The Fire Within
By
Patricia Wentworth
(Mrs. G. F. Dillon)
Author of “A Marriage under the Terror,” etc.
“_Quench thou the fires of your old gods,
Quench not the fire within._”
Matthew Arnold.
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
New York and London
_The Knickerbocker Press_
1913
Copyright, 1913
by
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
_The Knickerbocker Press, New York_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Mr. Mottisfont’s Opinion of his Nephew 1
II. David Blake 18
III. Dead Men’s Shoes 30
IV. A Man’s Honour 40
V. Town Talk 56
VI. The Letter 66
VII. Elizabeth Chantrey 77
VIII. Edward Sings 91
IX. Mary Is Shocked 107
X. Edward Is Put Out 120
XI. Forgotten Ways 134
XII. The Grey Wolf 143
XIII. March Goes Out 156
XIV. The Golden Wind 163
XV. Love Must to School 171
XVI. Friendship 179
XVII. The Dream 188
XVIII. The Face of Love 199
XIX. The Full Moon 207
XX. The Woman of the Dream 214
XXI. Elizabeth Blake 225
XXII. After the Dream 236
XXIII. Elizabeth Waits 243
XXIV. The Lost Name 258
The Fire Within
CHAPTER I
MR. MOTTISFONT’S OPINION OF HIS NEPHEW
As I was going adown the dale
Sing derry down dale, and derry down dale,
As I was going adown the dale,
Adown the dale of a Monday,
With never a thought of the Devil his tricks,
Why who should I meet with his bundle of sticks,
But the very old man of the Nursery tale.
Sing derry down dale, and derry down dale,
The wicked old man of the Nursery tale
Who gathered his sticks of a Sunday.
Sing derry down, derry down dale.
Old Mr. Edward Mottisfont looked over the edge of the sheet at David
Blake.
“My nephew Edward is most undoubtedly and indisputably a prig—a damned
prig,” he added thoughtfully after a moment’s pause for reflection. As
he reflected his black eyes danced from David’s face to a crayon drawing
which hung on the panelled wall above the mantelpiece.
“His mother’s fault,” he observed, “it’s not so bad in a woman, and she
was pretty, which Edward ain’t. Pretty and a prig my sister Sarah——”
There was a faint emphasis on the word sister, and David remembered
having heard his mother say that both Edward and William Mottisfont had
been in love with the girl whom William married. “And a plain prig my
nephew Edward,” continued the old gentleman. “Damn it all, David, why
can’t I leave my money to you instead?”
David laughed.
“Because I shouldn’t take it, sir,” he said.
He was sitting, most unprofessionally, on the edge of his patient’s
large four-post bed. Old Mr. Edward Mottisfont looked at him
quizzically.
“How much would you take—eh, David? Come now—say—how much?”
David laughed again. His grey eyes twinkled. “Nary penny, sir,” he said,
swinging his arm over the great carved post beside him. There were
cherubs’ heads upon it, a fact that had always amused its owner
considerably.
“Nonsense,” said old Mr. Mottisfont, and for the first time his thin
voice was tinged with earnestness. “Nonsense, David. Why! I’ve left you
five thousand pounds.”
David started. His eyes changed. They were very deep-set eyes. It was
only when he laughed that they appeared grey. When he was serious they
were so dark as to look black. Apparently he was moved and concerned.
His voice took a boyish tone. “Oh, I say, sir—but you mustn’t—I can’t
take it, you know.”
“And why not, pray?” This was Mr. Mottisfont at his most sarcastic.
David got the better of his momentary embarrassment.
“I shan’t forget that you’ve thought of it, sir,” he said. “But I can’t
benefit under a patient’s will. I haven’t got many principles, but
that’s one of them. My father drummed it into me from the time I was
about seven.”
Old Mr. Edward Mottisfont lifted the thin eyebrows that had contrived to
remain coal-black, although his hair was white. They gave him a
Mephistophelean appearance of which he was rather proud.
“Very fine and highfalutin,” he observed. “You’re an exceedingly upright
young man, David.”
David roared.
After a moment the old gentleman’s lips gave way at the corners, and he
laughed too.
“Oh, Lord, David, who’d ha’ thought it of you!” he said. “You won’t take
a thousand?”
David shook his head.
“Not five hundred?”
David grinned.
“Not five pence,” he said.
Old Mr. Mottisfont glared at him for a moment. “Prig,” he observed with
great conciseness. Then he pursed up his lips, felt under his pillow,
and pulled out a long folded paper.
