THE BLOTTING BOOK
BY E.F. BENSONSheavesThe Princess SophiaDodoThe Luck of the VailsSix
Common ThingsScarlet and HyssopRubiconBook of the MonthsJudgment BooksThe
Relentless CityLimitationsThe ChallonersThe Babe, B.A.An Act in
BackwaterVintageThe Image in the SandThe CapsinaThe Angel of PainMammon and
Co.Aunt Jeannie, a Play
MRS. ASSHETON’S house
in Sussex Square, Brighton, was appointed with that finish of smooth
stateliness which robs stateliness of its formality, and conceals the amount of
trouble and personal attention which has, originally in any case, been spent on
the production of the smoothness. Everything moved with the regularity of the
solar system, and, superior to that wild rush of heavy bodies through infinite
ether, there was never the slightest fear of comets streaking their
unconjectured way across the sky, or meteorites falling on unsuspicious
picnicers. In Mrs. Assheton’s house, supreme over climatic conditions, nobody
ever felt that rooms were either too hot or too cold, a pleasantly fresh yet
comfortably warm atmosphere pervaded the place, meals were always punctual and
her admirable Scotch cook never served up a dish which, whether plain or
ornate, was not, in its way, perfectly prepared. A couple of deft and noiseless
parlour-maids attended to and anticipated the wants of her guests, from the
moment they entered her hospitable doors till when, on their leaving them,
their coats were held for them in the most convenient possible manner for the
easy insertion of the human arm, and the tails of their dinner-coats cunningly
and unerringly tweaked from behind. In every way in fact the house was an
example of perfect comfort; the softest carpets overlaid the floors, or, where
the polished wood was left bare, the parquetry shone with a moonlike radiance;
the newest and most entertaining books (ready cut) stood on the well-ordered
shelves in the sitting-room to beguile the leisure of the studiously minded;
the billiard table was always speckless of dust, no tip was ever missing from any
cue, and the cigarette boxes and match-stands were always kept replenished. In
the dining-room the silver was resplendent, until the moment when before
dessert the cloth was withdrawn, and showed a rosewood table that might have
served for a mirror to Narcissus.
Mrs. Assheton, until
her only surviving son Morris had come to live with her some three months ago
on the completion of his four years at Cambridge, had been alone, but even when
she was alone this ceremony of drawing the cloth and putting on the dessert and
wine had never been omitted, though since she never took either, it might seem
to be a wasted piece of routine on the part of the two noiseless parlour-maids.
But she did not in the least consider it so, for just as she always dressed for
dinner herself with the same care and finish, whether she was going to dine
alone or whether, as tonight, a guest or two was dining with her, as an
offering, so to speak, on the altar of her own self-respect, so also she
required self-respect and the formality that indicated it on the part of those
who ministered at her table, and enjoyed such excellent wages. This pretty
old-fashioned custom had always been the rule in her own home, and her husband
had always had it practised during his life. And since then--his death had
occurred some twenty years ago--nothing that she knew of had happened to make
it less proper or desirable. Kind of heart and warm of soul though she was, she
saw no reason for letting these excellent qualities cover any slackness or
breach of observance in the social form of life to which she had been
accustomed. There was no cause, because one was kind and wise, to eat with
badly cleaned silver, unless the parlour-maid whose office it was to clean it
was unwell. In such a case, if the extra work entailed by her illness would
throw too much on the shoulders of the other servants, Mrs. Assheton would
willingly clean the silver herself, rather than that it should appear dull and
tarnished. Her formalism, such as it was, was perfectly simple and sincere. She
would, without any very poignant regret or sense of martyrdom, had her very
comfortable income been cut down to a tenth of what it was, have gone to live
in a four-roomed cottage with one servant. But she would have left that
four-roomed cottage at once for even humbler surroundings had she found that
her straitened circumstances did not permit her to keep it as speckless and
soignée as was her present house in Sussex Square.
This achievement of
having lived for nearly sixty years so decorously may perhaps be a somewhat
finer performance than it sounds, but Mrs. Assheton brought as her contribution
to life in general a far finer offering than that, for though she did not
propose to change her ways and manner of life herself, she was notoriously
sympathetic with the changed life of the younger generation, and in consequence
had the confidence of young folk generally. At this moment she was enjoying the
fruits of her liberal attitude in the volubility of her son Morris, who sat at
the end of the table opposite to her. His volubility was at present concerned
with his motor-car, in which he had arrived that afternoon.
"Darling
mother," he was saying, "I really was frightened as to whether you
would mind. I could n’t help remembering how you received Mr. Taynton’s
proposal that you should go for a drive in his car. Don’t you remember, Mr.
Taynton? Mother’s nose did go in the air. It ’s no use denying it. So I
thought, perhaps, that she would n’t like my having one. But I wanted it so
dreadfully, and so I bought it without telling her, and drove down in it
to-day, which is my birthday, so that she could n’t be too severe."
Mr. Taynton, while
Morris was speaking, had picked up the nutcrackers the boy had been using, and
was gravely exploding the shells of the nuts he had helped himself to. So
Morris cracked the next one with a loud bang between his white even teeth.
"Dear
Morris," said his mother, "how foolish of you. Give Mr. Morris
another nutcracker," she added to the parlour-maid.
"What ’s foolish?"
asked he, cracking another.
"Oh Morris, your
teeth," she said. "Do wait a moment. Yes, that ’s right. And how can
you say that my nose went in the air? I ’m sure Mr. Taynton will agree with me
that that is really libellous. And as for your being afraid to tell me you had
bought a motor-car yourself, why, that is sillier than cracking nuts with your
teeth."
Mr. Taynton laughed a
comfortable middle-aged laugh.
"Don’t put the
responsibility on me, Mrs. Assheton," he said. "As long as Morris’s
bank does n’t tell us that his account is overdrawn, he can do what he pleases.
But if we are told that, then down comes the cartloads of bricks."
"Oh, you are a
brick all right, Mr. Taynton," said the boy. "I could stand a
cartload of you."
Mr. Taynton, like his
laugh, was comfortable and middle-aged. Solicitors are supposed to be
sharp-faced and fox-like, but his face was well-furnished and comely, and his
rather bald head beamed with benevolence and dinner.
"My dear
boy," he said, "and it is your birthday--I cannot honour either you
or this wonderful port more properly than by drinking your health in it."
He began and finished
his glass to the health he had so neatly proposed, and Morris laughed.
"Thank you very
much," he said. "Mother, do send the port round. What an inhospitable
woman!"
Mrs. Assheton rose.
"I will leave you
to be more hospitable than me, then, dear," she said. "Shall we go,
Madge? Indeed, I am afraid you must, if you are to catch the train to
Falmer."
Madge Templeton got up
with her hostess, and the two men rose too. She had been sitting next Morris,
and the boy looked at her eagerly.
"It ’s too bad,
your having to go," he said. "But do you think I may come over
to-morrow, in the afternoon some time, and see you and Lady Templeton?"
Madge paused a moment.
"I am so
sorry," she said, "but we shall be away all day. We shan’t be back
till quite late."
"Oh, what a
bore," said he, "and I leave again on Friday. Do let me come and see
you off then."
But Mrs. Assheton
interposed.
"No, dear,"
she said, "I am going to have five minutes’ talk with Madge before she
goes and we don’t want you. Look after Mr. Taynton. I know he wants to talk to
you and I want to talk to Madge."
Mr. Taynton, when the
door had closed behind the ladies, sat down again with a rather obvious air of
proposing to enjoy himself. It was quite true that he had a few pleasant things
to say to Morris, it is also true that he immensely appreciated the wonderful port
which glowed, ruby-like, in the nearly full decanter that lay to his hand. And,
above all, he, with his busy life, occupied for the most part in innumerable
small affairs, revelled in the sense of leisure and serene smoothness which
permeated Mrs. Assheton’s house. He was still a year or two short of sixty, and
but for his very bald and shining head would have seemed younger, so fresh was
he in complexion, so active, despite a certain reassuring corpulency, was he in
his movements. But when he dined quietly like this, at Mrs. Assheton’s, he
would willingly have sacrificed the next five years of his life if he could
have been assured on really reliable authority--the authority for instance of
the Recording Angel--that in five years time he would be able to sit quiet and
not work any more. He wanted very much to be able to take a passive instead of
an active interest in life, and this a few hundreds of pounds a year in
addition to his savings would enable him to do. He saw, in fact, the goal
arrived at which he would be able to sit still and wait with serenity and
calmness for the event which would certainly relieve him of all further
material anxieties. His very active life, the activities of which were so
largely benevolent, had at the expiration of fifty-eight years a little tired
him. He coveted the leisure which was so nearly his.
Morris lit a cigarette
for himself, having previously passed the wine to Mr. Taynton.
"I hate
port," he said, "but my mother tells me this is all right. It was
laid down the year I was born by the way. You don’t mind my smoking do
you?"
This, to tell the
truth, seemed almost sacrilegious to Mr. Taynton, for the idea that tobacco,
especially the frivolous cigarette, should burn in a room where such port was
being drunk was sheer crime against human and divine laws. But he could
scarcely indicate to his host that he should not smoke in his own dining-room.
"No, my dear
Morris," he said, "but really you almost shock me, when you prefer
tobacco to this nectar, I assure you nectar. And the car, now, tell me more
about the car."
Morris laughed.
"I ’m so deeply
thankful I have n’t overdrawn," he said. "Oh, the car’s a clipper. We
came down from Haywards Heath the most gorgeous pace. I saw one policeman
trying to take my number, but we raised such a dust, I don’t think he can have
been able to see it. It ’s such rot only going twenty miles an hour with a
clear straight road ahead."
Mr. Taynton sighed,
gently and not unhappily.
"Yes, yes, my dear
boy, I so sympathise with you," he said. "Speed and violence is the
proper attitude of youth, just as strength with a more measured pace is the
proper gait for older folk. And that, I fancy is just what Mrs. Assheton felt.
She would feel it to be as unnatural in you to care to drive with her in her
very comfortable victoria as she would feel it to be unnatural in herself to
wish to go in your lightning speed motor. And that reminds me. As your
trustee----"
Coffee was brought in
at this moment, carried, not by one of the discreet parlour-maids, but by a
young man-servant. Mr. Taynton, with the port still by him, refused it, but
looked rather curiously at the servant. Morris however mixed himself a cup in
which cream, sugar, and coffee were about equally mingled.
"A new servant of
your mother’s?" he asked, when the man had left the room.
"Oh no. It ’s my
man, Martin. Awfully handy chap. Cleans silver, boots and the motor. Drives it,
too, when I ’ll let him, which is n’t very often. Chauffeurs are such rotters,
are n’t they? Regular chauffeurs I mean. They always make out that something is
wrong with the car, just as dentists always find some hole in your teeth, if
you go to them."
Mr. Taynton did not
reply to these critical generalities but went back to what he had been saying
when the entry of coffee interrupted him.
"As your mother
said," he remarked, "I wanted to have a few words with you. You are
twenty-two, are you not, to-day? Well, when I was young we considered anyone of
twenty-two a boy still, but now I think young fellows grow up more quickly, and
at twenty-two, you are a man nowadays, and I think it is time for you, since my
trusteeship for you may end any day now, to take a rather more active interest
in the state of your finances than you have hitherto done. I want you in fact,
my dear fellow, to listen to me for five minutes while I state your position to
you."
Morris indicated the
port again, and Mr. Taynton refilled his glass.
"I have had twenty
years of stewardship for you," he went on, "and before my stewardship
comes to an end, which it will do anyhow in three years from now, and may come
to an end any day----"
"Why, how is
that?" asked Morris.
