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THE MOVING
FINGER
BY
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
AUTHOR OF "THE LOST AMBASSADOR," "THE ILLUSTRIOUS
PRINCE," "JEANNE OF THE MARSHES," ETC.
_With Illustrations by_
J. V. McFALL
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1911
_Copyright, 1910, 1911_,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved._
Published, May, 1911.
_Printed by
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U. S. A._
[Illustration: "Sit still," he whispered. "Don't say anything. There
is someone coming." FRONTISPIECE. _See p._ 166]
"The Moving Finger writes; and having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it."
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
PROLOGUE--THE DREAMER 1
I. A LETTER PROVES USEFUL 11
II. OLD ACQUAINTANCES 17
III. "WHO IS MR. SATON?" 23
IV. A QUESTION OF OBLIGATION 32
V. A MORNING WALK 46
VI. PAULINE MARRABEL 54
VII. AN UNWELCOME VISITOR 61
VIII. AN INSTANCE OF OCCULTISM 67
IX. A SENTIMENTAL TALK 74
X. THE SCENE CHANGES 80
XI. A BUSY EVENING 86
XII. A CALL ON LADY MARRABEL 97
XIII. LADY MARY'S DILEMMA 105
XIV. PETTY WORRIES 114
XV. ROCHESTER IS INDIGNANT 124
XVI. PLAIN SPEAKING 133
XVII. THE GREAT NAUDHEIM 141
XVIII. ROCHESTER'S ULTIMATUM 150
XIX. TROUBLE BREWING 158
XX. FIRST BLOOD 165
XXI. AFRAID! 172
XXII. SATON REASSERTS HIMSELF 178
XXIII. AN UNPLEASANT ENCOUNTER 186
XXIV. LOIS IS OBEDIENT 194
XXV. A LAST WARNING 202
XXVI. THE DUCHESS'S DINNER PARTY 209
XXVII. THE ANSWER TO A RIDDLE 215
XXVIII. SPOKEN FROM THE HEART 224
XXIX. THE COURAGE OF DESPERATION 232
XXX. A SURPRISING REQUEST 239
XXXI. BETWEEN LOVE AND DUTY 248
XXXII. AT THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE 255
XXXIII. "YOU DO NOT BELIEVE IN ME!" 261
XXXIV. A WOMAN'S TONGUE 269
XXXV. ON LOIS' BIRTHDAY 278
XXXVI. THE CHARLATAN UNMASKED 284
EPILOGUE--THE MAN 294
ILLUSTRATIONS
"Sit still," he whispered. "Don't say anything.
There is someone coming" _Frontispiece_
He came to a standstill by the side of the boy _Page_ 2
"Some water quick, and brandy," Rochester
cried " 73
She swayed for a moment, and fell over on
her side " 222
THE MOVING FINGER
PROLOGUE
THE DREAMER
The boy sat with his back to a rock, his knees drawn up and clasped
within fingers nervously interlocked. His eyes were fixed upon the
great stretch of landscape below, shadowy now, and indistinct, like a
rolling plain of patchwork woven by mysterious fingers. Gray mists
were floating over the meadows and low-lying lands. Away in the
distance they marked the circuitous course of the river, which only an
hour ago had shone like a belt of silver in the light of the setting
sun. Twilight had fallen with unexpected swiftness. Here and there a
light flashed from the isolated farmhouses. On the darkening horizon,
a warm glow was reflected in the clouds from the distant town.
The boy, when he had settled down to his vigil, had been alone. From
over the brow of the hill, however, had come a few minutes ago a man,
dressed in loose shooting clothes, and with a gun under his arm. He
came to a standstill by the side of the boy, and stood there watching
him for several moments, with a certain faintly amused curiosity
shining out of his somewhat supercilious gray eyes. The newcomer was
obviously a person of breeding and culture--the sort of person who
assumes without question the title of "Gentleman." The boy wore
ready-made clothes and hobnailed boots. They remained within a few
feet of one another for several moments, without speech.
"My young friend," the newcomer said at last, "you will be late for
your tea, or whatever name is given to your evening meal. Did you not
hear the bell? It rang nearly half-an-hour ago."
The boy moved his head slightly, but made no attempt to rise.
"It does not matter. I am not hungry."
