WILL HE REMEMBER?
Should she tell him? She could not. The way must somehow be prepared.
No--she could not tell him just so--in cold blood. How would he look if
she were to begin: 'I have found out the mystery. You are Edmund Gray.
During the hours that you cannot recall, you are playing the part of a
Socialist teacher and leader: you are actively propagating the doctrines
that you hold to be dangerous and misleading'? What would he say? What
would he feel when he realised the truth?
On the table lay a copy of the _Times_--a fortnight-old copy--open at
the place where there was a certain letter from a certain Edmund Gray.
Elsie pointed to it. Mr. Dering sighed. 'Again,' he said, 'they
persecute me. Now it is a letter addressed to Edmund Gray, lying on my
table: now it is the bill of a pernicious lecture by Edmund Gray: to-day
it is this paper with the letter that appeared a week or two ago. Who
brought it here? Checkley says he didn't. Who put it on my table?'
Elsie made no reply. It was useless to test her former theory of the boy
under the table.
'As for the man who wrote this letter,' Mr. Dering went on, 'he bears
the name of our forger and writes from the same address. Yet he is not
the man. Of that I am convinced. This man is a fool because he believes
in the honesty of mankind: he is a generous fool, because he believes
that people would rather be good than bad. Nonsense! They would rather
be stealing from each other's plates, like the monkeys, than dividing
openly. He has what they call a good heart--that is, he is a soft
creature--and he is full of pity for the poor. Now, in my young days, I
was taught--what after-experience has only brought more home to
me--that the poor are poor in consequence of their vices. We used to say
to them: "Go away--practise thrift. Be sober--work hard. By exercising
these virtues we rose out of your ranks. By continuing to exercise them
we remain on these levels. Go away. There is no remedy for disease
contracted by vice. Go away and suffer." That's what we said formerly.
What they say now is: "Victims of greed! You are filled with every
virtue possible to humanity. You are down-trodden by the Capitalist. You
are oppressed. Make and produce for others to enjoy. We will change all
this. We will put the fruits--the harvest--of your labour in your own
hands, and you shall show the world your justice, your noble
disinterestedness, your generosity, your love of the common weal."
That's the new gospel, Elsie, and I prefer the old.'
Strange that a man should at one time hold and preach with so much
fervour and earnestness the very creed which at another time he
denounced as fiercely!
'This man, and such as he,' continued Mr. Dering, lifted out of his
anxieties by that subject, 'would destroy Property in order to make the
workman rich. Wonderful doctrine! He would advance the world by
destroying the only true incentive and stimulant for work, invention,
civilisation, association, and every good and useful thing. He would
destroy Property. And then? Can he not see what would follow? Why, these
people do not know the very alphabet of the thing. By Property they mean
the possession by individuals of land or money. But that is only a part
of Property. Take that away, and the individual remains. And he has
got--what you cannot take away--the rest of his Property, by which he
will speedily repair the temporary loss. Consider, child, if you can,
what does a man possess? He has, I say, Property--all his own--which
cannot be taken from him or shared with another--Property in his brain,
his trade, his wit, his craft, his art, his skill, his invention, his
enterprise, his quickness to grip an opportunity. Again, he has his wife
and children--sometimes a very valuable Property: he has, besides, his
memories, his knowledge, his experience, his thoughts, his hopes, his
projects, and intentions: he has his past and he has his future: he has,
or thinks he has, his inheritance in the Kingdom of Heaven. Take away
all these things bit by bit, what is left? Nothing. Not even the shadow
of a man. Not even a naked figure. This, Elsie, is Property. These
things separate the individual from the mass, and each man from his
neighbour. A shallow fanatic, like this Edmund Gray, thinks that wealth
is the whole of Property. Why, I say, it is only a part of Property: it
is the external and visible side of certain forms of Property. Take all
the wealth away to-day--even if you make ten thousand laws, the same
qualities--the same forms of Property--the same lack of those qualities
will produce like results to-morrow.--Do you now understand, child, what
is meant by Property? It is everything which makes humanity. Wealth is
only the symbol or proof of society so organised that all these
qualities--the whole Property of a man, can be exercised freely and
without injustice.'
'I see,' said Elsie, gazing with wonder undisguised. Was this last
night's Prophet? Could the same brain hold two such diverse views'?