"If you marry, my
dear boy. By the terms of your father’s will, your marriage, provided it takes
place with your mother’s consent, and after your twenty-second birthday, puts
you in complete control and possession of your fortune. Otherwise, as of course
you know, you come of age, legally speaking, on your twenty-fifth
birthday."
Morris lit another
cigarette rather impatiently.
"Yes, I knew I was
a minor till I was twenty-five," he said, "and I suppose I have known
that if I married after the age of twenty-two, I became a major, or whatever
you call it. But what then? Do let us go and play billiards, I ’ll give you
twenty-five in a hundred, because I ’ve been playing a lot lately, and I ’ll
bet half a crown."
Mr. Taynton’s fist
gently tapped the table.
"Done," he
said, "and we will play in five minutes. But I have something to say to
you first. Your mother, as you know, enjoys the income of the bulk of your
father’s property for her lifetime. Outside that, he left this much smaller
capital of which, as also of her money, my partner and I are trustees. The sum
he left you was thirty thousand pounds. It is now rather over forty thousand
pounds, since we have changed the investments from time to time, and always, I
am glad to say, with satisfactory results. The value of her property has gone
up also in a corresponding degree. That, however, does not concern you. But
since you are now twenty-two, and your marriage would put the whole of this
smaller sum into your hands, would it not be well for you to look through our
books, to see for yourself the account we render of our stewardship?"
Morris laughed.
"But for what
reason?" he asked. "You tell me that my portion has increased in
value by ten thousand pounds. I am delighted to hear it. And I thank you very
much. And as for----"
He broke off short, and
Mr. Taynton let a perceptible pause follow before he interrupted.
"As for the
possibility of your marrying?" he suggested.
Morris gave him a
quick, eager, glance.
"Yes, I think
there is that possibility," he said. "I hope--I hope it is not far
distant."
"My dear
boy----" said the lawyer.
"Ah, not a word. I
don’t know----"
Morris pushed his chair
back quickly, and stood up--his tall slim figure outlined against the sober red
of the dining-room wall. A plume of black hair had escaped from his
well-brushed head and hung over his forehead, and his sun-tanned vivid face
looked extraordinarily handsome. His mother’s clear-cut energetic features were
there, with the glow and buoyancy of youth kindling them. Violent vitality was
his also; his was the hot blood that could do any deed when the life-instinct
commanded it. He looked like one of those who could give their body to be
burned in the pursuit of an idea, or could as easily steal, or kill, provided
only the deed was vitally done in the heat of his blood. Violence was clearly
his mode of life: the motor had to go sixty miles an hour; he might be one of
those who bathed in the Serpentine in mid-winter; he would clearly dance all
night, and ride all day, and go on till he dropped in the pursuit of what he
cared for. Mr. Taynton, looking at him as he stood smiling there, in his
splendid health and vigour felt all this. He felt, too, that if Morris intended
to be married to-morrow morning, matrimony would probably take place.
But Morris’s pause,
after he pushed his chair back and stood up, was only momentary.
"Good God, yes; I’m
in love," he said. "And she probably thinks me a stupid barbarian,
who likes only to drive golfballs and motor-cars. She--oh, it ’s hopeless. She
would have let me come over to see them to-morrow otherwise."
He paused again.
"And now I ’ve
given the whole show away," he said.
Mr. Taynton made a
comfortable sort of noise. It was compounded of laughter, sympathy, and
comprehension.
"You gave it away long
ago, my dear Morris," he said.
"You had
guessed?" asked Morris, sitting down again with the same quickness and
violence of movement, and putting both his elbows on the table.
"No, my dear boy,
you had told me, as you have told everybody, without mentioning it. And I most
heartily congratulate you. I never saw a more delightful girl. Professionally
also, I feel bound to add that it seems to me a most proper alliance--heirs
should always marry heiresses. It"--Mr. Taynton drank off the rest of his
port--"it keeps properties together."
Hot blood again
dictated to Morris: it seemed dreadful to him that any thought of money or of
property could be mentioned in the same breath as that which he longed for. He
rose again as abruptly and violently as he had sat down.
"Well, let ’s play
billiards," he said. "I--I don’t think you understand a bit. You can’t,
in fact."
Mr. Taynton stroked the
tablecloth for a moment with a plump white forefinger.
"Crabbed age and
youth," he remarked. "But crabbed age makes an appeal to youth, if
youth will kindly call to mind what crabbed age referred to some five minutes
ago. In other words, will you, or will you not, Morris, spend a very dry three
hours at my office, looking into the account of my stewardship? There was thirty
thousand pounds, and there now is--or should we say ‘are’--forty. It will take
you not less than two hours, and not more than three. But since my stewardship
may come to an end, as I said, any day, I should, not for my own sake, but for
yours, wish you to see what we have done for you, and--I own this would be a
certain private gratification to me--to learn that you thought that the trust
your dear father reposed in us was not misplaced."
There was something
about these simple words which touched Morris. For the moment he became almost
businesslike. Mr. Taynton had been, as he knew, a friend of his father’s, and,
as he had said, he had been steward of his own affairs for twenty years. But that
reflection banished the businesslike view.
"Oh, but two hours
is a fearful time," he said. "You have told me the facts, and they
entirely satisfy me. And I want to be out all day to-morrow, as I am only here
till the day after. But I shall be down again next week. Let us go into it all
then. Not that there is the slightest use in going into anything. And when, Mr.
Taynton, I become steward of my own affairs, you may be quite certain that I
shall beg you to continue looking after them. Why you gained me ten thousand
pounds in these twenty years--I wonder what there would have been to my credit
now if I had looked after things myself. But since we are on the subject I
should like just this once to assure you of my great gratitude to you, for all
you have done. And I ask you, if you will, to look after my affairs in the
future with the same completeness as you have always done. My father’s will
does not prevent that, does it?"
Mr. Taynton looked at
the young fellow with affection.
"Dear
Morris," he said gaily, "we lawyers and solicitors are always
supposed to be sharks, but personally I am not such a shark as that. Are you
aware that I am paid £200 a year for my stewardship, which you are entitled to
assume for yourself on your marriage, though of course its continuance in my
hands is not forbidden in your father’s will? You are quite competent to look
after your affairs yourself; it is ridiculous for you to continue to pay me
this sum. But I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your confidence in me."
A very close observer
might have seen that behind Mr. Taynton’s kind gay eyes there was sitting a
personality, so to speak, that, as his mouth framed these words, was watching
Morris rather narrowly and anxiously. But the moment Morris spoke this silent
secret watcher popped back again out of sight.
"Well then I ask
you as a personal favour," said he, "to continue being my steward.
Why, it ’s good business for me, is n’t it? In twenty years you make me ten
thousand pounds, and I only pay you £200 a year for it. Please be kind, Mr.
Taynton, and continue making me rich. Oh, I ’m a jolly hard-headed chap really;
I know that it is to my advantage."
Mr. Taynton considered
this a moment, playing with his wine glass. Then he looked up quickly.
"Yes, Morris, I
will with pleasure do as you ask me," he said.
"Right oh. Thanks
awfully. Do come and play billiards."
Morris was in amazing
luck that night, and if, as he said, he had been playing a lot lately, the
advantage of his practice was seen chiefly in the hideous certainty of his
flukes, and the game (though he received twenty-five) left Mr. Taynton half a
crown the poorer. Then the winner whirled his guest upstairs again to talk to
his mother while he himself went round to the stables to assure himself of the
well-being of the beloved motor. Martin had already valeted it, after its run,
and was just locking up when Morris arrived.
Morris gave his orders
for next day after a quite unnecessary examination into the internal economy of
the beloved, and was just going back to the house, when he paused, remembering
something.
"Oh Martin,"
he said, "while I am here, I want you to help in the house, you know at
dinner and so on, just as you did to-night. And when there are guests of mine
here I want you to look after them. For instance, when Mr. Taynton goes
to-night you will be there to give him his hat and coat. You ’ll have rather a
lot to do, I ’m afraid."
Morris finished his
cigarette and went back to the drawing-room where Mr. Taynton was already engaged
in the staid excitements of backgammon with his mother. That game over, Morris
took his place, and before long the lawyer rose to go.
"Now I absolutely
refuse to let you interrupt your game," he said. "I have found my way
out of this house often enough, I should think. Good night, Mrs. Assheton. Good
night Morris; don’t break your neck my dear boy, in trying to break
records."
Morris hardly attended
to this, for the game was critical. He just rang the bell, said good night, and
had thrown again before the door had closed behind Mr. Taynton. Below, in
answer to the bell, was standing his servant.
Mr. Taynton looked at
him again with some attention, and then glanced round to see if the discreet
parlour-maids were about.
"So you are called
Martin now," he observed gently.
"Yes, sir."
"I recognised you
at once."
There was a short
pause.
"Are you going to
tell Mr. Morris, sir?" he asked.
"That I had to
dismiss you two years ago for theft?" said Mr. Taynton quietly. "No,
not if you behave yourself."
Mr. Taynton looked at
him again kindly and sighed.
"No, let bygones
be bygones," he said. "You will find your secret is safe enough. And,
Martin, I hope you have really turned over a new leaf, and are living honestly
now. That is so, my lad? Thank God; thank God. My umbrella? Thanks. Good night.
No cab: I will walk."
MR. TAYNTON lived in a
square, comfortable house in Montpellier Road, and thus, when he left Mrs.
Assheton’s there was some two miles of pavement and sea front between him and
home. But the night was of wonderful beauty, a night of mid June, warm enough
to make the most cautious secure of chill, and at the same time just made crisp
with a little breeze that blew or rather whispered landward from over the
full-tide of the sleeping sea. High up in the heavens swung a glorious moon,
which cast its path of white enchanted light over the ripples, and seemed to
draw the heart even as it drew the eyes heavenward. Mr. Taynton certainly, as
he stepped out beneath the stars, with the sea lying below him, felt, in his
delicate and sensitive nature, the charm of the hour, and being a good if not a
brisk walker, he determined to go home on foot. And he stepped westward very contentedly.
The evening, it would
appear, had much pleased him--for it was long before his smile of retrospective
pleasure faded from his pleasant mobile face. Morris’s trust and confidence in
him had been extraordinarily pleasant to him: and modest and unassuming as he
was, he could not help a secret gratification at the thought. What a handsome
fellow Morris was too, how gay, how attractive! He had his father’s dark
colouring, and tall figure, but much of his mother’s grace and charm had gone
to the modelling of that thin sensitive mouth and the long oval of his face.
Yet there was more of the father there, the father’s intense, almost violent,
vitality was somehow more characteristic of the essential Morris than face or
feature.
What a happy thing it was
too--here the smile of pleasure illuminated Mr. Taynton’s face again--that the
boy whom he had dismissed two years before for some petty pilfering in his own
house, should have turned out such a promising lad and should have found his
way to so pleasant a berth as that of factotum to Morris. Kindly and charitable
all through and ever eager to draw out the good in everybody and forgive the
bad, Mr. Taynton had often occasion to deplore the hardness and uncharity of a
world which remembers youthful errors and hangs them, like a mill-stone, round
the neck of the offender, and it warmed his heart and kindled his smile to
think of one case at any rate where a youthful misdemeanour was lived down and
forgotten. At the time he remembered being in doubt whether he should not give
the offender up to justice, for the pilfering, petty though it had been, had
been somewhat persistent, but he had taken the more merciful course, and merely
dismissed the boy. He had been in two minds about it before, wondering whether
it would not be better to let Martin have a sharp lesson, but to-night he was
thankful that he had not done so. The mercy he had shown had come back to bless
him also; he felt a glow of thankfulness that the subject of his clemency had
turned out so well. Punishment often hardens the criminal, was one of his
settled convictions. But Morris--again his thoughts went back to Morris, who
was already standing on the verge of manhood, on the verge, too, he made no
doubt of married life and its joys and responsibilities. Mr. Taynton was
himself a bachelor, and the thought gave him not a moment of jealousy, but a
moment of void that ached a little at the thought of the common human bliss
which he had himself missed. How charming, too, was the girl Madge Templeton, whom
he had met, not for the first time, that evening. He himself had guessed how
things stood between the two before Morris had confided in him, and it pleased
him that his intuition was confirmed. What a pity, however, that the two were
not going to meet next day, that she was out with her mother and would not get
back till late. It would have been a cooling thought in the hot office hours of
to-morrow to picture them sitting together in the garden at Falmer, or under
one of the cool deep-foliaged oaks in the park.
