PIANO PRACTICE.
Caffyn was conscious of a certain excitement that Sunday evening as he
waited for Mark Ashburn's arrival. He felt that he might be standing
on the threshold of a chamber containing the secret of the other's
life--the key of which that very evening might deliver into his hands.
He was too cautious to jump at hasty conclusions; he wished before
deciding upon any plan of action to be practically certain of his
facts; a little skilful manipulation, however, would most probably
settle the question one way or the other, and if the result verified
his suspicions he thought he would know how to make use of his
advantage. There is a passage in the 'Autocrat of the Breakfast Table'
where the author, in talking of the key to the side-door by which
every person's feelings may be entered, goes on to say, 'If nature or
accident has put one of these keys into the hands of a person who has
the torturing instinct, I can only solemnly pronounce the words that
justice utters over its doomed victims, "The Lord have mercy on your
soul!"' There, it is true, the key in question unlocks the delicate
instrument of the nervous system, and not necessarily a Bluebeard's
chamber of guilt; but where the latter is also the case to some extent
the remark by no means loses in significance, and if any man had the
torturing instinct to perfection, Caffyn might be said to be that
individual. There was nothing he would enjoy more than practising upon
a human piano and putting it hopelessly out of tune; but pleasant as
this was, he felt he might have to exercise some self-denial here, at
all events for the present, lest his instrument should become restive
and escape before he had quite made up his mind what air he could best
play upon it.
In the meantime Mark was preparing to keep the appointment in the
pleasantest and most unsuspecting frame of mind. After answering
Caffyn's note he had met the Langtons as they came out of church and
returned with them to lunch. Dolly was herself again now, her haunting
fears forgotten with the happy ease of childhood, and Mabel had made
Mark feel something of the gratitude she felt to him for his share in
bringing this about. He had gone on to one or two other houses, and
had been kindly received everywhere, and now he was looking forward to
a quiet little dinner with the full expectation of a worthy finish to
a pleasant day. Even when he mounted the stairs of the house which had
been once familiar to him, and stood in Holroyd's old rooms, he was
scarcely affected by any unpleasant associations. For one thing, he
was beginning to have his conscience tolerably well in hand; for
another, the interior of the rooms was completely transformed since he
had seen them last.
Then they were simply the furnished apartments of a man who cared but
little for his personal well-being; now, when he passed round the
handsome Japanese screen by the door, he saw an interior marked by a
studied elegance and luxury. The common lodging-house fireplace was
concealed by an elaborate oak over-mantel, with brass plaques and blue
china; the walls were covered with a delicate blue-green paper and
hung with expensive etchings and autotype drawings of an æsthetically
erotic character; small tables and deep luxurious chairs were
scattered about, and near the screen stood a piano and a low stand
with peacock's feathers arranged in a pale blue crackle jar. In spite
of the pipes and riding-whips on the racks, the place was more like a
woman's boudoir than a man's room, and there were traces in its
arrangements of an eye to effect which gave it the air of a
well-staged scene in a modern comedy.
It looked very attractive, softly lit as it was by shaded candles in
sconces and a porcelain lamp with a crimson shade, which was placed on
the small oval table near the fern-filled fireplace; and as Mark
placed himself in a low steamer chair and waited for his host to make
his appearance, he felt as if he was going to enjoy himself.
'I shall have my rooms done up something in this way,' he thought,
'when _my_ book comes out.' The blinds were half drawn and the windows
opened wide to the sultry air, and while he waited he could hear the
bells from neighbouring steeples calling in every tone, from harsh
command to persuasive invitation, to the evening services.
Presently Caffyn lounged in through the hangings which protected his
bedroom door. 'Sorry you found me unready,' he said; 'I got in late
from the club somehow, but they'll bring us up some dinner presently.