“All the more for Edward,” he said maliciously. “All the more for
Edward, and all the more reason for Edward to wish me dead. I wonder he
don’t poison me. Perhaps he will. Oh, Lord, I’d give something to see
Edward tried for murder! Think of it, David—only think of it—Twelve
British Citizens in one box—Edward in another—all the British Citizens
looking at Edward, and Edward looking as if he was in church, and
wondering if the moth was getting into his collections, and if any one
would care for ’em when he was dead and gone. Eh, David? Eh, David? And
Mary—like Niobe, all tears——”
David had been chuckling to himself, but at the mention of Edward’s wife
his face changed a little. He continued to laugh, but his eyes hardened,
and he interrupted his patient: “Come, sir, you mustn’t tire yourself.”
“Like Niobe, all tears,” repeated Mr. Mottisfont, obstinately. “Sweetly
pretty she’d look too—eh, David? Edward’s a lucky dog, ain’t he?”
David’s eyes flashed once and then hardened still more. His chin was
very square.
“Come, sir,” he repeated, and looked steadily at the old man.
“Beast—ain’t I?” said old Mr. Mottisfont with the utmost cheerfulness.
He occupied himself with arranging the bedclothes in an accurate line
across his chest. As he did so, his hand touched the long folded paper,
and he gave it an impatient push.
“You’re a damn nuisance, David,” he said. “I’ve made my will once, and
now I’ve to make it all over again just to please you. All the whole
blessed thing over again, from ‘I, Edward Morell Mottisfont,’ down to ‘I
deliver this my act and deed.’ Oh, Lord, what a bore.”
“Mr. Fenwick,” suggested David, and old Mr. Edward Mottisfont flared
into sudden wrath.
“Don’t talk to me of lawyers,” he said violently. “I know enough law to
make a will they can’t upset. Don’t talk of ’em. Sharks and robbers.
Worse than the doctors. Besides young Fenwick talks—tells his wife
things—and she tells her sister. And what Mary Bowden knows, the town
knows. Did I ever tell you how I found out? I suspected, but I wanted to
be sure. So I sent for young Fenwick, and told him I wanted to make my
will. So far, so good. I made it—or he did. And I left a couple of
thousand pounds to Bessie Fenwick and a couple more to her sister Mary
in memory of my old friendship with their father. And as soon as Master
Fenwick had gone I put his morning’s work in the fire. Now how do I know
he talked? This way. A week later I met Mary Bowden in the High Street,
and I had the fright of my life. I declare I thought she’d ha’ kissed
me. It was ‘I hope you are prudent to be out in this east wind, dear Mr.
Mottisfont,’ and I must come and see them soon—and oh, Lord, what fools
women are! Mary Bowden never could abide me till she thought I’d left
her two thousand pounds.”
“Fenwicks aren’t the only lawyers in the world,” suggested David.
“Much obliged, I’m sure. I did go to one once to make a will—they say
it’s sweet to play the fool sometimes—eh, David? Fool I was sure enough.
I found a little mottled man, that sat blinking at me, and repeating my
words, till I could have murdered him with his own office pen-knife. He
called me Moral too, in stead of Morell. ‘Edward Moral Mottisfont,’ and
I took occasion to inform him that I wasn’t moral, never had been moral,
and never intended to be moral. I said he must be thinking of my nephew
Edward, who was damn moral. Oh, Lord, here _is_ Edward. I could ha’ done
without him.”
The door opened as he was speaking, and young Edward Mottisfont came in.
He was a slight, fair man with a well-shaped head, a straight nose, and
as much chin as a great many other people. He wore _pince-nez_ because
he was short-sighted, and high collars because he had a long neck. Both
the _pince-nez_ and the collar had an intensely irritating effect upon
old Mr. Edward Mottisfont.
“If he hadn’t been for ever blinking at some bug that was just out of
his sight, his eyes would have been as good as mine, and he might just
as well keep his head in a butterfly net or a collecting box as where he
does keep it. Not that I should have said that Edward _did_ keep his
head.”
“I think you flurry him, sir,” said David, “and——”
“I know I do,” grinned Mr. Mottisfont.
Young Edward Mottisfont came into the room and shut the door.
Old Mr. Mottisfont watched him with black, malicious eyes.
For as many years as Edward could remember anything, he could remember
just that look upon his uncle’s face. It made him uneasy now, as it had
made him uneasy when he was only five years old.
Once when he was fifteen he said to David Blake: “You cheek him, David,
and he likes you for it. How on earth do you manage it? Doesn’t he make
you feel beastly?”
And David stared and said: “Beastly? Rats! Why should I feel beastly?
He’s jolly amusing. He makes me laugh.”
At thirty, Edward no longer employed quite the same ingenuous slang, but
there was no doubt that he still experienced the same sensations, which
fifteen years earlier he had characterised as beastly.