Then suddenly his face
changed, the smile faded, but came back next instant and broadened with a
laugh. And the man who laughs when he is by himself may certainly be supposed
to have strong cause for amusement.
Mr. Taynton had come by
this time to the West Pier, and a hundred yards farther would bring him to
Montpellier Road. But it was yet early, as he saw (so bright was the moonlight)
when he consulted his watch, and he retraced his steps some fifty yards, and
eventually rang at the door of a big house of flats facing the sea, where his
partner, who for the most part, looked after the London branch of their
business, had his pied-à-terre. For the firm of Taynton and Mills was one of
those respectable and solid businesses that, beginning in the country, had
eventually been extended to town, and so far from its having its headquarters
in town and its branch in Brighton, had its headquarters here and its branch in
the metropolis. Mr. Godfrey Mills, so he learned at the door had dined alone,
and was in, and without further delay Mr. Taynton was carried aloft in the
gaudy bird-cage of the lift, feeling sure that his partner would see him.
The flat into which he
was ushered with a smile of welcome from the man who opened the door was
furnished with a sort of gross opulence that never failed to jar on Mr. Taynton’s
exquisite taste and cultivated mind. Pictures, chairs, sofas, the patterns of
the carpet, and the heavy gilding of the cornices were all sensuous, a sort of
frangipanni to the eye. The apparent contrast, however, between these things
and their owner, was as great as that between Mr. Taynton and his partner, for
Mr. Godfrey Mills was a thin, spare, dark little man, brisk in movement, with a
look in his eye that betokened a watchfulness and vigilance of the most alert
order. But useful as such a gift undoubtedly is, it was given to Mr. Godfrey
Mills perhaps a shade too obviously. It would be unlikely that the stupidest or
shallowest person would give himself away when talking to him, for it was so
clear that he was always on the watch for admission or information that might
be useful to him. He had, however, the charm that a very active and vivid mind
always possesses, and though small and slight, he was a figure that would be
noticed anywhere, so keen and wide-awake was his face. Beside him Mr. Taynton
looked like a benevolent country clergyman, more distinguished for amiable
qualities of the heart, than intellectual qualities of the head. Yet
those--there were not many of them--who in dealings with the latter had tried
to conduct their business on these assumptions, had invariably found it
necessary to reconsider their first impression of him. His partner, however,
was always conscious of a little impatience in talking to him; Taynton, he would
have allowed, did not lack fine business qualities, but he was a little wanting
in quickness.
Mills’s welcome of him
was abrupt.
"Pleased to see
you," he said. "Cigar, drink? Sit down, won’t you? What is it?"
"I dropped in for
a chat on my way home," said Mr. Taynton. "I have been dining with
Mrs. Assheton. A most pleasant evening. What a fine delicate face she
has."
Mills bit off the end
of a cigar.
"I take it that
you did not come in merely to discuss the delicacy of Mrs. Assheton’s
face," he said.
"No, no, dear
fellow; you are right to recall me. I too take it--I take it that you have
found time to go over to Falmer yesterday. How did you find Sir Richard?"
"I found him well.
I had a long talk with him."
"And you managed
to convey something of those very painful facts which you felt it was your duty
to bring to his notice?" asked Mr. Taynton.
Godfrey Mills laughed.
"I say, Taynton,
is it really worth while keeping it up like this?" he asked. "It
really saves so much trouble to talk straight, as I propose to do. I saw him,
as I said, and I really managed remarkably well. I had these admissions wrung
from me, I assure you it is no less than that, under promise of the most
absolute secrecy. I told him young Assheton was leading an idle, extravagant,
and dissipated life. I said I had seen him three nights ago in Piccadilly, not
quite sober, in company with the class of person to whom one does not refer in
polite society. Will that do?"
"Ah, I can easily
imagine how painful you must have found----" began Taynton.
But his partner
interrupted.
"It was rather
painful; you have spoken a true word in jest. I felt a brute, I tell you. But,
as I pointed out to you, something of the sort was necessary."
Mr. Taynton suddenly
dropped his slightly clerical manner.
"You have done
excellently, my dear friend," he said. "And as you pointed out to me,
it was indeed necessary to do something of the sort. I think by now, your
revelations have already begun to take effect. Yes, I think I will take a little
brandy and soda. Thank you very much."
He got up with greater
briskness than he had hitherto shown.
"And you are none
too soon," he said. "Morris, poor Morris, such a handsome fellow,
confided to me this evening that he was in love with Miss Templeton. He is very
much in earnest."
"And why do you
think my interview has met with some success?" asked Mills.
"Well, it is only
a conjecture, but when Morris asked if he might call any time to-morrow, Miss
Templeton (who was also dining with Mrs. Assheton) said that she and her mother
would be out all day and not get home till late. It does not strike me as being
too fanciful to see in that some little trace perhaps of your handiwork."
"Yes, that looks
like me," said Mills shortly.
Mr. Taynton took a
meditative sip at his brandy and soda.
"My evening also
has not been altogether wasted," he said. "I played what for me was a
bold stroke, for as you know, my dear fellow, I prefer to leave to your nimble
and penetrating mind things that want dash and boldness. But to-night, yes, I
was warmed with that wonderful port and was bold."
"What did you
do?" asked Mills.
"Well, I asked, I
almost implored dear Morris to give me two or three hours to-morrow and go
through all the books, and satisfy himself everything is in order, and his
investments well looked after. I told him also that the original £30,000 of his
had, owing to judicious management, become £40,000. You see, that is
unfortunately a thing past praying for. It is so indubitably clear from the
earlier ledgers----"
"But the port must
indeed have warmed you," said Mills quickly. "Why, it was madness!
What if he had consented?"
Mr. Taynton smiled.
"Ah, well, I in my
slow synthetic manner had made up my mind that it was really quite impossible
that he should consent to go into the books and vouchers. To begin with, he has
a new motor car, and every hour spent away from that car just now is to his
mind an hour wasted. Also, I know him well. I knew that he would never consent
to spend several hours over ledgers. Finally, even if he had, though I knew
from what I know of him not that he would not but that he could not, I could
have--I could have managed something. You see, he knows nothing whatever about
business or investments."
Mills shook his head.
"But it was
dangerous, anyhow," he said, "and I don’t understand what object
could be served by it. It was running a risk with no profit in view."
Then for the first time
the inherent strength of the quietness of the one man as opposed to the obvious
quickness and comprehension of the other came into play.
"I think that I
disagree with you there, my dear fellow," said Mr. Taynton slowly,
"though when I have told you all, I shall be of course, as always,
delighted to recognise the superiority of your judgment, should you disagree
with me, and convince me of the correctness of your view. It has happened, I
know, a hundred times before that you with your quick intuitive perceptions
have been right."
But his partner
interrupted him. He quite agreed with the sentiment, but he wanted to learn
without even the delay caused by these complimentary remarks, the upshot of
Taynton’s rash proposal to Morris.
"What did young
Assheton say?" he asked.
"Well, my dear
fellow," said Taynton, "though I have really no doubt that in
principle I did a rash thing, in actual practice my step was justified, because
Morris absolutely refused to look at the books. Of course I know the young
fellow well: it argues no perspicuity on my part to have foreseen that. And, I
am glad to say, something in my way of putting it, some sincerity of manner I
suppose, gave rise to a fresh mark of confidence in us on his part."
Mr. Taynton cleared his
throat; his quietness and complete absence of hurry was so to speak, rapidly
overhauling the quick, nimble mind of the other.
"He asked me in
fact to continue being steward of his affairs in any event. Should he marry
to-morrow I feel no doubt that he would not spend a couple of minutes over his
financial affairs, unless, unless, as you foresaw might happen, he had need of
a large lump sum. In that case, my dear Mills, you and I would--would find it
impossible to live elsewhere than in the Argentine Republic, were we so
fortunate as to get there. But, as far as this goes I only say that the step of
mine which you felt to be dangerous has turned out most auspiciously. He begged
me, in fact, to continue even after he came of age, acting for him at my
present rate of remuneration."
Mr. Mills was listening
to this with some attention. Here he laughed dryly.
"That is capital,
then," he said. "You were right and I was wrong. God, Taynton, it ’s
your manner you know, there’s something of the country parson about you that is
wonderfully convincing. You seem sincere without being sanctimonious. Why, if I
was to ask young Assheton to look into his affairs for himself, he would
instantly think there was something wrong, and that I was trying bluff. But
when you do the same thing, that simple and perfectly correct explanation never
occurs to him."
"No, dear Morris
trusts me very completely," said Taynton, "But, then, if I may
continue my little review of the situation, as it now stands, you and your talk
with Sir Richard have vastly decreased the danger of his marrying. For, to be
frank, I should not feel at all secure if that happened. Miss Templeton is an
heiress herself, and Morris might easily take it into his head to spend ten or
fifteen thousand pounds in building a house or buying an estate, and though I
think I have guarded against his requiring an account of our stewardship, I can’t
prevent his wishing to draw a large sum of money. But your brilliant manoeuvre
may, we hope, effectually put a stop to the danger of his marrying Miss
Templeton, and since I am convinced he is in love with her, why"--Mr.
Taynton put his plump finger-tips together and raised his kind eyes to the
ceiling--"why, the chance of his wanting to marry anybody else is
postponed anyhow, till, till he has got over this unfortunate attachment. In
fact, my dear fellow, there is no longer anything immediate to fear, and I feel
sure that before many weeks are up, the misfortunes and ill luck which for the
last two years have dogged us with such incredible persistency will be
repaired."
Mills said nothing for
the moment but splashed himself out a liberal allowance of brandy into his
glass, and mixed it with a somewhat more carefully measured ration of soda. He
was essentially a sober man, but that was partly due to the fact that his head
was as impervious to alcohol as teak is to water, and it was his habit to
indulge in two, and those rather stiff, brandies and sodas of an evening. He
found that they assisted and clarified thought.
"I wish to heaven
you had n’t found it necessary to let young Assheton know that his £30,000 had
increased to £40,000," he said. "That ’s £10,000 more to get
back."
"Ah, it was just
that which gave him, so he thought, such good cause for reposing complete
confidence in me," remarked Mr. Taynton. "But as you say, it is £10,000
more to get back, and I should not have told him, were not certain ledgers of
earlier years so extremely, extremely unmistakable on the subject."
"But if he is not
going to look at ledgers at all----" began Mills.
"Ah, the
concealment of that sort of thing is one of the risks which it is not worth
while to take," said the other, dropping for a moment the deferential
attitude.
Mills was silent again.
Then:
"Have you bought
that option in Boston Coppers," he asked.
"Yes; I bought
to-day."
Mills glanced at the
clock as Mr. Taynton rose to go.
"Still only a
quarter to twelve," he said. "If you have time, you might give me a
detailed statement. I hardly know what you have done. It won’t take a couple of
minutes."
Mr. Taynton glanced at
the clock likewise, and then put down his hat again.
