THE ANONYMOUS LETTER.
Just about seven o'clock next morning Nicky-Nan, who had breakfasted
early and taken post early in the porchway to watch against any
possible _ruse_ of the foe--for, Bank Holiday or no Bank Holiday, he
was taking no risks--spied Lippity-Libby the postman coming over the
bridge towards him with his dot-and-go-one gait.
Lippity-Libby, drawing near, held out a letter in his hand and
flourished it.
"Now don't excite yourself," he warned Nicky-Nan. "When first I seed
your name 'pon the address I said to myself 'What a good job if that
poor fella's luck should be here at last, and this a fortun' arrived
from his rich relatives in Canada!' That's the very words I said to
myself."
"As it happens, I han't got no rich relatives, neither here nor in
Canada," answered Nicky-Nan. "Is that letter for me? Or are you
playin' me some trick?"
"A man of your descent," said Lippity-Libby, "can't help havin'
relatives in great quantities dispersed about the world. I've
figured it out, and the sum works like that old 'un we used to do on
our slates about a horse-shoe. Your great-grandfather married your
great-grandmother, and that set the ball rollin'--to go no farther
back than the head will carry. Six sons an' daughters they had, for
the sake of argyment, and each married and had six again.
Why, damme, by that time there's not a quarter in Europe where a rich
chap deceased mayn't be croppin' up and leavin' you his money, for no
better reason than that you're a Nanjivell. That always seemed to me
one of the advantages of good birth. For my part," the postman
continued, "my father and mother never spoke of such matters, though
she was a Collins and married in Lanteglos parish, where I daresay
the whole pedigary could be looked up, if one wasn't a postman and
could spare the time. But in the long evenings since my poor wife's
death I often find time to think of you, Mr Nanjivell; bein' both of
us lame of the right leg as it happens. Hows'ever 'tisn' no news o'
riches for 'ee to-day, sorry as I be to say it: for the postmark's
'Polpier.'"
He tendered the letter. Nicky-Nan stretched out a hand, but drew it
back on a sudden suspicion.
"No," he said. "You may take an' keep it. 'Tis a trick, I doubt."
"You can't mean that, surely?" Lippity-Libby eyed the letter almost
greedily, holding it between finger and thumb. "Of course, if I
thought you meant it--I don't remember gettin' more 'n three letters
in all my life; that's if you don't count the trade they send me at
election times, tellin' me where to put my cross. Three letters all
told, and one o' they was after my poor Sarah died, threatenin' me
about the rates, that had slipped out o' my head, she bein' in the
habit of payin' them when alive. The amount o' fault she'd find in
'em, too, an' the pleasure she'd take in it, you'd never believe.
I've often thought how funny she must be feelin' it up there--the
good soul--with everything of the best in lighting an' water, an' no
rates at all--or that's how _I_ read the last chapter o' Revelations.
. . . Yes, only three letters of my own, that have handed so many to
other people, with births, marriages, an' deaths, shipwrecks an'
legacies an' lovin' letters from every port in the world.
Telegrams too--I'd dearly like to get a telegram of my own. . . .
But Government be a terrible stickler. You may call it red tape, if
you will: but if Mrs Pengelly caught me holdin' back any person's
letter, even though I knowed it held trouble for 'en, she'd be bound
to report me, poor soul, an' then like enough I'd lose place an'
livelihood. So I thank 'ee, naybour, for bein' so forward to give me
a bit o' pleasure; but 'twon't do--no, by the Powers Above it won't."
He shook his head sadly. Then of a sudden his eye brightened.
"I tell 'ee what, though. There's no rule of His Majesty's Service
why I shouldn' stand by while you reads it aloud."
"No, no," said Nicky-Nan hastily. "Here, hold hard a moment--Is it
in Pamphlett's hand-writin' by any chance?"
The question wounded Lippity-Libby's feelings, and he showed it.
"As if I shouldn' ha' told you!" he protested, gently reproachful.
"Nor his clerk's?"
"What, Hendy?--Hendy makes all his long letters straight up an' down,
while these be made with loops. The writin's sloped backwards too,
with a rake on it, same as was fash'nable on some o' the tea-clippers
in my young days, but now 'tis seldom carried 'nless by a few
steam-yachts."
"Well, hand me over the thing--I'll risk it," said Nicky-Nan.
He took the missive and glanced at the address--"Mr N. Nanjivell,
_Naval Reservist_, Polpier R.S.O., Cornwall." The words "_Naval
Reservist_" underlined gave him a tremor. But it was too late to
draw back. He broke open the envelope, drew forth the letter,
unfolded it, and ran his eye hurriedly overleaf, seeking the
signature.