The newcomer leaned his gun against the rock, and drawing a pipe from
the pocket of his shooting-coat, commenced leisurely to fill it. Every
now and then he glanced at the boy, who seemed once more to have
become unconscious of his presence. He struck a match and lit the
tobacco, stooping down for a moment to escape the slight evening
breeze. Then he threw the match away, and lounged against the
lichen-covered fragment of stone.
"I wonder," he remarked, "why, when you have the whole day in which to
come and look at this magnificent view, you should choose to come just
at the hour when it has practically been swallowed up."
The boy lifted his head for the first time. His face was a little
long, his features irregular but not displeasing, his deep-set eyes
seemed unnaturally bright. His cheeks were sunken, his forehead
unusually prominent. The whole effect of his personality was a little
curious. If he had no claims to be considered good-looking, his face
was at least a striking one.
[Illustration: He came to a standstill by the side of the boy.]
"I come at this hour," he said slowly, "because the view does not
attract me so much at any other time. It is only when the twilight
falls that one can see--properly."
The newcomer took his pipe from his mouth.
"You must have marvelous eyesight, my young friend," he remarked. "To
me everything seems blurred and uncertain."
"You don't understand!" said the boy impatiently. "I do not come here
to see the things that anyone can see at any hour of the day. There is
nothing satisfying in that. I come here to look down and see the
things which do not really exist. It is easy enough when one is
alone," he added, a little pointedly.
The newcomer laughed softly--there was more banter than humor in his
mirth.
"So my company displeases you," he remarked. "Do you know that I have
the right to tell you to get up, and never to pass through that gate
again?"
The boy shrugged his shoulders.
"One place is as good as another," he said.
The man smoked in silence for several moments. Then he withdrew the
pipe from his teeth and sighed gently.
"These are indeed democratic days," he said. "You do not know, my
young friend, that I am Henry Prestgate Rochester, Esquire, if you
please, High Sheriff of this county, Magistrate and Member of
Parliament, owner, by the bye, of that rock against which you are
leaning, and of most of that country below, which you can or cannot
see."
"Really!" the boy answered slowly. "My name is Bertrand Saton, and I
am staying at the Convalescent Home down there, a luxury which is
costing me exactly eight shillings a week."
"So I concluded," his companion remarked. "May I ask what your
occupation is, when in health?"
"It's of no consequence," the boy answered, a little impatiently.
"Perhaps I haven't one at all. Whatever it is, as you may imagine, it
has not brought me any great success. If you wish me to go----"
"Not at all," Rochester interrupted, with a little protesting gesture.
"I do not wish to remain here on sufferance," the boy continued. "I
understood that we were allowed to spend our time upon the hills
here."
"That is quite true, I believe," Rochester admitted. "My bailiff sees
to those things, and if it amuses you to sit here all night, you are
perfectly welcome."
"I shall probably do so."
Rochester watched him curiously for a few seconds.
"Look here," he said, "I will make a bargain with you. You shall have
the free run of all my lands for as long as you like, and in return
you shall just answer me one question."
The boy turned his head slightly.
"The question?" he asked.
"You shall tell me the things which you see down there," Rochester
declared, holding his hand straight out in front of him, pointing
downward toward the half-hidden panorama.
The boy shook his head.
"For other people they would not count," he said. "They are for myself
only. What I see would be invisible to you."
"A matter of eyesight?" Rochester asked, with raised eyebrows.
"Of imagination," the boy answered. "There is no necessity for you to
look outside your own immediate surroundings to see beautiful things,
unless you choose deliberately to make your life an ugly thing. With
us it is different--with us who work for a living, who dwell in the
cities, and who have no power to push back the wheels of life. If we
are presumptuous enough to wish to take into our lives anything of the
beautiful, anything to help us fight our daily battle against the
commonplace, we have to create it for ourselves. That is why I am here
just now, and why I was regretting, when I heard your footstep, that
one finds it so hard to be alone."
"So I am to be ordered off?" Rochester remarked, smiling.
The boy did not answer. The man did not move. The minutes went by, and
the silence remained unbroken. Below, the twilight seemed to be
passing into night with unusual rapidity. It was a shapeless world
now, a world of black and gray. More lights flashed out every few
seconds.