"I can just spare
the time," he said, "but I must get home by twelve; I have
unfortunately come out without my latchkey, and I do not like keeping the
servants up."
He pressed his fingers
over his eyes a moment and then spoke.
Ten minutes later he
was in the bird-cage of the lift again, and by twelve he had been admitted into
his own house, apologising most amiably to his servant for having kept him up.
There were a few letters for him and he opened and read those, then lit his
bed-candle and went upstairs, but instead of undressing, sat for a full quarter
of an hour in his arm-chair thinking. Then he spoke softly to himself.
"I think dear
Mills means mischief in some way," he said. "But really for the
moment it puzzles me to know what. However, I shall see to-morrow. Ah, I wonder
if I guess!"
Then he went to bed,
but contrary to custom did not get to sleep for a long time. But when he did
there was a smile on his lips; a patient contented smile.
MR. TAYNTON’S statement
to his partner, which had taken him so few minutes to give, was of course
concerned only with the latest financial operation which he had just embarked
in, but for the sake of the reader it will be necessary to go a little further
back, and give quite shortly the main features of the situation in which he and
his partner found themselves placed.
Briefly then, just two
years ago, at the time peace was declared in South Africa, the two partners of
Taynton and Mills had sold out £30,000 of Morris Assheton’s securities, which
owing to their excellent management was then worth £40,000, and seeing a quite
unrivalled opportunity of making their fortunes, had become heavy purchasers of
South African mines, for they reasoned that with peace once declared it was
absolutely certain that prices would go up. But, as is sometimes the way with
absolute certainties, the opposite had happened and they had gone down. They
cut their loss, however, and proceeded to buy American rails. In six months
they had entirely repaired the damage, and seeing further unrivalled
opportunities from time to time, in buying motor-car shares, in running a
theatre and other schemes, had managed a month ago to lose all that was left of
the £30,000. Being, therefore, already so deeply committed, it was mere prudence,
the mere instinct of self-preservation that had led them to sell out the
remaining £10,000, and to-day Mr. Taynton had bought an option in Boston copper
with it. The manner of an option is as follows:
Boston Copper to-day
was quoted at £5 10s 6d, and by paying a premium of twelve shillings and
sixpence per share, they were entitled to buy Boston Copper shares any time
within the next three months at a price of £6 3s. Supposing therefore (as Mr.
Taynton on very good authority had supposed) that Boston Copper, a rapidly
improving company, rose a couple of points within the next three months, and so
stood at £7 10s 6d; he had the right of exercising his option and buying them
at £6 3s thus making £1 7s 6d per share. But a higher rise than this was confidently
expected, and Taynton, though not really of an over sanguine disposition,
certainly hoped to make good the greater part if not all of their somewhat
large defalcations. He had bought an option of 20,000 shares, the option of
which cost (or would cost at the end of those months) rather over £10,000. In
other words, the moment that the shares rose to a price higher than £6 3s, all
further appreciation was pure gain. If they did not rise so high, he would of
course not exercise the option, and sacrifice the money.
That was certainly a
very unpleasant thing to contemplate, but it had been more unpleasant when, so
far as he knew, Morris was on the verge of matrimony, and would then step into
the management of his own affairs. But bad though it all was, the situation had
certainly been immensely ameliorated this evening, since on the one hand his
partner had, it was not unreasonable to hope, said to Madge’s father things
about Morris that made his marriage with Madge exceedingly unlikely, while on
the other hand, even if it happened, his affairs, according to his own wish,
would remain in Mr. Taynton’s hands with the same completeness as heretofore.
It would, of course, be necessary to pay him his income, and though this would
be a great strain on the finances of the two partners, it was manageable.
Besides (Mr. Taynton sincerely hoped that this would not be necessary) the
money which was Mrs. Assheton’s for her lifetime was in his hands also, so if
the worst came to the worst----
Now the composition and
nature of the extraordinary animal called man is so unexpected and unlikely
that any analysis of Mr. Taynton’s character may seem almost grotesque. It is a
fact nevertheless that his was a nature capable of great things, it is also a
fact that he had long ago been deeply and bitterly contrite for the original
dishonesty of using the money of his client. But by aid of those strange
perversities of nature, he had by this time honestly and sincerely got to
regard all their subsequent employments of it merely as efforts on his part to
make right an original wrong. He wanted to repair his fault, and it seemed to
him that to commit it again was the only means at his disposal for doing so. A
strain, too, of Puritan piety was bound up in the constitution of his soul, and
in private life he exercised high morality, and was also kind and charitable.
He belonged to guilds and societies that had as their object the improvement
and moral advancement of young men. He was a liberal patron of educational
schemes, he sang a fervent and fruity tenor in the choir of St. Agnes, he was a
regular communicant, his nature looked toward good, and turned its eyes away
from evil. To do him justice he was not a hypocrite, though, if all about him
were known, and a plebiscite taken, it is probable that he would be unanimously
condemned. Yet the universal opinion would be wrong: he was no hypocrite, but
only had the bump of self-preservation enormously developed. He had cheated and
swindled, but he was genuinely opposed to cheating and swindling. He was
cheating and swindling now, in buying the option of Boston Copper. But he did
not know that: he wanted to repair the original wrong, to hand back to Morris
his fortune unimpaired, and also to save himself. But of these two wants, the
second, it must be confessed, was infinitely the stronger. To save himself
there was perhaps nothing that he would stick at. However, it was his constant
wish and prayer that he might not be led into temptation. He knew well what his
particular temptation was, namely this instinct of self-preservation, and
constantly thought and meditated about it. He knew that he was hardly himself
when the stress of it came on him; it was like a possession.
Mills, though an
excellent partner and a man of most industrious habits, had, so Mr. Taynton
would have admitted, one little weak spot. He never was at the office till
rather late in the morning. True, when he came, he soon made up for lost time,
for he was possessed, as we have seen, of a notable quickness and agility of mind,
but sometimes Taynton found that he was himself forced to be idle till Mills
turned up, if his signature or what not was required for papers before work
could be further proceeded with. This, in fact, was the case next morning, and
from half past eleven Mr. Taynton had to sit idly in his office, as far as the
work of the firm was concerned until his partner arrived. It was a little
tiresome that this should happen to-day, because there was nothing else that
need detain him, except those deeds for the execution of which his partner’s
signature was necessary, and he could, if only Mills had been punctual, have
gone out to Rottingdean before lunch, and inspected the Church school there in
the erection of which he had taken so energetic an interest. Timmins, however,
the gray-haired old head clerk, was in the office with him, and Mr. Taynton
always liked a chat with Timmins.
"And the grandson
just come home, has he Mr. Timmins?" he was saying. "I must come and
see him. Why he ’ll be six years old, won’t he, by now?"
"Yes, sir, turned
six."
"Dear me, how time
goes on! The morning is going on, too, and still Mr. Mills is n’t here."
He took a quill pen and
drew a half sheet of paper toward him, poised his pen a moment and then wrote
quickly.
"What a pity I can’t
sign for him," he said, passing his paper over to the clerk. "Look at
that; now even you, Timmins, though you have seen Mr. Mills’s handwriting ten
thousand times, would be ready to swear that the signature was his, would you
not?"
Timmins looked
scrutinisingly at it.
"Well, I ’m sure,
sir! What a forger you would have made!" he said admiringly. "I would
have sworn that was Mr. Mills’s own hand of write. It ’s wonderful, sir."
Mr. Taynton sighed, and
took the paper again.
"Yes, it is like,
is n’t it?" he said, "and it ’s so easy to do. Luckily forgers don’t
know the way to forge properly."
"And what might
that be, sir?" asked Timmins.
"Why, to throw
yourself mentally into the nature of the man whose handwriting you wish to forge.
Of course one has to know the handwriting thoroughly well, but if one does that
one just has to visualise it, and then, as I said, project oneself into the
other, not laboriously copy the handwriting. Let ’s try another. Ah, who is
that letter from? Mrs. Assheton is n’t it. Let me look at the signature just
once again."
Mr. Taynton closed his
eyes a moment after looking at it. Then he took his quill, and wrote quickly.
"You would swear
to that, too, would you not, Timmins?" he asked.
"Why, God bless me
yes, sir," said he. "Swear to it on the book."
The door opened and as
Godfrey Mills came in, Mr. Taynton tweaked the paper out of Timmins’s hand, and
tore it up. It might perhaps seem strange to dear Mills that his partner had
been forging his signature, though only in jest.
"’Fraid I ’m
rather late," said Mills.
"Not at all, my
dear fellow," said Taynton without the slightest touch of ill-humour.
"How are you? There ’s very little to do; I want your signature to this
and this, and your careful perusal of that. Mrs. Assheton’s letter? No, that
only concerns me; I have
dealt with it."
A quarter of an hour
was sufficient, and at the end Timmins carried the papers away leaving the two
partners together. Then, as soon as the door closed, Mills spoke.
"I ’ve been
thinking over our conversation of last night," he said, "and there
are some points I don’t think you have quite appreciated, which I should like
to put before you."
Something inside Mr.
Taynton’s brain, the same watcher perhaps who looked at Morris so closely the
evening before, said to him. "He is going to try it on." But it was
not the watcher but his normal self that answered. He beamed gently on his
partner.
"My dear fellow, I
might have been sure that your quick mind would have seen new aspects, new
combinations," he said.
Mills leaned forward
over the table.
"Yes, I have seen
new aspects, to adopt your words," he said, "and I will put them
before you. These financial operations, shall we call them, have been going on
for two years now, have they not? You began by losing a large sum in South
Africans----"
"We began,"
corrected Mr. Taynton, gently. He was looking at the other quite calmly; his
face expressed no surprise at all; if there was anything in his expression
beyond that of quiet kindness, it was perhaps pity.
"I said ‘you,’"
said Mills in a hectoring tone, "and I will soon explain why. You lost a
large sum in South Africans, but won it back again in Americans. You then
again, and again contrary to my advice, embarked in perfect wild-cat affairs,
which ended in our--I say ‘our’ here--getting severely scratched and mauled.
Altogether you have frittered away £30,000, and have placed the remaining ten
in a venture which to my mind is as wild as all the rest of your unfortunate
ventures. These speculations have, almost without exception, been choices of
your own, not mine. That was one of the reasons why I said ‘you,’ not ‘we.’"
He paused a moment.
"Another reason
is," he said, "because without any exception the transactions have
taken place on your advice and in your name, not in mine."
That was a sufficiently
meaning statement, but Mills did not wish his partner to be under any
misapprehension as to what he implied.
"In other
words," he said, "I can deny absolutely all knowledge of the whole of
those operations."
Mr. Taynton gave a
sudden start, as if the significance of this had only this moment dawned on
him, as if he had not understood the first statement. Then he seemed to collect
himself.
"You can hardly do
that," he said, "as I hold letters of yours which imply such
knowledge."
Mills smiled rather
evilly.
"Ah, it is not
worth while bluffing," he said. "I have never written such a letter
to you. You know it. Is it likely I should?"
Mr. Taynton apparently
had no reply to this. But he had a question to ask.
"Why are you
taking up this hostile and threatening attitude?"
"I have not meant
to be hostile, and I have certainly not threatened," replied Mills.
"I have put before you, quite dispassionately I hope, certain facts.
Indeed I should say it was you who had threatened in the matter of those
letters, which, unhappily, have never existed at all. I will proceed."
"Now what has been
my part in this affair? I have observed you lost money in speculations of which
I disapproved, but you always knew best. I have advanced money to you before
now to tide over embarrassments that would otherwise have been disastrous. By
the exercise of diplomacy--or lying--yesterday, I averted a very grave danger.
I point out to you also that there is nothing to implicate me in these--these
fraudulent employments of a client’s money. So I ask, where I come in? What do
I get by it?"