"Why, 'tisn' signed!"
"Not signed?" echoed Lippity-Libby. "That's as much as to say
'nonymous." Suddenly he slapped his thigh. "There now! O' course--
why, what a forgetful head is mine! And simme I knew that hand, too,
all the while."
"Eh?"
"Yes, to be sure--'tis the same that, up to two years ago, used to
write an' send all the 'nonymous letters in Polpier. The old woman
an' I, we tracked it down to one of two, an' both females. It lay
between 'em, and I was for old Ann' Bunney--she bein' well known for
a witch. But now that can't be, for the woman's gone to Satan these
three months. . . . An' my missus gone too--poor tender heart--an'
lookin' down on me, that was rash enough to bet her sixpence on it,
an' now no means to pay up."
"Who was the other?" demanded Nicky-Nan, frowning over the letter,
his face flushing as he frowned.
"You're goin' to read it to me, ben't you?"
"Damned if I do," answered Nicky-Nan curtly. "But I'd like to know
who wrote it."
"It don't stand with Government reggilations, as _I_ read 'em," said
Lippity-Libby, "for a postman to be tellin' who wrote every 'nonymous
letter he carries. . . . Well, I be wastin' time; but if you'll take
my advice, Mr Nanjivell, and it isn' too late, you'll marry a woman.
She'll probably increase your comfort, and--I don't care who she is--
she'll work out another woman that writes 'nonymous. Like a stoat in
a burrow she will, specially if she happens to take in washin' same
as my lost Sarah did. She was shown a 'nonymous letter with 'Only
charitable to warn' in it. Dang me, if she didn' go straight an'
turn up a complaint about 'One chemise torn in wash,' an' showed me
how, though sloped different ways, the letters were alike, twiddles
an' all, to the very daps. I wouldn' believe it at the time, the
party bein' a female in good position. But my wife was certain of
it, an' all the more because she never allowed to her last breath
that the woman's shimmy had been torn at all. Well, so long!"
Nicky-Nan carried the letter indoors to his small, dark sitting-room,
and there spelled it through painfully, holding the paper close up to
the window-pane. It ran:--
Sunday, 2/8/14.
Mr N. Nanjivell.
Sir,--As an inhabitant of Polpier, born in the town and anxious
for its good name, besides being a ratepayer and one that pays
taxes to His Majesty, I was naterally concerned to-day at your
not taking your place along with the other men that went off to
fight for their country. I am given to understand that you were
served with a paper, same as the rest, and the Customs Officer
was put out by your not going. I don't wonder at it. Such want
of pluck.
Its no good your saying you are not Abel. If you are Abel to be
a Reservist and _draw pay_, you are Abel to Fight thats how I
look at it. I would let you to know the Public doesnt pay money
for gamey legs that go about taking all they can get until the
Pinch comes.
Theres a good many things want looking into in Polpier, It has
reached me that until the present sistem came in and put a stop
to it you drew pay for years for drills that you never atended.
This is a time when as Lord Nelson said England expects every
Man to Do his Duty. I think so bad of your case that I am
writing by same post to the Custom House at Troy about it.
So I warn you as
A Well-Wisher.
Nicky-Nan read this amiable missive through, and re-read it almost to
the end before realising the menace of it. At the first perusal his
mind was engaged with the mechanical task of deciphering the script
and with speculating on its authorship. . . . He came to the end with
no full grasp of the purport.
His wits were dulled, too, being preoccupied--in spite of
Lippity-Libby--with suspicions of Mr Pamphlett. He recognised the
hand of an enemy; and though conscious of possessing few friends in
the world (none, maybe--he did not care how many or how few, anyway),
he was aware of one only enemy--Pamphlett. He held this tenement
which Pamphlett openly coveted: but what besides had he that any one
could envy? Who else could wish him worse off than he was?
His broken past, his present poverty and daily mental anguish, his
future sans hope--any one who wanted these might take 'em and
welcome!
But when, on the second reading, he reached the last paragraph but
one, his heart stood still for a moment as if under a sudden stab.
Yes, . . . in the man or woman who had written this letter he had an
enemy who indeed wished him worse off than he was, and not only worse
but much worse; who would take from him not only the roof over his
head, but even the dreadful refuge of the Workhouse; who would hunt
him down even into jail. That talk about his not going to the War
was all nonsense. How could all the Coastguard or Custom-house
Officers in Christendom force a man to go to the War with a growth
under his thigh as big as your fist? Damn the War!--he'd scarcely
given a thought to it (being so worried with other matters) until
last night. He hadn't a notion, at this moment, what it was all
about. But anyhow that stuff about "want of pluck" was silly
nonsense,--almost too silly to vex a man. He would have gone fast
enough had he been able. In truth, Nicky-Nan's conscience had no
nerve to be stung by imputations of cowardliness. He had never
thought of himself as a plucky man--it wasn't worth while, and, for
that matter, _he_ wasn't worth while. He had, without considering
it, always found himself able to take risks alongside of the other
fellows. Moreover, what did he amount to, with his destinies, hopes,
and belongings all told, to be chary of losing them or himself?
