to it, I found that there was something in
the sound which braced me up; a quality which was suited to my mood. I
drew the case into my dressing-room. I unpacked it. There she was
inside, in the best possible condition; as ready, as willing, as
happy, as on the day when I first saw her, in the place where she was
born. She had borne her voyage and subsequent confinement surprisingly
well; neither in her bearing nor appearance was there anything which
even hinted at a trace of resentment for the treatment which she had
received. As she showed me what she could do, laughing all the time, I
said to myself, ‘With her aid I shall be more than a match for my
brother.’
“I had got her out, but, like the genie the fisherman released in the
Arabian story, she was not easy to put back again. Without her consent
it was impossible to replace her in the packing-case. Her consent she
refused to give. When I persisted in my attempts to do without it, she
brought me nearer to a sudden end than I had ever been before.
Whereupon I desisted. I left her where she was. That display of her
powers, and of her readiness to use them, compelled me to the
reflection that in her I had found not only a collaborator, but
possibly something else as well. One thing I certainly had found--an
inseparable companion.
“From that hour, when, in the silence of the night, and because I
could not sleep, being troubled by thoughts of my brother, I took her
from her packing-case, she has never left me for one moment alone. She
has become part and parcel of my life; grown into the very web of my
being; into the very heart of me; until now she holds me, body, soul,
and spirit, with chains which never shall be broken. And to her it’s
such an exquisite jest. Listen! She is laughing now.”