Mr. Taynton’s hands
were trembling as he fumbled at some papers on his desk.
"You know quite
well that we are to share all profits?" he said.
"Yes, but at
present there have not been any. I have been, to put it plainly, pulling you
out of holes. And I think--I think my trouble ought to be remunerated. I
sincerely hope you will take that view also. Or shall I remind you again that
there is nothing in the world to connect me with these, well, frauds?"
Mr. Taynton got up from
his chair, strolled across to the window where he drew down the blind a little,
so as to shut out the splash of sunlight that fell on his table.
"You have been
betting again, I suppose," he asked quietly.
"Yes, and have
been unfortunate. Pray do not trouble to tell me again how foolish it is to
gamble like that. You may be right. I have no doubt you are right. But I think
one has as much right to gamble with one’s own money as to do so with the money
of other people."
This apparently seemed
unanswerable; anyhow Mr. Taynton made no reply. Then, having excluded the
splash of sunlight he sat down again.
"You have not
threatened, you tell me," he said, "but you have pointed out to me
that there is no evidence that you have had a hand in certain transactions. You
say that I know you have helped me in these transactions; you say you require remuneration
for your services. Does not that, I ask, imply a threat? Does it not mean that
you are blackmailing me? Else why should you bring these facts--I do not
dispute them--to my notice? Supposing I refuse you remuneration?"
Mills had noted the
signs of agitation and anxiety. He felt that he was on safe ground. The
blackmailer lives entirely on the want of courage in his victims.
"You will not, I
hope, refuse me remuneration," he said. "I have not threatened you
yet, because I feel sure you will be wise. I might, of course, subsequently
threaten you."
Again there was
silence. Mr. Taynton had picked up a quill pen, the same with which he had been
writing before, for the nib was not yet dry.
"The law is rather
severe on blackmailers," he remarked.
"It is. Are you
going to bring an action against me for blackmail? Will not that imply the
re-opening of--of certain ledgers, which we agreed last night had better remain
shut?"
Again there was
silence. There was a completeness in this reasoning which rendered comment
superfluous.
"How much do you
want?" asked Mr. Taynton.
Mills was not so
foolish as to "breathe a sigh of relief." But he noted with
satisfaction that there was no sign of fight in his adversary and partner.
"I want two
thousand pounds," he said, "at once."
"That is a large
sum."
"It is. If it were
a small sum I should not trouble you."
Mr. Taynton again got
up and strayed aimlessly about the room.
"I can’t give it
you to-day," he said. "I shall have to sell out some stock."
"I am not unreasonable
about a reasonable delay," said Mills.
"You are going to
town this afternoon?"
"Yes, I must.
There is a good deal of work to be done. It will take me all to-morrow."
"And you will be
back the day after to-morrow?"
"Yes, I shall be
back here that night, that is to say, I shall not get away from town till the
afternoon. I should like your definite answer then, if it is not inconvenient.
I could come and see you that night, the day after to-morrow--if you wished."
Mr. Taynton thought
over this with his habitual deliberation.
"You will readily
understand that all friendly relations between us are quite over," he
said. "You have done a cruel and wicked thing, but I don’t see how I can
resist it. I should like, however, to have a little further talk about it, for
which I have not time now."
Mills rose.
"By all
means," he said. "I do not suppose I shall be back here till nine in
the evening. I have had no exercise lately, and I think very likely I shall get
out of the train at Falmer, and walk over the downs."
Mr. Taynton’s habitual
courtesy came to his aid. He would have been polite to a thief or a murderer,
if he met him socially.
"Those cool airs
of the downs are very invigorating." he said. "I will not expect you
therefore till half past nine that night. I shall dine at home, and be
alone."
"Thanks. I must be
going. I shall only just catch my train to town."
Mills nodded a curt
gesture of farewell, and left the room, and when he had gone Mr. Taynton sat
down again in the chair by the table, and remained there some half hour. He
knew well the soundness of his partner’s reasoning; all he had said was fatally
and abominably true. There was no way out of it. Yet to pay money to a
blackmailer was, to the legal mind, a confession of guilt. Innocent people,
unless they were abject fools, did not pay blackmail. They prosecuted the
blackmailer. Yet here, too, Mills’s simple reasoning held good. He could not
prosecute the blackmailer, since he was not in the fortunate position of being
innocent. But if you paid a blackmailer once, you were for ever in his power.
Having once yielded, it was necessary to yield again. He must get some
assurance that no further levy would take place. He must satisfy himself that
he would be quit of all future danger from this quarter. Yet from whence was
such assurance to come? He might have it a hundred times over in Godfrey Mills’s
handwriting, but he could never produce that as evidence, since again the
charge of fraudulent employment of clients’ money would be in the air. No
doubt, of course, the blackmailer would be sentenced, but the cause of
blackmail would necessarily be public. No, there was no way out.
Two thousand pounds,
though! Frugally and simply as he lived, that was to him a dreadful sum, and
represented the savings of at least eighteen months. This meant that there was
for him another eighteen months of work, just when he hoped to see his
retirement coming close to him. Mills demanded that he should work an extra
year and a half, and out of those few years that in all human probability still
remained to him in this pleasant world. Yet there was no way out!
Half an hour’s
meditation convinced him of this, and, as was his sensible plan, when a thing
was inevitable, he never either fought against it nor wasted energy in
regretting it. And he went slowly out of the office into which he had come so
briskly an hour or two before. But his face expressed no sign of disquieting
emotion; he nodded kindly to Timmins, and endorsed his desire to be allowed to
come and see the grandson. If anything was on his mind, or if he was revolving
some policy for the future, it did not seem to touch or sour that kindly,
pleasant face.
MR. TAYNTON did not let
these very unpleasant occurrences interfere with the usual and beneficent
course of his life, but faced the crisis with that true bravery that not only
meets a thing without flinching, but meets it with the higher courage of cheerfulness,
serenity and ordinary behaviour. He spent the rest of the day in fact in his
usual manner, enjoying his bathe before lunch, his hour of the paper and the
quiet cigar afterward, his stroll over the springy turf of the downs, and he
enjoyed also the couple of hours of work that brought him to dinner time. Then
afterward he spent his evening, as was his weekly custom, at the club for young
men which he had founded, where instead of being exposed to the evening lures
of the sea-front and the public house, they could spend (on payment of a really
nominal subscription) a quieter and more innocent hour over chess, bagatelle
and the illustrated papers, or if more energetically disposed, in the airy
gymnasium adjoining the reading-room, where they could indulge in friendly
rivalry with boxing gloves or single-stick, or feed the appetites of their
growing muscles with dumb-bells and elastic contrivances. Mr. Taynton had spent
a couple of hours there, losing a game of chess to one youthful adversary, but
getting back his laurels over bagatelle, and before he left, had arranged for a
geological expedition to visit, on the Whitsuntide bank holiday next week, the
curious raised beach which protruded so remarkably from the range of chalk
downs some ten miles away.
On returning home, it
is true he had deviated a little from his usual habits, for instead of devoting
the half-hour before bed-time to the leisurely perusal of the evening paper, he
had merely given it one glance, observing that copper was strong and that Boston
Copper in particular had risen half a point, and had then sat till bed-time
doing nothing whatever, a habit to which he was not generally addicted.
He was seated in his
office next morning and was in fact on the point of leaving for his bathe, for this
hot genial June was marching on its sunny way uninterrupted by winds or rain,
when Mr. Timmins, after discreetly tapping, entered, and closed the door behind
him.
"Mr. Morris
Assheton, sir, to see you," he said. "I said I would find out if you
were disengaged, and could hardly restrain him from coming in with me. The
young gentleman seems very excited and agitated. Hardly himself, sir."
"Indeed, show him
in," said Mr. Taynton.
A moment afterward the
door burst open and banged to again behind Morris. High colour flamed in his
face, his black eyes sparkled with vivid dangerous light, and he had no
salutation for his old friend.
"I ’ve come on a
very unpleasant business," he said, his voice not in control.
Mr. Taynton got up. He
had only had one moment of preparation and he thought, at any rate, that he
knew for certain what this unpleasant business must be. Evidently Mills had
given him away. For what reason he had done so he could not guess; after his
experience of yesterday it might have been from pure devilry, or again he might
have feared that in desperation, Taynton would take that extreme step of
prosecuting him for blackmail. But, for that moment Taynton believed that
Morris’s agitation must be caused by this, and it says much for the iron of his
nerve that he did not betray himself by a tremor.
"My dear
Morris," he said, "I must ask you to pull yourself together. You are
out of your own control. Sit down, please, and be silent for a minute. Then
tell me calmly what is the matter.
Morris sat down as he
was told, but the calmness was not conspicuous.
"Calm?" he
said. "Would you be calm in my circumstances, do you think?"
"You have not yet
told me what they are," said Mr. Taynton.
"I ’ve just seen
Madge Templeton," he said. "I met her privately by appointment. And
she told me--she told me----"
Master of himself
though he was, Mr. Taynton had one moment of physical giddiness, so complete
and sudden was the revulsion and reaction that took place in his brain. A
moment before he had known, he thought, for certain that his own utter ruin was
imminent. Now he knew that it was not that, and though he had made one wrong
conjecture as to what the unpleasant business was, he did not think that his
second guess was far astray.
"Take your time,
Morris," he said. "And, my dear boy, try to calm yourself. You say I
should not be calm in your circumstances. Perhaps I should not, but I should
make an effort. Tell me everything slowly, omitting nothing."
This speech, combined
with the authoritative personality of Mr. Taynton, had an extraordinary effect
on Morris. He sat quiet a moment or two, then spoke.
"Yes, you are
quite right," he said, "and after all I have only conjecture to go on
yet, and I have been behaving as if it was proved truth. God! if it is proved
to be true, though, I ’ll expose him, I ’ll--I ’ll horsewhip him, I ’ll murder
him!"
Mr. Taynton slapped the
table with his open hand.
"Now, Morris, none
of these wild words," he said. "I will not listen to you for a
moment, if you do not control yourself."
Once again, and this
time more permanently the man’s authority asserted itself. Morris again sat
silent for a time, then spoke evenly and quietly.
"Two nights ago
you were dining with us," he said, "and Madge was there. Do you
remember my asking her if I might come to see them, and she said she and her
mother would be out all day?"
"Yes; I remember
perfectly," said Mr. Taynton.
"Well, yesterday
afternoon I was motoring by the park, and I saw Madge sitting on the lawn. I
stopped the motor and watched. She sat there for nearly an hour, and then Sir
Richard came out of the house and they walked up and down the lawn
together."
"Ah, you must have
been mistaken," said Mr. Taynton. "I know the spot you mean on the
road, where you can see the lawn, but it ’s half a mile off. It must have been
some friend of hers perhaps staying in the house."
Morris shook his head.
"I was not
mistaken," he said. "For yesterday evening I got a note from her,
saying she had posted it secretly, but that she must see me, though she was
forbidden to do so, or to hold any communication with me."
"Forbidden?"
ejaculated Mr. Taynton.
"Yes, forbidden.
Well, this morning I went to the place she named, outside on the downs beyond
the park gate and saw her. Somebody has been telling vile lies about me to her
father. I think I know who it is."
Mr. Taynton held up his
hand.
"Stop," he
said, "let us have your conjecture afterward. Tell me first not what you
guess, but what happened. Arrange it all in your mind, tell it me as
connectedly as you can."
Morris paused a moment.