It was the boy who broke the silence at last. He seemed, in some
awkward way, to be trying to atone for his former unsociability.
"This is my last night at the Convalescent Home," he said, a little
abruptly. "I am cured. To-morrow I am going back to my work in
Mechester. For many days I shall see nothing except actual things. I
shall know nothing of life except its dreary and material side. That
is why I came here with the twilight. That is why I am going to sit
here till the night comes--perhaps, even, I shall wait until the dawn.
I want one last long rest. I want to carry away with me some absolute
impression of life as I would have it. Down there," he added, moving
his head slowly, "down there I can see the things I want--the things
which, if I could, I would take into my life. I am going to look at
them, and think of them, and long for them, until they seem real. I am
going to create a concrete memory, and take it away with me."
Rochester looked more than a little puzzled. The boy's speech seemed
in no way in keeping with his attire, and the fact of his presence in
a charitable home.
"Might one inquire once more," he asked, "what your occupation in
Mechester is?"
"It is of no consequence," the boy answered shortly. "It is an
occupation that does not count. It does not make for anything in life.
One must do something to earn one's daily bread."
"You find my questioning rather a nuisance, I am afraid," Rochester
remarked, politely.
"I will not deny it," the boy answered. "I will admit that I wish to
be alone. I am hoping that very soon you will be going."
"On the contrary," Rochester replied, smiling, "I am much too
interested in your amiable conversation. You see," he added, knocking
the ashes from his pipe, and leaning carelessly back against the rock,
"I live in a world, every member of which is more or less satisfied. I
will be frank with you, and I will admit that I find satisfaction in
either man or woman a most reprehensible state. I find a certain
relief, therefore, in talking to a person who wants something he
hasn't got, or who wants to be something that he isn't."
"Then you can find all the satisfaction you want in talking to me,"
the boy declared, gloomily. "I am at the opposite pole of life, you
see, to those friends of yours. I want everything I haven't got. I am
content with nothing that I have."
"For instance?" Rochester asked, suggestively.
"I want freedom from the life of a slave," the boy said. "I want
money, the money that gives power. I want the right to shape my own
life in my own way, and to my own ends, instead of being forced to
remain a miserable, ineffective part of a useless scheme of
existence."
"Your desires are perfectly reasonable," Rochester remarked, calmly.
"Imagine, if you please--you seem to have plenty of imaginative
force--that I am a fairy godfather. I may not look the part, but at
least I can live up to it. I will provide the key for your escape. I
will set you down in the world you are thirsting to enter. You shall
take your place with the others, and run your race."
The boy suddenly abandoned his huddled-up position, and rose to his
feet. Against the background of empty air, and in the gathering
darkness, he seemed thinner than ever, and smaller.
"I am going," he said shortly. "It may seem amusing to you to make fun
of me. I will not stay----"
"Don't be a fool!" Rochester interrupted. "Haven't you heard that I am
more than half a madman? I am going to justify my character for
eccentricity. You see my house down there--Beauleys, they call it? At
twelve o'clock to-morrow, if you come to me, I will give you a sum of
money sufficient to keep you for several years. I do not specify the
amount at this moment, I shall think it over before you come."
The boy had no words. He simply stared at his chance companion in
blank astonishment.
"My offer seems to surprise you," Rochester remarked, pleasantly.
"It need not. You can go and tell the whole world of it, if you like,
although, as a reputation for sanity is quite a valuable asset,
nowadays, I should suggest that you keep your mouth closed. Still,
if you do speak of it, no one will be in the least surprised.
My friends--I haven't many--call me the most eccentric man in
Christendom. My enemies wonder how it is that I keep out of the
asylum. Personally, I consider myself a perfectly reasonable mortal. I
have whims, and I am not afraid to indulge them. I give you this money
on one--or perhaps we had better say two conditions. The first is that
you make a _bona fide_ use of it. When I say that, I mean that you
leave immediately your present employment, whatever it may be, and go
out into the world with the steadfast purpose of finding for yourself
the things which you saw a few minutes ago down in the valley there.
You may not find them, but still I pledge you to the search. The
second condition is that some day or other you find your way back into
this part of the country, and tell me how my experiment has fared."
The boy realized with a little gasp.
