Three days later Harry Pallant went down as usual to his rooms in the
Temple, and set to work upon his daily labour. The first envelope he
opened of the batch upon his table was from the editor of the _Young
People's Monitor_. It contained the week's correspondence. Harry
Pallant glanced over the contents hastily, and singled out a few
enclosures from the big budget with languid curiosity.
Of course everybody knows the _Young People's Monitor_. It is one of the
most successful among the penny weeklies, and in addition to its
sensational stories and moral essays, it gives advice gratis to all and
sundry in its correspondence columns upon every conceivable subject that
our common peccant or ignorant humanity can possibly inquire about. Now,
Harry Pallant happened to be the particular person employed by the
editor of this omniscient journal to supply the answers to the weekly
shoals of anxious interrogators _de omni scibili_. His legal learning
came in handy for the purpose, and being a practised London journalist
as well, his knowledge of life stood him in good stead at this strange
piece of literary craftsmanship. But the whole affair was "in strict
confidence," as the _Monitor_ announced. It was a point of honour
between himself and the editor that the secret of the correspondence
column should be jealously guarded from all and several; so Harry
Pallant, accustomed, lawyer-like, to keeping secrets, had never
mentioned his connection with the _Monitor_ in this matter even to
Louie. It came as part of his week's work at his chambers in the Temple,
and it was duly finished and sent off to press, without note or comment,
on the same day, in true business-like barrister fashion.
The first letter that Harry opened and listlessly glanced through with
his experienced eye was one of the staple _Monitor_ kind--Stella or
Euphemia had quarrelled, in a moment of pique, with her lover, and was
now dying of anxiety to regain his affections. Harry scribbled a few
words of kindly chaff and sound advice in reply upon a blank sheet of
virgin foolscap, and tossed the torn fragments of letter number one into
the capacious mouth of his waste-paper basket.
The second letter requested the editor's candid opinion upon a short
set of amateur verses therewith enclosed. Harry's candid opinion,
muttered to himself beneath his moustache, was too unparliamentary for
insertion in full; but he toned its verbal expression down a little in
his written copy, and passed on hastily to the others in order.
"Camilla" would like to know, in strict confidence (thrice underlined),
what is the editor's opinion of her style of handwriting. "A Draper's
Assistant" is desirous to learn how the words "heterogeneous" and
"Beethoven" are usually pronounced in the best society. "Senex," having
had a slight difference as to the buttered toast with his present
landlady (in whose house he has lodged for forty years), would be glad
of any advice as to how, at his age, he is to do without her. "H. J. K."
has just read with much surprise a worthless pamphlet, proving that the
inhabitants of the northern divisions of Staffordshire and Warwickshire
are the lost Ten Tribes of Israel, and cannot imagine how this reckless
assertion can be scripturally reconciled with the plain statements of
the prophet Habakkuk, which show that the descendants of Manasseh are
really to be looked for in the county of Sligo. And so forth, though
every variety of male feebleness and feminine futility, in answer to all
which Harry turned off his hasty rejoinder with the dexterous ease
acquired of long practice and familiar experience.
At last he came in due course to a small white envelope, of better paper
and style than the others, marked "17" in red pencil on the back in the
formal hand of the systematic editor. He turned it over with mechanical
carelessness. To his immense amusement and no little surprise, he saw at
once, by the writing of the address, that the note came from his own
Louie!
What could Louie have to ask of advice or information from the anonymous
editor of the _Young People's Monitor_?
He stood for a moment, with a quiet smile playing about his lips,
thinking to himself that he had often wondered whether he should ever
get a letter thus incognito from any person among his private
acquaintances. And now he had got one from Louie herself. How very
funny! How truly ridiculous! And how odd too that she shouldn't even
have told him beforehand she was going to write for counsel or
assistance to the _Young People's Monitor_!
And then a strange doubt flashed idly for a moment across his mind--a
doubt that he felt immediately ashamed of. What possible subject could
there be on which Louie could want advice and aid from an editor, a
stranger, an unknown and anonymous impersonal entity, rather than from
him, Harry, her own husband, her natural guide, assistant, and
counsellor? It was odd, very odd--nay, even disquieting. Harry hardly
knew what to make of the unexpected episode.
But next moment he had dismissed his doubts, though he stood still
toying with the unopened envelope. He was half afraid to look inside it.
Louie had only written, he felt sure, about some feminine trifle or
other, some foolish point of petty etiquette--how to fold napkins
mitre-fashion, or whether "P.P.O." cards should be turned down at the
upper right or the lower left-hand corner--some absurd detail about
which she would have laughed outright at his personal opinion, but would
defer at once to the dignity of print, and the expressed verdict of the
_Young People's Monitor_. So great is the power of printer's ink, that
if you say a thing face to face, your own wife even will take no notice
of it; but if you set it up in type anonymously, she, and the world at
large to boot, will treat it like an inspired oracle in stone fallen
down direct from the seventh heaven.