"Well, I met Madge
as I told you, and this was her story. Three days ago she and her father and
mother were at lunch, and they had been talking in the most friendly way about
me, and it was arranged to ask me to spend all yesterday with them. Madge, as
you know, the next night was dining with us, and it was agreed that she should
ask me verbally. After lunch she and her father went out riding, and when they
returned they found that your partner Mills, had come to call. He stayed for
tea, and after tea had a talk alone with Sir Richard, while she and her mother
sat out on the lawn. Soon after he had gone, Sir Richard sent for Lady Templeton,
and it was nearly dressing-time when she left him again. She noticed at dinner
that both her father and mother seemed very grave, and when Madge went up to
bed, her mother said that perhaps they had better not ask me over, as there was
some thought of their being away all day. Also if I suggested coming over, when
Madge dined with us, she was to give that excuse. That was all she was told for
the time being."
Morris paused again.
"You are telling
this very clearly and well, my dear boy," said the lawyer, very gravely
and kindly.
"It is so
simple," said he with a biting emphasis. "Then next morning after
breakfast her father sent for her. He told her that they had learned certain
things about me which made them think it better not to see any more of me. What
they were, she was not told, but, I was not, it appeared, the sort of person
with whom they chose to associate. Now, before God, those things that they were
told, whatever they were, were lies. I lead a straight and sober life."
Mr. Taynton was
attending very closely.
"Thank God, Madge
did not believe a word of it," said Morris, his face suddenly flushing,
"and like a brick, and a true friend she wrote at once to me, as I said,
in order to tell me all this. We talked over, too, who it could have been who
had said these vile things to her father. There was only one person who could.
She had ridden with her father till tea-time. Then came your partner. Sir
Richard saw nobody else; nobody else called that afternoon; no post came
in."
Mr. Taynton had sprung
up and was walking up and down the room in great agitation.
"I can’t believe
that," he said. "There must be some other explanation. Godfrey Mills
say those things about you! It is incredible. My dear boy, until it is proved,
you really must not let yourself believe that to be possible. You can’t believe
such wickedness against a man, one, too, whom I have known and trusted for
years, on no evidence. There is no direct evidence yet. Let us leave that alone
for the moment. What are you going to do now?"
"I came here to
see him," said Morris. "But I am told he is away. So I thought it
better to tell you."
"Yes, quite right.
And what else?"
"I have written to
Sir Richard, demanding, in common justice, that he should see me, should tell
me what he has heard against me, and who told him. I don’t think he will
refuse. I don’t see how he can refuse. I have asked him to see me to-morrow
afternoon."
Mr. Taynton mentally
examined this in all its bearings. Apparently it satisfied him.
"You have acted
wisely and providently," he said. "But I want to beg you, until you
have definite information, to forbear from thinking that my dear Mills could
conceivably have been the originator of these scandalous tales, tales which I
know from my knowledge of you are impossible to be true. From what I know of
him, however, it is impossible he could have said such things. I cannot believe
him capable of a mean or deceitful action, and that he should be guilty of such
unfathomable iniquity is simply out of the question. You must assume him
innocent till his guilt is proved."
"But who else
could it have been?’ cried Morris, his voice rising again.
"It could not have
been he," said Taynton firmly.
There was a long
silence; then Morris rose.
"There is one
thing more," he said, "which is the most important of all. This foul
scandal about me, of course, I know will be cleared up, and I shall be
competent to deal with the offender. But--but Madge and I said other things to
each other. I told her what I told you, that I loved her. And she loves
me."
The sternness, the
trouble, the anxiety all melted from Mr. Taynton’s face.
"Ah, my dear
fellow, my dear fellow," he said with outstretched hands. Thank you for
telling me. I am delighted, overjoyed, and indeed, as you say, that is far more
important
than anything else. My
dear Morris, and is not your mother charmed?"
Morris shook his head.
"I have not told
her yet, and I shall not till this is cleared up. It is her birthday the day
after to-morrow; perhaps I shall be able to tell her then."
He rose.
"I must go,"
he said. "And I will do all I can to keep my mind off accusing him, until
I know. But when I think of it, I see red."
Mr. Taynton patted his
shoulder affectionately.
"I should have
thought that you had got something to think about, which would make it easy for
you to prevent your thoughts straying elsewhere," he said.
"I shall need all
the distractions I can get," said Morris rather grimly.
Morris walked quickly
back along the sea front toward Sussex Square, and remembered as he went that
he had not yet bought any gift for his mother on her birthday. There was
something, too, which she had casually said a day or two ago that she wanted,
what was it? Ah, yes, a new blotting-book for her writing-table in the
drawing-room. The shop she habitually dealt at for such things, a branch of
Asprey’s, was only a few yards farther on, and he turned in to make inquiries
as to whether she had ordered it. It appeared that she had been in that very
morning, but the parcel had not been sent yet. So Morris, taking the
responsibility on himself, counterordered the plain red morocco book she had
chosen, and chose another, with fine silver scroll-work at the corners. He
ordered, too, that a silver lettered inscription should be put on it. "H.
A. from M. A." with the date, two days ahead, "June 24th, 1905."
This he gave instructions should be sent to the house on the morning of June
24th, the day after to-morrow. He wished it to be sent so as to arrive with the
early post on that morning.
The promise which
Morris had made his old friend not to let his thoughts dwell on suspicion and
conjecture as yet uncertain of foundation was one of those promises which are
made in absolute good faith, but which in their very nature cannot be kept. The
thought of the hideous treachery, the gratuitous falsehood, of which, in his
mind, he felt convinced Godfrey Mills had been guilty was like blood soaking
through a bandage. All that he could do was to continue putting on fresh
bandages--that was all of his promise that he was able to fulfill, and in spite
of the bandages the blood stained and soaked its way through. In the afternoon he
took out the motor, but his joy in it for the time was dead, and it was only
because in the sense of pace and swift movement he hoped to find a narcotic to
thought, that he went out at all. But there was no narcotic there, nor even in
the thought of this huge joy of love that had dawned on him was there
forgetfulness for all else, joy and sorrow and love, were for the present
separated from him by these hideous and libellous things that had been said
about him. Until they were removed, until they passed into non-existence again,
nothing had any significance for him. Everything was coloured with them;
bitterness as of blood tinged everything. Hours, too, must pass before they
could be removed; this long midsummer day had to draw to its end, night had to pass;
the hour of early dawn, the long morning had to be numbered with the past
before he could even learn who was responsible for this poisoned tale.
And when he learned, or
rather when his conjecture was confirmed as to who it was (for his supposition
was conjecture in the sense that it only wanted the actual seal of reality on
it) what should he do next? Or rather what must he do next? He felt that when
he knew absolutely for certain who had said this about him, a force of
indignation and hatred, which at present he kept chained up, must infallibly
break its chain, and become merely a wild beast let loose. He felt he would be
no longer responsible for what he did, something had to happen; something more
than mere apology or retraction of words. To lie and slander like that was a
crime, an insult against human and divine justice. It would be nothing for the
criminal to say he was sorry; he had to be punished. A man who did that was not
fit to live; he was a man no longer, he was a biting, poisonous reptile, who
for the sake of the community must be expunged. Yet human justice which hanged
people for violent crimes committed under great provocation, dealt more lightly
with this far more devilish thing, a crime committed coldly and calculatingly,
that had planned not the mere death of his body, but the disgrace and death of
his character. Godfrey Mills--he checked the word and added to himself "if
it was he"--had morally tried to kill him.
Morris, after his
interview that morning with Mr. Taynton, had lunched alone in Sussex Square,
his mother having gone that day up to London for two nights. His plan had been
to go up with her, but he had excused himself on the plea of business with his
trustees, and she had gone alone. Directly after lunch he had taken the motor
out, and had whirled along the coast road, past Rottingdean through Newhaven
and Seaford, and ten miles farther until the suburbs of Eastbourne had begun.
There he turned, his thoughts still running a mill-race in his head, and
retracing his road had by now come back to within a mile of Brighton again. The
sun gilded the smooth channel, the winds were still, the hot midsummer
afternoon lay heavy on the land. Then he stopped the motor and got out, telling
Martin to wait there.
He walked over the
strip of velvety down grass to the edge of the white cliffs, and there sat
down. The sea below him whispered and crawled, above the sun was the sole
tenant of the sky, and east and west the down was empty of passengers. He, like
his soul, was alone, and alone he had to think these things out.
Yes, this liar and
slanderer, whoever he was, had tried to kill him. The attempt had been
well-planned too, for the chances had been a thousand to one in favour of the
murderer. But the one chance had turned up, Madge had loved him, and she had
been brave, setting at defiance the order of her father, and had seen him
secretly, and told him all the circumstances of this attack on him. But
supposing she had been just a shade less brave, supposing her filial obedience
had weighed an ounce heavier? Then he would never have known anything about it.
The result would simply have been, as it was meant to be, that the Templetons
were out when he called. There would have been a change of subject in their
rooms when his name was mentioned, other people would have vaguely gathered
that Mr. Morris Assheton’s name was not productive of animated conversation;
their gatherings would have spread further, while he himself, ignorant of all
cause, would have encountered cold shoulders.
Morris’s hands clutched
at the short down grass, tearing it up and scattering it. He was helpless, too,
unless he took the law into his own hands. It would do no good, young as he
was, he knew that, to bring any action for defamation of character, since the
world only says, if a man justifies himself by the only legal means in his
power, "There must have been something in it, since it was said!" No
legal remedy, no fines or, even imprisonment, far less apology and retraction
satisfied justice. There were only two courses open: one to regard the slander
as a splash of mud thrown by some vile thing that sat in the gutter, and simply
ignore it; the other to do something himself, to strike, to hit, with his
bodily hands, whatever the result of his violence was.
He felt his
shoulder-muscles rise and brace themselves at the thought, all the strength and
violence of his young manhood, with its firm sinews and supple joints, told him
that it was his willing and active servant and would do his pleasure. He wanted
to smash the jaw bone that had formed these lies, and he wanted the world to
know he had done so. Yet that was not enough, he wanted to throttle the throat
from which the words had come; the man ought to be killed; it was right to kill
him just as it was right to kill a poisonous snake that somehow disguised
itself as a man, and was received into the houses of men.
Indeed, should Morris
be told, as he felt sure he would be, who his slanderer and defamer was, that
gentleman would be wise to keep out of his way with him in such a mood. There
was danger and death abroad on this calm hot summer afternoon.
IT WAS about four o’clock
on the afternoon of the following day, and Mr. Taynton was prolonging his hour
of quietude after lunch, and encroaching thereby into the time he daily
dedicated to exercise. It was but seldom that he broke into the routine of
habits so long formed, and indeed the most violent rain or snow of winter, the
most cutting easterly blasts of March, never, unless he had some definite
bodily ailment, kept him indoors or deprived him of his brisk health-giving
trudge over the downs or along the sea front. But occasionally when the weather
was unusually hot, he granted himself the indulgence of sitting still instead
of walking, and certainly to-day the least lenient judge might say that there
were strong extenuating circumstances in his favour. For the heat of the past
week had been piling itself up, like the heaped waters of flood and this
afternoon was intense in its heat, its stillness and sultriness. It had been
sunless all day, and all day the blanket of clouds that beset the sky had been
gathering themselves into blacker and more ill-omened density. There would
certainly be a thunderstorm before morning, and the approach of it made Mr.
Taynton feel that he really had not the energy to walk. By and by perhaps he
might be tempted to go in quest of coolness along the sea front, or perhaps
later in the evening he might, as he sometimes did, take a carriage up on to
the downs, and come gently home to a late supper. He would have time for that
to-day, for according to arrangement his partner was to drop in about half past
nine that evening. If he got back at nine, supposing he went at all, he would
have time to have some food before receiving him.