'You are surprised, child. That is because you have never taken or
understood this larger view of Property. It is new to you. Confess,
however, that it lends sacredness to things which we are becoming
accustomed to have derided. Believe me, it is not without reason that
some of us venerate the laws which have been slowly, very slowly,
framed: and the forms which have been slowly, very slowly, framed: as
experience has taught us wisdom for the protection of man--working man,
not loafing, lazy man. It is wise and right of us to maintain all those
institutions which encourage the best among us to work and invent and
distribute. By these forms alone is industry protected and enterprise
encouraged. Then such as this Edmund Gray'--he laid his hand again upon
the letter--'will tell you that Property--Property--causes certain
crimes--ergo, Property must be destroyed. Everything desirable causes
its own peculiar class of crime. Consider the universal passion of Love.
It daily causes crimes innumerable. Yet no one has yet proposed the
abolition of Love--eh?'
'I believe not,' Elsie replied, smiling. 'I hope no one will--yet.'
'No. But the desire for Property, which is equally universal--which is
the most potent factor in the cause of Law and Order--they desire and
propose to destroy. I have shown you that it is impossible. Let the
companies pay no dividends, let all go to the working men: let the
lands pay no rent: the houses no rent: let the merchants' capital yield
no profit: to-morrow the clever man will be to the front again, using
for his own purposes the dull and the stupid and the lazy. That is my
opinion.--Forgive this sermon, Elsie. You started me on the subject. It
is one on which I have felt very strongly for a long time. In fact, the
more I think upon it the more I am convinced that the most important
thing in any social system is the protection of the individual--personal
liberty: freedom of contract: right to enjoy in safety what his ability,
his enterprise, and his dexterity may gain for him.'
Elsie made no reply for a moment. The conversation had taken an
unexpected turn. The vehemence of the upholder of Property overwhelmed
her as much as the earnestness of its destroyer. Besides, what chance
has a girl of one-and-twenty on a subject of which she knows nothing
with a man who has thought upon it for fifty years? Besides, she was
thinking all the time of the other man. And now there was no doubt--none
whatever--that Mr. Dering knew nothing of Mr. Edmund Gray--nothing at
all. He knew nothing and suspected nothing of the truth. And which
should she believe? The man who was filled with pity for the poor and
saw nothing but their sufferings, or the man who was full of sympathy
with the rich, and saw in the poor nothing but their vices? Are all men
who work oppressed? Or are there no oppressed at all, but only some lazy
and stupid and some clever?
'Tell me more another time,' she said, with a sigh. 'Come back to the
case--the robbery. Is anything discovered yet?'
'I have heard nothing. George refuses to go on with the case out of some
scruple because----'
'Oh! I know the cause. Very cruel things have been said about him. Do
you not intend to stand by your own partner, Mr. Dering?'
'To stand by him? Why, what can I do?'
'You know what has been said of him--what is said of him--why I have had
to leave home----'
'I know what is said, certainly. It matters nothing what is said. The
only important thing is to find out--and that they cannot do.'
'They want to connect Edmund Gray with the forgeries, and they are
trying the wrong way. Checkley is not the connecting link--nor is
George.'
'You talk in riddles, child.'
'Perhaps. Do you think, yourself, that George has had anything whatever
to do with the business?'
'If you put it so, I do not. If you ask me what I have a right to
think--it is that everything is possible.'
'That is what you said about Athelstan. Yet now his innocence is
established.'
'That is to say, his guilt is not proved. Find me the man who forged
that cheque, and I will acknowledge that he is innocent. Until then, he
is as guilty as the other man--Checkley--who was also named in
connection with the matter. Mind, I say, I do not believe that my
Partner could do this thing. I will tell him so. I have told him so. If
it had to be done over again, I would ask him to become my partner. But
all things are possible. My brother is hot upon it. Well--let him search
as he pleases. In such a case the solution is always the simplest and
the most unexpected. I told him only this morning--he had lunch with
me--that he was on a wrong scent--but he is obstinate. Let him go on.'
'Yes--let him divide a family--keep up bitterness between mother and
son--make a lifelong separation between those who ought to love each
other most---- Oh! it is shameful! It is shameful! And you make no
effort--none at all--to stop it.'
'What can I do? What can I say, more than I have said? If they would
only not accuse each other--but find out something!'
'Mr. Dering--forgive me--what I am going to say'--she began with jerks.
'The honour of my brother--of my lover--are at stake.'
'Say, child, what you please.'
'I think that perhaps'--she did not dare to look at him--'if you could
remember sometimes those dropped and forgotten evenings--those hours
when you do not know what you have said and done--if you could only
remember a little--we might find out more.'
He watched her face blushing, and her eyes confused, and her voice
stammering, and he saw that there was something behind--something that
she hinted, but would not or could not express. He sat upright,
suspicious and disquieted.