And yet somehow Harry Pallant couldn't make up his mind at once to break
open the tiny envelope of that mysterious, incomprehensible letter.
At last he broke it, and read it hurriedly. As he did so a terrible,
ominous pang came across his heart, and the writing, familiar as it was,
swam illegibly in dancing lines before his strained and aching vision.
"Dear Mr. Editor," the letter began, somewhat shakily, "you give
your advice and assistance to many people. Will you give it to me?
Will you help me? Will you save me?
"This is my position. I was married young to a man I did not love,
but liked and respected. I thought love would come afterwards. It
never came. On the contrary, the longer I have lived with him the
less I care for him. Not that he is unkind to me--he is good enough
and generous enough in all conscience; but he inspires me with no
affection and no enthusiasm. Till lately this was all I felt. I did
not love him, but I jogged along comfortably somehow.
"Now, however, I find to my dismay that I am in love--not with him,
but with another man a hundred times more congenial to my tastes
and feelings in every way. I have done no wrong, but I think of him
and live in him all my time. I cannot for a moment dismiss him from
my thoughts. Oh, what am I to do? Tell me, help me!
"I can never love my husband--of that I am certain. I can never
leave off loving the other--of that I am still more confident. Can
you advise me? Can you relieve me? This torture is too terrible. It
is killing me--killing me.
"Yours ever, in strict confidence,
"EGERIA."
Harry Pallant gazed at that awful accusing letter in blank horror and
speechless bewilderment. He could not even cry or groan. He could not
utter a word or shed a tear. The shock was so sudden, so crushing, so
unexpected, so irretrievable!
He had never till that moment in the faintest degree doubted that Louie
loved him as he loved her--devotedly, distractedly.
Why, that very morning, before he came away on his journey to the
Temple, Louie had kissed him so tenderly and affectionately, and called
him "darling," and wished he hadn't always to go to that horrid City.
How the memory stung him!
Yes; that was the hardest thought of all. If Louie wrote it, Louie was a
hypocrite. Not only did she not now love him--not only had she never
loved him, but, lowest depth of misery and shame, she had pretended to
love him when in her heart of hearts she hated and despised him. He
couldn't believe it. He wouldn't believe it. In her own words, it was
too terrible!
If Louie wrote it? He turned the letter over once more. Ah, yes, there
was no denying it. It was Louie's handwriting--Louie's, Louie's. His
brain reeled, but he could not doubt it or palter over it for a moment.
Not even disguised--her very own handwriting. It was the seal of doom
for him, yet he could not even pretend to disbelieve it.
He sat there long, incapable of realizing the full horror of that
crushing, destroying, annihilating disclosure. It was useless trying to
realize it--thank God for that! It so dazed and stunned and staggered
and bewildered him that he fell for a time into a sort of hopeless
lethargy, and felt and saw and thought of nothing.
At last he roused himself. He must go out. He rose from the table by the
dingy window, took up his hat dreamily in his hand, and walked down the
stairs, out of the gateway, and into the full tide of life and bustle in
busy Fleet Street.
The cooler air upon his forehead and the sight of so many hurrying,
active figures sobered and steadied him. He walked with rapid strides as
far as Charing Cross Station, and then back again. After that, he came
into his chambers once more, sat down resolutely at his table by
himself, and began to write in a trembling shaky hand his answer to
"Egeria."
How often he had written a different answer to just the same type of
tragic little letter--an answer of the commonplace conventional
morality, a small set sermon on the duties of wives and the rights of
husbands--as though there was nothing more in that fearful disclosure
than the merest fancy; and now, when at last it touched himself, how
profoundly awful in their mockery of the truth those baldly respectable
answers seemed to him!
"EGERIA.--Your letter shall be treated, as you wish, in strict
confidence. No one but ourselves shall ever know of it. You need
not fear that H. P. will any longer prove a trouble to you. By the
time you read this you will have learnt, or will shortly learn,
that he is not in a position to cause you further discomfort. This
is the only intimation you will receive of his intention. You will
understand what it all means soon after you read this
communication."
He rang the hand-bell on the table for his boy, put the answers into a
long blue envelope, and said mechanically in a dry voice, "To the _Young
People's Monitor_. For press immediately." The boy nodded a mute assent,
and took them off to the office in silent obedience.
As soon as he was gone Harry Pallant locked the door, flung himself upon
the table with his head buried madly in his arms, and sobbed aloud in
terrible despondency. He had found at least the relief of tears.
There was only one comfort. He was fully insured, and Hugh Ogilvie was a
rich man. Louie at least would be well provided for. He cared for
nothing except for Louie. If Louie was happier--happier without him,
what further need had he got for living?
He had never thought before of Hugh, but now, now, Dora's words came
back to him at once, and he saw it all--he saw it all plainly.
Heaven be praised, they had no children! If they had had children--well,
well, as things now stood, he could do what was best for Louie's
happiness.