He sat in a pleasant
parquetted room looking out into the small square garden at the back of his
house in Montpellier Road. Big awnings stretched from the window over the broad
gravel path outside, and in spite of the excessive heat the room was full of
dim coolness. There was but little furniture in it, and it presented the
strongest possible contrast to the appointments of his partner’s flat with its
heavy decorations, its somewhat gross luxury. A few water-colours hung on the
white walls, a few Persian rugs strewed the floor, a big bookcase with china on
the top filled one end of the room, his writing-table, a half dozen of
Chippendale chairs, and the chintz-covered sofa where he now lay practically
completed the inventory of the room. Three or four bronzes, a Narcissus, a
fifteenth-century Italian St. Francis, and a couple of Greek reproductions
stood on the chimney-piece, but the whole room breathed an atmosphere of
aesthetic asceticism.
Since lunch Mr. Taynton
had glanced at the paper, and also looked up the trains from Lewes in order to
assure himself that he need not expect his partner till half past nine, and
since then, though his hands and his eyes had been idle, his mind had been very
busy. Yet for all its business, he had not arrived at much. Morris, Godfrey
Mills, and himself; he had placed these three figures in all sorts of positions
in his mind, and yet every combination of them was somehow terrible and
menacing. Try as he would he could not construct a peaceful or secure
arrangement of them. In whatever way he grouped them there was danger.
The kitchen passage ran
out at right angles to the room in which he sat, and formed one side of the
garden. The windows in it were high up, so that it did not overlook the
flower-beds, and on this torrid afternoon they were all fully open. Suddenly
from just inside came the fierce clanging peal of a bell, which made him start
from his recumbent position. It was the front-door bell, as he knew, and as it
continued ringing as if a maniac’s grip was on the handle, he heard the steps
of his servant running along the stone floor of the passage to see what
imperative summons this was. Then, as the front door was opened, the bell
ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and the moment afterward he heard Morris’s
voice shrill and commanding.
"But he has got to
see me," he cried, "What ’s the use of you going to ask if he
will?"
Mr. Taynton went to the
door of his room which opened into the hall.
"Come in,
Morris," he said.
Though it had been
Morris’s hand which had raised so uncontrolled a clamour, and his voice that
just now had been so uncontrolled, there was no sign, when the door of Mr.
Taynton’s room had closed behind them, that there was any excitement of any
sort raging within him. He sat down at once in a chair opposite the window, and
Mr. Taynton saw that in spite of the heat of the day and the violence of that
storm which he knew was yelling and screaming through his brain, his face was
absolutely white. He sat with his hands on the arms of the Chippendale chair,
and they too were quite still.
"I have seen Sir
Richard," said he, "and I came back at once to see you. He has told
me everything. Godfrey Mills has been lying about me and slandering me."
Mr. Taynton sat down
heavily on the sofa.
"No, no; don’t say
it, don’t say it," he murmured. "It can’t be true, I can’t believe
it."
"But it is true,
and you have got to believe it. He suggested that you should go and talk it
over with him. I will drive you up in the car, if you wish----"
Mr. Taynton waved his
hand with a negative gesture.
"No, no, not at
once," he cried. "I must think it over. I must get used to this
dreadful, this appalling shock. I am utterly distraught."
Morris turned to him,
and across his face for one moment there shot, swift as a lightning-flash, a
quiver of rage so rabid that he looked scarcely human, but like some Greek
presentment of the Furies or Revenge. Never, so thought his old friend, had he
seen such glorious youthful beauty so instinct and inspired with hate. It was
the demoniacal force of that which lent such splendour to it. But it passed in
a second, and Morris still very pale, very quiet spoke to him.
"Where is
he?" he asked. "I must see him at once. It won’t keep."
Then he sprang up, his
rage again mastering him.
"What shall I do
it with?" he said. "What shall I do it with?"
For the moment Mr.
Taynton forgot himself and his anxieties.
"Morris, you don’t
know what you are saying," he cried. "Thank God nobody but me heard
you say that!"
Morris seemed not to be
attending.
"Where is
he?" he said again, "are you concealing him here. I have already been
to your office, and he was n’t there, and to his flat, and he was n’t
there."
"Thank God,"
ejaculated the lawyer.
"By all means if
you like. But I ’ve got to see him, you know. Where is he?"
"He is away in
town," said Mr. Taynton, "but he will be back to-night. Now attend.
Of course you must see him, I quite understand that. But you must n’t see him
alone, while you are like this."
"No, I don’t want
to," said Morris. "I should like other people to see what I ’ve got
to--to say to him--that, that partner of yours."
"He has from this
moment ceased to be my partner," said Mr. Taynton brokenly. "I could
never again sign what he has signed, or work with him, or--or--except once--see
him again. He is coming here by appointment at half-past nine. Suppose that we
all meet here. We have both got to see him."
Morris nodded and went
toward the door. A sudden spasm of anxiety seemed to seize Mr. Taynton.
"What are you
going to do now?" he asked.
"I don’t know.
Drive to Falmer Park perhaps, and tell Sir Richard you cannot see him
immediately. Will you see him to-morrow?"
"Yes, I will call
to-morrow morning. Morris, promise me you will do nothing rash, nothing that
will bring sorrow on all those who love you."
"I shall bring a
little sorrow on a man who hates me," said he.
He went out, and Mr.
Taynton sat down again, his mouth compressed into hard lines, his forehead
heavily frowning. He could not permanently prevent Morris from meeting Godfrey
Mills, besides, it was his right to do so, yet how fraught with awful risks to
himself that meeting would be! Morris might easily make a violent, even a
murderous, assault on the man, but Mills was an expert boxer and wrestler,
science would probably get the upper hand of blind rage. But how deadly a
weapon Mills had in store against himself; he would certainly tell Morris that
if one partner had slandered him the other, whom he so trusted and revered, had
robbed him; he would say, too, that Taynton had been cognizant of, and had
approved, his slanders. There was no end to the ruin that would certainly be
brought about his head if they met. Mills’s train, too, would have left London
by now; there was no chance of stopping him. Then there was another danger he
had not foreseen, and it was too late to stop that now. Morris was going again
to Falmer Park, had indeed started, and that afternoon Godfrey Mills would get
out of the train, as he had planned, at the station just below, and walk back
over the downs to Brighton. What if they met there, alone?"
For an hour perhaps Mr.
Taynton delved at these problems, and at the end even it did not seem as if he
had solved them satisfactorily, for when he went out of his house, as he did at
the end of this time to get a little breeze if such was obtainable, his face
was still shadowed and overclouded. Overclouded too was the sky, and as he
stepped out into the street from his garden-room the hot air struck him like a
buffet; and in his troubled and apprehensive mood it felt as if some hot hand
warned him by a blow not to venture out of his house. But the house, somehow,
in the last hour had become terrible to him, any movement or action, even on a
day like this, when only madmen and the English go abroad, was better than the
nervous waiting in his darkened room. Dreadful forces, forces of ruin and
murder and disgrace, were abroad in the world of men; the menace of the low
black clouds and stifling heat was more bearable. He wanted to get away from his
house, which was permeated and soaked in association with the other two actors,
who in company with himself, had surely some tragedy for which the curtain was
already rung up. Some dreadful scene was already prepared for them; the setting
and stage were ready, the prompter, and who was he? was in the box ready to
tell them the next line if any of them faltered. The prompter, surely he was
destiny, fate, the irresistible course of events, with which no man can
struggle, any more than the actor can struggle with or alter the lines that are
set down for him. He may mumble them, he may act dispiritedly and tamely, but
he has undertaken a certain part; he has to go through with it.
Though it was a
populous hour of the day, there were but few people abroad when Mr. Taynton
came out to the sea front; a few cabs stood by the railings that bounded the
broad asphalt path which faced the sea, but the drivers of these, despairing of
fares, were for the most part dozing on the boxes, or with a more set purpose
were frankly slumbering in the interior. The dismal little wooden shelters that
punctuated the parade were deserted, the pier stretched an untenanted length of
boards over the still, lead-coloured sea, and it seemed as if nature herself
was waiting for some elemental catastrophe.
And though the
afternoon was of such hideous and sultry heat, Mr. Taynton, though he walked
somewhat more briskly than his wont, was conscious of no genial heat that
produced perspiration, and the natural reaction and cooling of the skin. Some
internal excitement and fever of the brain cut off all external things; the
loneliness, the want of correspondence that fever brings between external and
internal conditions, was on him. At one moment, in spite of the heat, he
shivered, at another he felt that an apoplexy must strike him.
For some half hour he
walked to and fro along the sea-wall, between the blackness of the sky and the
lead-coloured water, and then his thoughts turned to the downs above this
stricken place, where, even in the sultriest days some breath of wind was
always moving. Just opposite him, on the other side of the road, was the street
that led steeply upward to the station. He went up it.
It was about half-past
seven o’clock that evening that the storm burst. A few huge drops of rain fell
on the hot pavements, then the rain ceased again, and the big splashes dried,
as if the stones had been blotting paper that sucked the moisture in. Then
without other warning a streamer of fire split the steeple of St. Agnes’s
Church, just opposite Mr. Taynton’s house, and the crash of thunder answered it
more quickly than his servant had run to open the door to Morris’s furious
ringing of the bell. At that the sluices of heaven were opened, and heaven’s
artillery thundered its salvoes to the flare of the reckless storm. In the next
half-hour a dozen houses in Brighton were struck, while the choked gutters
overflowing on to the streets made ravines and waterways down the roadways.
Then the thunder and lightning ceased, but the rain still poured down
relentlessly and windlessly, a flood of perpendicular water.
Mr. Taynton had gone
out without umbrella, and when he let himself in by his latch-key at his own
house-door about half-past eight, it was no wonder that he wrung out his coat
and trousers so that he should not soak his Persianrugs. But from him, as from
the charged skies, some tension had passed; this tempest which had so cooled
the air and restored the equilibrium of its forces had smoothed the frowning
creases of his brow, and when the servant hurried up at the sound of the banged
front-door, he found his master soaked indeed, but serene.
"Yes, I got caught
by the storm, Williams," he said, "and I am drenched. The lightning
was terrific, was it not? I will just change, and have a little supper; some
cold meat, anything that there is. Yes, you might take my coat at once."
He divested himself of
this.
"And I expect Mr.
Morris this evening," he said. "He will probably have dined, but if
not I am sure Mrs. Otter will toss up a hot dish for him. Oh, yes, and Mr.
Mills will be here at half-past nine, or even sooner, as I cannot think he will
have walked from Falmer as he intended. But whenever he comes, I will see him.
He has not been here already?"
"No, sir,"
said Williams, "Will you have a hot bath, sir?"
"No, I will just
change. How battered the poor garden will look to-morrow after this
deluge."
Mr. Taynton changed his
wet clothes and half an hour afterwards he sat down to his simple and excellent
supper. Mrs. Otter had provided an admirable vegetable soup for him, and some
cold lamb with asparagus and endive salad. A macedoine of strawberries followed
and a scoop of cheese. Simple as his fare was, it just suited Mr. Taynton’s tastes,
and he was indulging himself with the rather rare luxury of a third glass of
port when Williams entered again.
"Mr.
Assheton," he said, and held the door open.
Morris came in; he was
dressed in evening clothes with a dinner jacket, and gave no salutation to his
host.
"He ’s not come
yet?" he asked.
But his host sprang up.
"Dear boy,"
he said, "what a relief it is to see you. Ever since you left this
afternoon I have had you on my mind. You will have a glass of port?"
Morris laughed, a curious
jangling laugh.
"Oh yes, to drink
his health," he said.
He sat down with a
jerk, and leaned his elbows on the table.
"He ’ll want a lot
of health to carry him through this, won’t he?" he asked.
He drank his glass of
port like water, and Mr. Taynton instantly filled it up again for him.