'Tell me what you mean, child.'
'I cannot--if you do not remember anything. You come late in the
morning--sometimes two hours late. You think it is only ten o'clock when
it is twelve. You do not know where you have been for the last two
hours. Try to remember that. You were late on Saturday morning. Perhaps
this morning. Where were you?'
His face was quite white. He understood that something was
going--soon--to happen.
'I know not, Elsie--indeed--I cannot remember. Where was I?'
'You leave here at five. You have ordered dinner, and your housekeeper
tells me that you come home at ten or eleven. Where are you all that
time?'
'I am at the Club.'
'Can you remember? Think--were you at the Club last night? George went
there to find you, but you were not there--and you were not at home.
Where were you?'
He tried to speak--but he could not. He shook his head--he gasped twice.
'You cannot remember? Oh! try--Mr. Dering--try--for the sake of
everybody--to put an end to this miserable condition--try.'
'I cannot remember,' he said again feebly.
'Is it possible--just possible--that while you are away--during these
intervals--you yourself may be actually--in the company--of this
Socialist--this Edmund Gray?'
'Elsie--what do you mean?'
'I mean--can you not remember?'
'You mean more, child! Do you know what you mean? If what you suggest is
true, then I must be mad--mad. Do you mean it? Do you mean it? Do you
understand what you say?'
'Try--try to remember,' she replied. 'That is all I mean. My dear
guardian, is there any one to whom I am more grateful than yourself? You
have given me a fortune and my lover an income. Try--try to remember.'
She left him without more words.
He sat looking straight before him--the horror of the most awful thing
that can befall a man upon him. Presently, he touched his bell, and his
old clerk appeared.
'Checkley,' he said, 'tell me the truth.'
'I always do,' he replied surlily.
'I have been suffering from fits of forgetfulness. Have you observed
any impairing of the faculties? When a man's mental powers are decaying,
he forgets things: he loses the power of work: his old skill leaves him:
he cannot distinguish between good work and bad. He shows his mental
decay, I believe, in physical ways--he shuffles as he walks; he stoops
and shambles--and in his speech--he wanders and he repeats--and in his
food and manner of eating. Have you observed any of these symptoms upon
me, Checkley?'
'Not one. You are as upright as a lance: you eat like five-and-twenty:
your talk is as good and your work is as good as when you were
forty.--Don't think such things. To be sure you do forget a bit. But not
your work. You only forget sometimes what you did out of the office--as
if that matters. Do you remember the case you tackled yesterday
afternoon?'
'Certainly.'
'Do you tell me that any man--forty years younger than you--could have
tackled that case more neatly? Garn! Go 'long!'
Checkley went back to his office.
'What did she mean by it, then?' Mr. Dering murmured. 'Who put her on to
such a suspicion? What did she mean by it? Of course it's nonsense.' So
reassuring himself, he yet remained disquieted. For he could not
remember.
At half-past five or so, Mr. Edmund Gray arrived at his Chambers. The
outer door was closed, but he found his disciple waiting for him. She
had been there an hour or more, she said. She was reading one of the
books he had recommended to her. With the words of Mr. Dering in her
ears, she read as if two voices were speaking to her--talking to each
other across her.
She laid down the book and rose to greet him. 'Master,' she said, 'I
have come from Mr. Dering. He is your solicitor, you told me.'
'Assuredly. He manages my affairs.'
'It is curious--I asked him if he knew you--and he said that he knew
nothing about you.'
'That is curious, certainly. My solicitor for--for many years. He must
have mistaken the name. Or--he grows old--perhaps he forgets people.'
'Do you often see him?'
'I saw him this morning. I took him my letter to the _Times_. He is
narrow--very narrow, in his views. We argued the thing for a bit. But,
really, one might as well argue with a stick as with Dering when
Property is concerned. So he forgets, does he? Poor old chap! He
forgets--well--we all grow old together!' He sighed. 'It is his time
to-day and mine to-morrow.--My Scholar, let us talk.'
The Scholar left her Master at seven. On her way out she ran against
Checkley, who was prowling round the court. 'You!' he cried. 'You! Ah!
I've caught you, have I? On Saturday afternoon I thought I see you going
into No. 22. Now I've caught you coming out, have I?'
'Checkley,' she said, 'if you are insolent, I shall have to speak to Mr.
Dering;' and walked away.
'There's another of 'em,' Checkley murmured, looking after her--'a
hardened one, if ever there was. All for her lover and her brother! A
pretty nest of 'em. And calls herself a lady!'