But it was a fact, as the letter hinted, that some years ago, and for
two successive seasons, the Reservists' training happening to fall at
a time when fish was plentiful and all hands making money, he, with
one or two other men, had conspired with a knavish Chief Officer of
Coastguard to put a fraudulent trick on the Government. It was the
Chief Officer who actually played the trick, entering them up as
having served a course which they had never attended, and he had kept
their training pay as his price. What his less guilty conspirators
gained was the retention of their names on the strength, to qualify
them in due time for their pensions.
This and other abuses of the old system had been abolished when the
Admiralty decided that every reservist must put in his annual spell
of training at sea. The trick at the time had lain heavily upon
Nicky-Nan's conscience: but with time he had forgotten it. Since the
new order came into force, he had fulfilled his obligations regularly
enough--until the year before last, by which time his leg really
disabled him. It had fortuned, however, that one afternoon on the
Quay, loafing around less on the chance of a job (for odd jobs are
scarce at Polpier) than to wile away time, he had encountered Dr
Mant, the easy-going practitioner from St Martin's. Dr Mant
fancying an excursion after the mackerel, at that time swarming close
inshore, Nicky-Nan had rowed him out and back along the coast to St
Martin's. The bargain struck for half-a-crown, the doctor sent his
trap back by road.
Some way out at sea he inquired, "Hullo! what's wrong with that right
knee of yours?"
"Ricked it," answered Nicky-Nan mendaciously, and added, "I was
thinkin' to consult you, sir. I be due for trainin' with the Reserve
in a fortni't's time."
"Want a certificate? Here, let me have a feel what's wrong."
The Doctor interrupted his whiffing for a moment to reach forward and
feel Nicky's knee professionally, outside the thick sea-cloth
trousers. "Hurts, does it? You've a nasty swelling there, my man."
"It hurts a bit, sir, and no mistake. If I could only have a
certificate now--"
"All right; I'll give you one," said the Doctor, and turned his
attention again to the mackerel.
Before stepping ashore at St Martin's, he pulled out a fountain-pen
and scribbled the certificate on a leaf torn from his note-book.
Having with this and one shilling compounded for his trip, he said as
he traced up his catch--
"There, stick that in an envelope and post it. You're clearly not
fit for service afloat till that swelling goes down."
Nicky-Nan duly posted the certificate, which Dr Mant had
characteristically forgotten to date. After a week it came back with
an official note drawing Nicky's attention to this, and requesting
that the date should be inserted.
"Red tape," said Nicky. He borrowed a pen from Mrs Penhaligon, and
wrote the date quite accurately at the foot of the document.
Then, for some reason or other, his conscience smote him. He put off
posting the letter; and at this point again fortune helped him.
Word came to him by a chance wind that the staff of the Coastguard
had been shifted, over at Troy. Also (though he never discovered
this) the Chief Officer of Customs, after returning the certificate,
had left for his summer holiday.
So Nicky-Nan kept it in his pocket; and nothing happened.
The next year--so easy is the slope of Avernus--Nicky-Nan, who had
felt many qualms over filling in a date which (though accurate)
should by rights have been filled in by the Doctor, felt none at all
in adding a slight twiddle of the pen which changed "1912" into
"1913"; by which he escaped again, and again went undetected.
It had all been contrived so easily, and had succeeded so easily!
Everything said and done, his leg was worse. Any doctor alive, if
brought in, would bear witness that it incapacitated him.
Also any man, who looks ahead, will fight for the pension which alone
stands between him and the workhouse.
With such arguments Nicky-Nan had salved his conscience; and his
conscience had slept under them.
Now in a moment, with eyes fixed on the fatal handwriting, he saw
every bandage of false pretence, all his unguents of conscience,
stripped away, laying his guilt bare to the world.
An enemy was on his track--one who knew and could call up fatal
evidence.
The light in the window-pane had been growing darker for some
minutes. The morning had broken squally, with intervals of sunshine.
A fierce gust came howling up the little river between its leaning
houses and broke in rain upon the bottle-glass quarrels of the
window.
Nicky-Nan started, as though it were a hand arresting him.