Old Mr. Edward Mottisfont lay in bed with his hands folded on his chest.
He watched his nephew with considerable amusement, and waited for him to
speak.
Edward took a chair beside the bed. Then he said that it was a fine day,
and old Mr. Mottisfont nodded twice with much solemnity.
“Yes, Edward,” he said.
There was a pause.
“I hope you are feeling pretty well,” was the unfortunate Edward’s next
attempt at conversation.
Old Mr. Edward Mottisfont looked across at David Blake. “Am I feeling
pretty well—eh, David?”
David laughed. He had moved when Edward came into the room, and was
standing by the window looking out. A little square pane was open.
Through it came the drowsy murmur of a drowsy, old-fashioned town. Mr.
Mottisfont’s house stood a few yards back from the road, just at the
head of the High Street. Market Harford was a very old town, and the
house was a very old house. There was a staircase which was admired by
American visitors, and a front door for which they occasionally made
bids. From where Mr. Mottisfont lay in bed he could see a narrow lane
hedged in by high old houses with red tiles. Beyond, the ground fell
sharply away, and there was a prospect of many red roofs. Farther still,
beyond the river, he could see the great black chimneys of his foundry,
and the smoke that came from them. It was the sight that he loved best
in the world. David looked down into the High Street and watched one
lamp after another spring into brightness. He could see a long ribbon of
light go down to the river and then rise again. He turned back into the
room when he was appealed to, and said:
“Why, you know best how you feel, sir.”
“Oh, no,” said old Mr. Mottisfont in a smooth, resigned voice. “Oh, no,
David. In a private and unofficial sort of way, yes; but in a public and
official sense, oh, dear, no. Edward wants to know when to order his
mourning, and how to arrange his holiday so as not to clash with my
funeral, so it is for my medical adviser to reply, ain’t it, Edward?”
The colour ran to the roots of Edward Mottisfont’s fair hair. He cast an
appealing glance in David’s direction, and did not speak.
“I don’t think any of us will order our mourning till you’re dead, sir,”
said David with a chuckle. He commiserated Edward, but, after all,
Edward was a lucky dog—and to see one’s successful rival at a
disadvantage is not an altogether unpleasant experience. “You’ll outlive
some of us young ones yet,” he added, but old Mr. Mottisfont was
frowning.
“Seen any more of young Stevenson, Edward?” he said, with an abrupt
change of manner.
Edward shook his head rather ruefully.
“No, sir, I haven’t.”
“No, and you ain’t likely to,” said old Mr. Mottisfont. “There, you’d
best be gone. I’ve talked enough.”
“Then good-night, sir,” said Edward Mottisfont, getting up with some
show of cheerfulness.
The tone of Mr. Mottisfont’s good-night was not nearly such a pleasant
one, and as soon as the door had closed upon Edward he flung round
towards David Blake with an angry “What’s the good of him? What’s the
good of the fellow? He’s not a business man. He’s not a man at all; he’s
an entomologiac—a lepidoptofool—a damn lepidoptofool.”
These remarkable epithets followed one another with an extraordinary
rapidity.
When the old gentleman paused for breath David inquired, “What’s the
trouble, sir?”
“Oh, he’s muddled the new contract with Stevenson. Thinking of
butterflies, I expect. Pretty things, butterflies—but there—I don’t see
that I need distress myself. It ain’t me it’s going to touch. It’s
Edward’s own look-out. My income ain’t going to concern me for very much
longer.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he made a restless movement with his
hand.
“It won’t, will it—eh, David? You didn’t mean what you said just now? It
was just a flam? I ain’t going to live, am I?”
David hesitated and the old man broke in with an extraordinary energy.
“Oh, for the Lord’s sake, David, I’m not a girl—out with it! How long d’
ye give me?”
David sat down on the bed again. His movements had a surprising
gentleness for so large a man. His odd, humorous face was quite serious.
“Really, sir, I don’t know,” he said, “I really don’t. There’s no more
to be done if you won’t let me operate. No, we won’t go over all that
again. I know you’ve made up your mind. And no one can possibly say how
long it may be. You might have died this week, or you may die in a
month, or it may go on for a year—or two—or three. You’ve the sort of
constitution they don’t make nowadays.”
“Three years,” said old Mr. Edward Mottisfont—“three years, David—and
this damn pain all along—all the time—gettin’ worse——”
“Oh, I think we can relieve the pain, sir,” said David cheerfully.
“Much obliged, David. Some beastly drug that’ll turn me into an idiot.