Looking at that thing, eh?' he asked, as he saw Mark's eye rest on a
small high-heeled satin slipper in a glass case which stood on a
bracket near him. 'That was Kitty Bessborough's once--you remember
Kitty Bessborough, of course? She gave it to me just before she went
out on that American tour, and got killed in some big railway smash
somewhere, poor little woman! I'll tell you some day how she came to
make me a present of it. Here's Binney with the soup now.'
Mrs. Binney sent up a perfect dinner, at which her husband assisted in
a swallow-tailed coat and white tie, a concession he would not have
made for every lodger, and Caffyn played the host to perfection,
though with every course he asked himself inwardly, 'Shall I open fire
on him yet?' and still he delayed.
At last he judged that his time had come; Binney had brought up coffee
and left them alone. 'You sit down there and make yourself at home,'
said Caffyn genially, thrusting Mark down into a big saddle-bag
arm-chair ('where I can see your confounded face,' he added inwardly).
'Try one of these cigars--they're not bad; and now we can talk
comfortably. I tell you what I want to talk about,' he said presently,
and a queer smile flitted across his face; 'I want to talk about that
book of yours. Oh, I know you want to fight shy of it, but I don't
care. It isn't often I have a celebrated author to dine with me, and
if you didn't wish to hear it talked about you shouldn't have written
it, you know. I want you to tell me a few facts I can retail to people
on the best authority, don't you know; so you must just make up your
mind to conquer that modesty of yours for once, old fellow, and
gratify my impertinent curiosity.'
Mark was feeling so much at ease with himself and Caffyn that even
this proposition was not very terrible to him just then. 'All right,'
he said lazily; 'what do you want to know first?'
'That's right. Well, first, I must tell you I've read the book. I'd
like to say how much I was struck by it if I might.'
'I'm very glad you liked it,' said Mark.
'Like it?' echoed Caffyn; 'my dear fellow, I haven't been so moved by
anything for years. The thought you've crammed into that book, the
learning, the passion and feeling of the thing! I envy you for being
able to feel you have produced it all.' ('That ought to fetch him,' he
thought.)
'Oh, as for that,' said Mark with a shrug, and left his remark
unfinished, but without, as the other noticed, betraying any
particular discomposure.
'Do you remember, now,' pursued Caffyn, 'how the central idea first
occurred to you?'
But here again he drew a blank, for Mark had long ago found it
expedient to concoct a circumstantial account of how and when the
central idea had first occurred to him.
'Well, I'll tell you,' he said. 'It shows how oddly these things are
brought about. I was walking down Palace Gardens one afternoon....'
and he told the history of the conception of 'Illusion' in his best
manner, until Caffyn raged internally.
'You brazen humbug!' he thought; 'to sit there and tell that string of
lies to _me_!' When it was finished he remarked, 'Well, that's very
interesting; and I have your permission to tell that again, eh?'
'Certainly, my dear fellow,' said Mark, with a wave of his hand. His
cigar was a really excellent one, and he thought he would try another
presently.
('We must try him again,' thought Caffyn; 'he's deeper than I gave him
credit for being.')
'I'll tell you an odd criticism I heard the other day. I was talking
to little Mrs. Bismuth--you know Mrs. Bismuth by name? Some fellow has
just taken the "Charivari" for her. Well, she goes in for letters a
little as well as the drama, reads no end of light literature since
she gave up tights for drawing-room comedy, and she would have it that
she seemed to recognise two distinct styles in the book, as if two
pens had been at work on it.'
('Now I may find out if that really was the case after all,' he was
thinking.) 'I thought you'd be amused with that,' he added, after a
pause. Mark really did seem amused; he laughed a little.
'Mrs. Bismuth is a charming actress,' he said, 'but she'd better read
either a little more or a little less light literature before she goes
in for tracing differences in style. You can tell her, with my
compliments, that a good many pens were at work on it, but only one
brain. Where is it your matches live?'