"Am I to thank you?" he asked.
"It would be usual but foolish," Rochester answered. "I need no
thanks, I deserve none. I yield to a whim, nothing else. I do this
thing for my own pleasure. The sum of money which I propose to put
into your hands will probably represent to me what a five-shilling
piece might to you. This may sound vulgar, but it is true. I think
that I need not warn you never to come to me for more. You need not
look so horrified. I am quite sure that you would not do that. And
there is one thing further."
"Yes?" the boy asked. "Another condition?"
Rochester shook his head.
"No!" he said. "It is not a condition. It is just a little advice. The
way through life hasn't been made clear for everyone. You may find
yourself brought up in the thorny paths. Take my advice. Don't be
content with anything less than success. If you fail, strip off your
clothes, and swim out to sea on a sunny day, swim out until your
strength fails and you must sink. It is the pleasantest form of
oblivion I know of. Don't live on. You are only a nuisance to
yourself, and a bad influence to the rest of the world. Succeed, or
make your little bow, my young friend. It is the best advice I can
give you. Remember that the men who have failed, and who live on, are
creatures of the gutter."
"You are right!" the boy muttered. "I have read that somewhere, and it
comes home to me. Failure is the one unforgivable sin. If I have to
commit every other crime in the decalogue, I will at least avoid that
one!"
Rochester shouldered his gun, and prepared to stroll off.
"At twelve o'clock to-morrow, then," he said. "I wouldn't hurry away
now, if I were you. Sit down in your old place, and see if there isn't
a thread of gold down there in the valley."
The boy obeyed almost mechanically. His heart was beating fast. His
back was pressed against the cold rock. The fingers of both hands were
nervously buried in the soft turf. Once more his eyes were riveted
upon this land of shifting shadows. The whole panorama of life seemed
suddenly unveiled before his eyes. More real, more brilliant now were
the things upon which he looked. The thread of gold was indeed there!
CHAPTER I
A LETTER PROVES USEFUL
Bertrand Saton leaned against the stone coping of the bridge, and
looked downwards, as though watching the seagulls circling round and
round, waiting for their usual feast of scraps. The gulls, however,
were only his excuse. He stood there, looking hard at the gray, muddy
water beneath, trying to make up his mind to this final and inevitable
act of despair. He had walked the last hundred yards almost eagerly.
He had told himself that he was absolutely and entirely prepared for
death. Yet the first sight of that gray, cold-looking river, had
chilled him. He felt a new and unaccountable reluctance to quit the
world which certainly seemed to have made up its mind that it had no
need of him. His thoughts rushed backwards. "Swim out to sea on a
sunny day," he repeated to himself slowly. Yes, but this! It was a
different thing, this! The longer he looked below, the more he shrank
from such a death!
He stood upright with a little shiver, and began--it was not for the
first time that day--a searching investigation into the contents of
his pocket. The result was uninspiring. There was not an article
there which would have fetched the price of a dose of poison. Then
his fingers strayed into a breast-pocket which he seldom used, and
brought out a letter, unopened, all grimy, and showing signs of having
been there for some considerable time. He held it between his fingers,
doubtful at first from where it had come. Then suddenly he remembered.
He remembered the runaway horses in the Bois, and the strange-looking
old woman who had sat in the carriage with grim, drawn lips and pallid
face. He remembered the dash into the roadway, the brief, maddening
race by the side of the horses, his clutch at the reins, the sense
of being dragged along the dusty road. It was, perhaps, the one
physically courageous action of his life. The horses were stopped, and
the woman's life was saved. He looked at the letter in his hand.
"Why not?" he asked himself softly.
He hesitated, and glanced downward once more toward the river. The
sight seemed to decide him. He turned his weary footsteps again
westward.
Walking with visible effort, and resting whenever he had a chance, he
reached at last the Oxford Street end of Bond Street. Holding the
letter in his hand, he made his way, slowly and more painfully than
ever, down the right-hand side. People stared at him a little
curiously. He was a strange figure, passing through the crowds of
well-dressed, sauntering men and women. He was unnaturally thin--the
pallor of his cheeks and the gleam in his eyes spoke of starvation.
His clothes had been well-cut, but they were almost in rags. His cap
had cost him a few pence at a second-hand store.