No, thank ye, I’ll keep my wits if it’s all the same to you. Well, well,
it’s all in the day’s work, and I’m not complaining, but Edward’ll get
mortal tired of waiting for my shoes if I last three years. I doubt his
patience holding out. He’ll be bound to hasten matters on. Think of the
bad example I shall be for the baby—when it comes. Lord, David, what d’
ye want to look like that for? I suppose they’ll have babies like other
folk, and I’ll be a bad example for ’em. Edward’ll think of that. When
he’s thought of it enough, and I’ve got on his nerves a bit more than
usual, he’ll put strychnine or arsenic into my soup. Oh, Edward’ll
poison me yet. You’ll see.”
“Poor old Edward, it’s not much in his line,” said David with half a
laugh.
“Eh? What about Pellico’s dog then?”
“Pellico’s dog, sir?”
“What an innocent young man you are, David—never heard of Pellico’s dog
before, did you? Pellico’s dog that got on Edward’s nerves same as I get
on his nerves, and you never knew that Edward dosed the poor brute with
some of his bug-curing stuff, eh? To be sure you didn’t think I knew,
nor did Edward. I don’t tell everything I know, and how I know it is my
affair and none of yours, Master David Blake, but you see Edward’s not
so unhandy with a little job in the poisoning line.”
David’s face darkened. The incident of Pellico’s dog had occurred when
he and Edward were schoolboys of fifteen. He remembered it very well,
but he did not very much care being reminded of it. Every day of his
life he passed the narrow turning, down which, in defiance of parental
prohibitions, he and Edward used to race each other to school. Old
Pellico’s dirty, evil-smelling shop still jutted out of the farther end,
and the grimy door-step upon which his dog used to lie in wait for their
ankles was still as grimy as ever. Sometimes it was a trouser-leg that
suffered. Sometimes an ankle was nipped, and if Pellico’s dog
occasionally got a kick in return, it was not more than his due. David
remembered his own surprise when it first dawned upon him that Edward
minded—yes, actually minded these encounters. He recalled the occasion
when Edward, his face of a suspicious pallor, had denied angrily that he
was afraid of any beastly dog, and then his sudden wincing confession
that he did mind—that he minded horribly—not because he was afraid of
being bitten—Edward explained this point very carefully—but because the
dog made such a beastly row, and because Edward dreamed of him at night,
only in his dreams, Pellico’s dog was rather larger than Pellico
himself, and the lane was a cul-de-sac with a wall at the end of it,
against which he crouched in his dream whilst the dog came nearer and
nearer.
“What rot,” was David’s comment, “but if I felt like that, I jolly well
know I’d knock the brute on the head.”
“Would you?” said Edward, and that was all that had passed. Only, when a
week later Pellico’s dog was poisoned, David was filled with righteous
indignation. He stormed at Edward.
“You did it—you know you did it. You did it with some of that beastly
bug-killing stuff that you keep knocking about.”
Edward was pale, but there was an odd gleam of triumph in the eyes that
met David’s.
“Well, you said you’d do for him—you said it yourself. So then I just
did it.”
David stared at him with all a schoolboy’s crude condemnation of
something that was “not the game.”
“I’d have knocked him on the head under old Pellico’s nose—but
poison—poison’s _beastly_.”
He did not reason about it. It was just instinct. You knocked on the
head a brute that annoyed you, but you didn’t use poison. And Edward had
used poison. That was the beginning of David’s great intimacy with
Elizabeth Chantrey. He did not quarrel with Edward, but they drifted out
of an inseparable friendship into a relationship of the cool,
go-as-you-please order. The thing rankled a little after all these
years. David sat there frowning and remembering. Old Mr. Mottisfont
laughed.
“Aha, you see I know most things,” he said, “Edward’ll poison me yet.
You see, he’s in a fix. He hankers after this house same as I always
hankered after it. It’s about the only taste we have in common. He’s got
his own house on a seven years’ lease, and here’s Nick Anderson going to
be married, and willing to take it off his hands. And what’s Edward to
do? It’s a terrible anxiety for him not knowing if I’m going to die or
not. If he doesn’t accept Nick’s offer and I die, he’ll have two houses
on his hands. If he accepts it and I don’t die, he’ll not have a house
at all. It’s a sad dilemma for Edward. That’s why he would enjoy seeing
about my funeral so much. He’d do it all very handsomely. Edward likes
things handsome. And Mary, who doesn’t care a jot for me, will wear a
black dress that don’t suit her, and feel like a Christian martyr. And
Elizabeth won’t wear black at all, though she cares a good many jots,
and though she’d look a deal better in it than Mary—eh, David?”
But David Blake was exclaiming at the lateness of the hour, and saying
good-night, all in a breath.