'I can't draw him,' thought Caffyn. 'What an actor the fellow is! And
yet, if it was all aboveboard, he wouldn't have said that! and I've
got Holroyd's handwriting, which is pretty strong evidence against
him. But I want more, and I'll have it.'
He strolled up to the mantelpiece to light a cigarette, for which
purpose he removed the shade from one of the candles, throwing a
stronger light on his friend's face, and then, pausing with the
cigarette still unlighted between his fingers, he asked suddenly: 'By
the way, Fladgate said some other fellow wrote the book for you the
other day!' That shot at least told; every vestige of colour left
Mark's face, he half rose from his chair, and then sat down again as
he retorted sharply: 'Fladgate said that! What the devil are you
talking about...? What fellow?'
'Why, you were there when he said it. Some amanuensis you gave the
manuscript to.'
The colour came back in rather an increased quantity to Mark's cheeks.
What a nervous fool he was! 'Oh, ah--_that_ fellow!' he said; 'I
remember now. Yes, I was absurdly anxious to remain unknown, you see,
in those days, and--and I rather wanted to put something in the way of
a poor fellow who got his living by copying manuscripts; and so, you
see----'
'I see,' said Caffyn. 'What was his name?'
'His name?' repeated Mark, who had not expected this and had no name
ready for such immediate use. 'Let me see; I almost forget. It began
with a B I know; Brown--Brune--something like that--I really don't
recollect just now. But the fact is,' he added with a desperate
recourse to detail, 'the first time I saw the beggar he looked so hard
up, dressed in----' ('Buckram!' thought Caffyn, but he said
nothing)--'in rags, you know, that I felt it would be quite a charity
to employ him.'
'So it is,' agreed Caffyn. 'Did he write a good hand? I might be able
to give him some work myself in copying out parts.'
'Oh, he'd be useless for that!' put in Mark with some alarm; 'he wrote
a wretched hand.'
'Well, but in the cause of charity, you know,' rejoined Caffyn, with
inward delight. 'Hang it, Ashburn, why shouldn't _I_ do an unselfish
thing as well as you? What's the fellow's address?'
'He--he's emigrated,' said Mark; 'you'd find it rather difficult to
come across him now.'
'Should I?' Caffyn returned; 'well, I daresay I should.'
And Mark rose and went to one of the windows for some air. He remained
there for a short time looking idly down the darkening street. A
chapel opposite was just discharging its congregation, and he found
entertainment in watching the long lighted ground-glass windows, as a
string of grotesque silhouettes filed slowly across them, like a
shadow pantomime turned serious.
When he was tired of that and turned away from the blue-grey dusk, the
luxurious comfort of the room struck him afresh. 'You've made yourself
uncommonly comfortable here,' he said appreciatively, as he settled
down again in his velvet-pile chair.
'Well, I flatter myself I've improved the look of the place since you
saw it last. Poor Holroyd, you see, never cared to go in for this kind
of thing. Queer reserved fellow, wasn't he?'
'Very,' said Mark; and then, with the perverse impulse which drives us
to test dangerous ice, he added: 'Didn't you say, though, the other
evening that he had no secrets from you?' ('Trying to pump _me_, are
you?' thought the other; 'but you don't!') 'Did I?' he answered,
'sometimes I fancy, now and then, that I knew less of him than I
thought I did. For instance, he was very busy for a long time before
he left England over something or other, but he never told me what it
was. I used to catch him writing notes and making extracts and so
on.... _You_ were a great friend of his, Ashburn, weren't you? Do you
happen to know whether he was engaged on some work which would account
for that, now? Did he ever mention to you that he was writing a book,
for instance?'
'Never,' said Mark; 'did he--did he hint that to you?'
'Never got a word out of him; but I daresay you, who knew him best,
will laugh when I tell you this, I always had my suspicions that he
was writing a novel.'
'A novel?' echoed Mark; 'Holroyd! Excuse me, my dear fellow, I really
can't help laughing--it does seem such a comic idea.'