He made his way toward his destination, looking neither to the right
nor to the left. The days had gone when he found it interesting to
study the faces of the passers-by, looking out always for adventures,
amusing himself with shrewd speculations as to the character and
occupation of those who seemed worthy of notice. This was his last
quest now--the quest of life or death.
He stopped in front of a certain number, and comparing it with the
tattered envelope which he held in his hand, finally entered. The
lift-boy, who was lounging in the little hall, looked at him in
surprise.
"I want to find Madame Helga," the young man said shortly. "This is
number 38, isn't it?"
The boy looked at him doubtfully, and led the way to the lift.
"Third floor," he said. "I'll take you up."
The lift stopped, and Bertrand Saton found in front of him a door upon
which was a small brass plate, engraved simply with the name of Helga.
He knocked twice, and received no answer. Then, turning the handle, he
entered, and stood looking about him with some curiosity.
It was a small room, luxuriously but sombrely furnished. Heavy
curtains were drawn more than half-way across the windows, and the
room was so dark that at first he was not sure whether it was indeed
empty. On a small black oak table in the middle of the rich green
carpet, stood a crystal ball. There was nothing else unusual about the
apartment, except the absence of any pictures upon the walls, and a
faint aromatic odor, as though somewhere dried weeds were being
burned.
Some curtains opposite him were suddenly thrust aside. A woman stood
there looking at him. She was of middle height, fair, with a
complexion which even in that indistinct light he could see owed
little of its smoothness to nature. She wore a loose gown which seemed
to hang from her shoulders, of some soft green material, drawn around
her waist with a girdle. Her eyes were deep-set and penetrating.
"You wish to see me?" she asked.
He held out the note.
"If you are Madame Helga," he answered.
She came a little further into the room, looking at him with a slight
frown contracting her pencilled eyebrows. He had no appearance of
being a client.
"You have brought a letter, then?" she asked.
"My name is Bertrand Saton," he explained. "This letter was given to
me in Paris more than a year ago, by an elderly lady. I have carried
it with me all that time. At first it did not seem likely that I
should ever need to use it. Unfortunately," he added, a little
bitterly, "things have changed."
She took the letter, and tore open the envelope. Its contents
consisted only of a few lines, which she read with some appearance of
surprise. Then she turned once more to the young man.
"You are the Mr. Bertrand Saton of whom the writer of this letter
speaks?" she asked.
He nodded.
"I am," he answered.
She looked him over from head to foot. There was scarcely an inch of
his person which did not speak of poverty and starvation.
"You have had trouble," she remarked.
"I have," he admitted.
"The lady who wrote that letter," she said, "is at present in Spain."
He turned to go.
"I am not surprised," he answered. "My star is not exactly in the
ascendant just now."
"Don't be too sure," she said. "And whatever you do, don't go away.
Sit down if you are tired. You don't seem strong."
"I am not," he admitted. "Would you like," he added, "to know what is
the matter with me?"
"It is nothing serious, I hope?"
"I am starving," he declared, simply. "I have eaten nothing for
twenty-four hours."
She looked at him for a moment as though doubting his words. Then she
moved rapidly to a desk which stood in a corner of the room.
"You are a very foolish person," she said, "to allow yourself to get
into such a state, when all the time you had this letter in your
pocket. But I forgot," she added, unlocking the desk. "You had not
read it. You had better have some money to buy yourself food and
clothes, and come here again."
"Food and clothes!" he repeated, vaguely. "I do not understand."
She touched the letter with her forefinger.
"You have a very powerful friend here," she said. "I am told to give
you whatever you may be in need of, and to telegraph to her, in
whatever part of the world she may be, if ever you should present this
letter."
Saton began to laugh softly.
"It is the turn of the wheel," he said. "I am too weak to hear any
more. Give me some money, and I will come back. I must eat or I shall
faint."
She gave him some notes, and watched him curiously as he staggered out
of the room. He forgot the lift, and descended by the stairs,
unsteadily, like a drunken person, reeling from the banisters to the
wall, and back again. Out in the street, people looked at him
curiously as he turned northward toward Oxford Street. His eyes
searched the shop-windows. He hurried along like a man feverishly
anxious to make use of his last stint of strength. He was in search of
food!