And he laughed boisterously, overcome by the humour of the notion,
until Caffyn said: 'Well, I didn't know him as well as you did, I
suppose, but I shouldn't have thought it was so devilish funny as all
that!' For Caffyn was a little irritated that the other should believe
him to be duped by all this, and that he could not venture as yet to
undeceive him. It made him viciously inclined to jerk the string
harder yet, and watch Mark's contortions.
'He wasn't that sort of man,' said Mark, when he had had his laugh
out; 'poor dear old fellow, he'd have been as amused at the idea as I
am.'
'But this success of yours would have pleased him, wouldn't it?' said
Caffyn.
For a moment Mark was cut as deeply by this as the speaker intended;
he could give no other answer than a sigh, which was perfectly
genuine. Caffyn affected to take this as an expression of incredulity.
'Surely you don't doubt that!' he said; 'why, Holroyd would have been
as glad as if he had written the book himself. If he could come back
to us again, you would see that I am right. What a meeting it would
be, if one could only bring it about!'
'It's no use talking like that,' said Mark rather sharply. 'Holroyd's
dead, poor fellow, at the bottom of the Indian Ocean somewhere. We
shall never meet again.'
'But,' said Caffyn, with his eyes greedily watching Mark's face, 'even
these things happen sometimes; he may come back to congratulate you
still.'
'How do you mean? He's drowned, I tell you ... the dead never come
back!'
'The _dead_ don't,' returned Caffyn significantly.
'Do you--you don't mean to tell me he's _alive_!'
'If I were to say _yes_?' said Caffyn, 'I wonder how you would take
it.'
If he had any doubts still remaining, the manner in which Mark
received these words removed them. He fell back in his seat with a
gasp and turned a ghastly lead colour; then, with an evident effort,
he leaned forward again, clutching the arms of the chair, and his
voice was hoarse and choked when he was able to make use of it. 'You
have heard something,' he said. 'What is it? Why can't you tell it?
Out with it, man! For God's sake, don't--don't play with me like
this!'
Caffyn felt a wild exultation he had the greatest difficulty in
repressing. He could not resist enjoying Mark's evident agony a little
longer. 'Don't excite yourself, my dear fellow,' he said calmly. 'I
oughtn't to have said anything about it.'
'I'm not excited,' said Mark; 'see--I'm quite cool ... tell me--all
you know. He--he's alive then ... you have heard from him? I--I can
bear it.'
'No, no,' said Caffyn; 'you're deceiving yourself. You mustn't let
yourself hope, Ashburn. I have never heard from him from that day to
this. You know yourself that he was not in any of the boats; there's
no real chance of his having survived.'
For it was not his policy to alarm Mark too far, and least of all to
show his hand so early. His experiment had been successful; he now
knew all he wanted, and was satisfied with that. Mark's face relaxed
into an expression of supreme relief; then it became suspicious again
as he asked, almost in a whisper, 'I thought that--but then, why did
you say all that about the dead--about coming back?'
'You mustn't be angry if I tell you. I didn't know you cared so much
about him, or I wouldn't have done it. You know what some literary
fellow--is it Tennyson?--says somewhere about our showing a precious
cold shoulder to the dead if they were injudicious enough to turn up
again; those aren't the exact words, but that's the idea. Well, I was
thinking whether, if a fellow like poor Holroyd were to come back now,
he'd find anyone to care a pin about him, and, as you were his closest
friend, I thought I'd try how _you_ took it. It was thoughtless, I
know. I never dreamed it would affect you in this way; you're as white
as chalk still--it's quite knocked you over. I'm really very sorry!'
'It was not a friendly thing to do,' said Mark, recovering himself.
'It was not kind, when one has known a man so long, and believed him
dead, and then to be made to believe that he is still alive,
it--it----. You can't wonder if I look rather shaken.'
'I don't,' said Caffyn; 'I quite understand. He is not quite forgotten
after all, then? He still has a faithful friend in you to remember
him; and he's been dead six months? How many of us can hope for that?
You must have been very fond of him.'
'Very,' said Mark, with a sad self-loathing as he spoke the lie. 'I
shall never see anyone like him--never!'
('How well he does it, after all!' thought Caffyn. 'I shall have
plenty of sport with him.') 'Would it give you any comfort to talk
about him now and then,' he suggested, 'with one who knew him, too,
though not as well perhaps as you did?'
'Thanks!' said Mark, 'I think it would some day, but not yet. I don't
feel quite up to it at present.'
'Well,' said the other, with a wholly private grin, 'I won't distress
you by talking of him till you introduce the subject; and you quite
forgive me for saying what I did, don't you?'
'Quite,' said Mark. 'And now I think I'll say good-night!'
The horror of those few moments in which he had seen detection staring
him in the face still clung to him as he walked back to his lodgings.
He cursed his folly in ever having exposed himself to such tremendous
risks, until he remembered that, after all, his situation remained the
same. He had merely been frightened with false fire. If he had not
been very sure that the dead would never rise to denounce him, he
would not have done what he had done. How could Vincent Holroyd have
escaped? Still, it was an ugly thought, and it followed him to his
pillow that night and gave him fearful dreams. He was in a large
gathering, and Mabel was there, too; he could see her at the other end
of an immense hall, and through the crowd Holroyd was slowly, steadily
making his way to her side, and Mark knew his object; it was to
denounce _him_. If he could only reach him first, he felt that somehow
he could prevent him from attaining his end, and he made frantic
efforts to do so; but always the crowd hedged him in and blocked his
way with a stupid impassibility, and he struggled madly, but all in
vain. Holroyd drew nearer and nearer Mabel, with that stern set
purpose in his face, while Mark himself was powerless to move or
speak. And so the dream dragged itself on all through the night.
He had some thoughts, on waking, of setting his fears to rest for ever
by making some further inquiries, but when he read once more the
various accounts he had preserved of the shipwreck, he convinced
himself willingly enough that nothing of the kind was necessary. He
could dismiss the matter from his mind once for all, and by
breakfast-time he was himself again.
Caffyn, now that his wildest hopes of revenge were realised, and he
saw himself in a position to make terrible reprisals for the injury
Mark Ashburn had done him, revelled in a delicious sense of power, the
only drawback to his complete enjoyment of the situation being his
uncertainty as to the precise way of turning his knowledge to the best
account.
Should he turn upon Mark suddenly with the intimation that he had
found him out, without mentioning as yet that Holroyd was in the land
of the living? There would be exquisite pleasure in that, and what a
field for the utmost ingenuity of malice in constant reminders of the
hold he possessed, in veiled threats, and vague mocking promises of
secrecy! Could any enemy desire a more poignant retribution? He longed
to do all this, and no one could have done it better; but he was
habitually inclined to mistrust his first impulses, and he feared lest
his victim might grow weary of writhing; he might be driven to
despair, to premature confession, flight--suicide, perhaps. He was
just the man to die by his own hand and leave a letter cursing him as
his torturer, to be read at the inquest and get into all the papers.
No, he would not go too far; for the present he decided to leave Mark
in happy ignorance of the ruin tottering above him. He would wait
until he was even more prosperous, more celebrated, before taking any
decisive steps. There was little fear that he would see his revenge
some day, and meanwhile he must be content with such satisfaction as
he could enjoy in secret.
'I must put up with the fellow a little longer,' he thought. 'We will
go on mourning our dear lost friend together until I can arrange a
meeting somehow. A telegram or letter to the Ceylon plantation will
fetch him at any time, and I don't care about doing my charming Mabel
such a good turn as bringing him back to her just yet. I wonder how my
worthy plagiarist is feeling after last night. I think I will go round
and have a look at him.'