"Ah, I remember
you don’t like port," he said. "What else can I offer you?"
"Oh, this will do
very well," said Morris. "I am so thirsty."
"You have
dined?" asked his host quietly.
"No; I don’t think
I did. I was n’t hungry."
The Cromwellian clock
chimed a remnant half hour.
"Half-past,"
said Morris, filling his glass again. "You expect him then, don’t
you?"
"Mills is not
always very punctual," said Mr. Taynton.
For the next quarter of
an hour the two sat with hardly the interchange of a word. From outside came
the swift steady hiss of the rain on to the shrubs in the garden, and again the
clock chimed. Morris who at first had sat very quiet had begun to fidget and
stir in his chair; occasionally when he happened to notice it, he drank off the
port with which Mr. Taynton hospitably kept his glass supplied. Sometimes he
relit a cigarette only to let it go out again. But when the clock struck he got
up.
"I wonder what has
happened," he said. "Can he have missed his train? What time ought he
to have got in?"
"He was to have
got to Falmer," said Mr. Taynton with a little emphasis on the last word,
"at a quarter to seven. He spoke of walking from there."
Morris looked at him
with a furtive sidelong glance.
"Why, I--I might
have met him there," he said. "I went up there again after I left you
to tell Sir Richard you would call to-morrow."
"You saw nothing
of him?" asked the lawyer.
"No, of course
not. Otherwise--There was scarcely a soul on the road; the storm was coming up.
But he would go by the downs, would he not?"
"The path over the
downs does n’t branch off for a quarter of a mile below Falmer station,"
said Mr. Taynton.
The minutes ticked on
till ten. Then Morris went to the door.
"I shall go round
to his rooms to see if he is there," he said.
"There is no
need," said his host, "I will telephone."
The instrument hung in
a corner of the room, and with very little delay, Mills’s servant was rung up.
His master had not yet returned, but he had said that he should very likely be
late.
"And he made an
appointment with you for half-past nine?" asked Morris again.
"Yes. I cannot
think what has happened to detain him."
Morris went quickly to
the door again.
"I believe it is
all a trick," he said, "and you don’t want me to meet him. I believe
he is in his rooms the whole time. I shall go and see."
Before Mr. Taynton
could stop him he had opened the front-door and banged it behind him, and was
off hatless and coatless through the pouring perpendicular rain.
Mr. Taynton ran to the
door, as if to stop him, but Morris was already halfway down the street, and he
went upstairs to the drawing-room. Morris was altogether unlike himself; this
discovery of Mills’s treachery seemed to have changed his nature. Violent and
quick he always was, but to-night he was suspicious, he seemed to distrust Mr.
Taynton himself. And, a thing which his host had never known him do before, he
had drunk in that half hour when they sat waiting, close on a bottle of port.
The evening paper lay
ready cut for him in its accustomed place, but for some five minutes Mr.
Taynton did not appear to notice it, though evening papers, on the money-market
page, might contain news so frightfully momentous to him. But something, this
strangeness in Morris, no doubt, and his general anxiety and suspense as to how
this dreadful knot could unravel itself, preoccupied him now, and even when he
did take up the paper and turn to the reports of Stock Exchange dealings, he
was conscious of no more than a sort of subaqueous thrill of satisfaction. For
Boston Copper had gone up nearly a point since the closing price of last night.
It was not many
minutes, however before Morris returned with matted and streaming hair and
drenched clothes.
"He has not come
back," he said. "I went to his rooms and satisfied myself of that,
though I think they thought I was mad. I searched them you understand; I
insisted. I shall go round there again first thing to-morrow morning, and if he
is not there, I shall go up to find him in town. I can’t wait; I simply can’t
wait."
Mr. Taynton looked at
him gravely, then nodded.
"No, I guess how
you are feeling," he said, "I cannot understand what has happened to
Mills; I hope nothing is wrong. And now, my dear boy, let me implore you to go
straight home, get off your wet things and go to bed. You will pay heavily for
your excitement, if you are not careful."
"I ’ll get it out
of him." said Morris.
MORRIS, as Mr. Taynton
had advised, though not because he advised it, had gone straight home to the
house in Sussex Square, had stripped off his dripping clothes, and then, since
this was the line of least resistance, had gone to bed. He did not feel tired,
and he longed with that aching longing of the son for the mother, that Mrs.
Assheton had been here, so that he could just be in her presence, and, if he
found himself unable to speak and tell her all the hideous happenings of those
last days, let her presence bring a sort of healing to his tortured mind. But
though he was conscious of no tiredness, he was tired to the point of
exhaustion, and he had hardly got into bed, when he fell fast asleep. Outside,
hushing him to rest, there sounded the sibilant rain, and from the sea below
ripples broke gently and rhythmically on the pebbly beach. Nature, too, it
seemed, was exhausted by that convulsion of the elements that had turned the
evening into a clamorous hell of fire and riot, and now from very weariness she
was weeping herself asleep.
It was not yet eleven
when Morris had got home, and he slept dreamlessly with that recuperative sleep
of youth for some six hours. Then, as within the secret economy of the brain
the refreshment of slumber repaired the exhaustion of the day before, he began
to dream with strange lurid distinctness, a sort of resurrection dream of which
the events of the two days before supplied the bones and skeleton outline. As
in all very vivid and dreadful dreams the whole vision was connected and
coherent, there were no ludicrous and inconsequent interludes, none of those
breakings of one thread and hurried seizures of another, which though one is
dreaming very distinctly, supply some vague mental comfort, since even to the
sleeper they are reminders that his experiences are not solid but mere
phantasies woven by imperfect consciousness and incomplete control of thought.
It was not thus that Morris dreamed; his dream was of the solid and sober
texture of life.
He was driving in his
motor, he thought, down the road from the house at Falmer Park, which through
the gate of a disused lodge joins the main road, that leads from Falmer Station
to Brighton. He had just heard from Sir Richard’s own lips who it was who had
slandered and blackened him, but, in his dream, he was conscious of no anger.
The case had been referred to some higher power, some august court of supreme
authority, which would certainly use its own instruments for its own vengeance.
He felt he was concerned in the affair no longer; he was but a spectator of
what would be. And, in obedience to some inward dictation, he drove his motor
on to the grass behind the lodge, so that it was concealed from the road
outside, and walked along the inside of the park-palings, which ran parallel
with it.
The afternoon, it
seemed, was very dark, though the atmosphere was extraordinarily clear, and
after walking along the springy grass inside the railings for some three
hundred yards, where was the southeastern corner of the park enclosure, he
stopped at the angle and standing on tip-toe peered over them, for they were
nearly six feet high, and looked into the road below. It ran straight as a
billiard-cue just here, and was visible for a long distance, but at the corner,
just outside the palings, the footpath over the downs to Brighton left the
road, and struck upward. On the other side of the road ran the railway, and in
this clear dark air, Morris could see with great distinctness Falmer Station
some four hundred yards away, a long stretch of the line on the other side of
it.
As he looked he saw a
puff of steam rise against the woods beyond the station, and before long a
train, going Brightonward, clashed into the station. Only one passenger got
out, and he came out of the station into the road. He was quite recognisable
even at this distance. In his dream Morris felt that he expected to see him get
out of the train, and walk along the road; the whole thing seemed pre-ordained.
But he ceased tiptoeing to look over the paling; he could hear the passenger’s
steps when he came nearer.
He thought he waited
quietly, squatting down on the mossy grass behind the paling. Something in his
hands seemed angry, for his fingers kept tearing up the short turf, and the
juice of the severed stems was red like blood. Then in the gathering darkness
he heard the tip-tap of footsteps on the highway. But it never occurred to him
that this passenger would continue on the highroad; he was certainly going over
the downs to Brighton.
The air was quite
windless, but at this moment Morris heard the boughs of the oak-tree
immediately above him stir and shake, and looking up he saw Mr. Taynton sitting
in a fork of the tree. That, too, was perfectly natural; Mr. Taynton was Mills’s
partner; he was there as a sort of umpire. He held a glass of port wine in one
hand, and was sipping it in a leisurely manner, and when Morris looked up at
him, he smiled at him, but put his finger to his lips, as if recommending
silence. And as the steps on the road outside sounded close he turned a meaning
glance in the direction of the road. From where he sat high in the tree, it was
plain to Morris that he must command the sight of the road, and was, in his
friendly manner, directing operations.
Suddenly the sound of
the steps ceased, and Morris wondered for the moment whether Mills had stopped.
But looking up again, he saw Mr. Taynton’s head twisted round to the right,
still looking over the palings. But Morris found at once that the footsteps
were noiseless, not because the walker had paused, but because they were
inaudible on the grass. He had left the road, as the dreamer felt certain he
would, and was going over the downs to Brighton. At that Morris got up, and
still inside the park, railings followed in the direction he had gone. Then for
the first time in his dream, he felt angry, and the anger grew to rage, and the
rage to quivering madness. Next moment he had vaulted the fence, and sprang
upon the walker from behind. He dealt him blows with some hard instrument,
belabouring his head, while with his left hand he throttled his throat so that
he could not scream. Only a few were necessary, for he knew that each blow went
home, since all the savage youthful strength of shoulder and loose elbow
directed them. Then he withdrew his left hand from the throttled throat of the
victim who had ceased to struggle, and like a log he fell back on to the grass,
and Morris for the first time looked on his face. It was not Mills at all; it
was Mr. Taynton.
The terror plucked him
from his sleep; for a moment he wrestled and struggled to raise his head from
the pillow and loosen the clutch of the night-hag who had suddenly seized him,
and with choking throat and streaming brow he sat up in bed. Even then his
dream was more real to him than the sight of his own familiar room, more real than
the touch of sheet and blanket or the dew of anguish which his own hand wiped
from his forehead and throat. Yet, what was his dream? Was it merely some
subconscious stringing together of suggestions and desires and events vivified
in sleep to a coherent story (all but that recognition of Mr. Taynton, which
was nightmare pure and simple), or had it happened?
With waking, anyhow,
the public life, the life that concerned other living folk as well as himself,
became predominant again. He had certainly seen Sir Richard the day before, and
Sir Richard had given him the name of the man who had slandered him. He had
gone to meet that man, but he had not kept his appointment, nor had he come
back to his flat in Brighton. So to-day he, Morris, was going to call there
once more, and if he did not find him, was going to drive up to London, and
seek him there.
But he had been
effectually plucked from further sleep, sleep had been strangled, and he got
out of bed and went to the window. Nature, in any case, had swept her trouble
away, and the pure sweet morning was beginning to dawn in lines of yellow and
fleeces of rosy cloud on the eastern horizon.
All that riot and
hurly-burly of thunder, the bull’s eye flashing of lightning, the perpendicular
rain were things of the past, and this morning a sky of pale limpid blue,
flecked only by the thinnest clouds, stretched from horizon to horizon. Below
the mirror of the sea seemed as deep and as placid as the sky above it, and the
inimitable freshness of the dawn spoke of a world rejuvenated and renewed.
It was, by his watch,
scarcely five; in an hour it would be reasonable to call at Mills’s flat, and
see if he had come by the midnight train. If not his motor could be round by
soon after six, and he would be in town by eight, before Mills, if he had slept
there, would be thinking of starting for Brighton. He was sure to catch him.
Morris had drawn up the
blind, and through the open window came the cool breath of the morning ruffling
his hair, and blowing his night-shirt close to his skin, and just for that
moment, so exquisite was this feeling of renewal and cleanness in the hour of
dawn, he thought with a sort of incredulous wonder of the red murderous hate
which had possessed him the evening before. He seemed to have been literally
beside himself with anger and his words, his thoughts, his actions had been
controlled by a force and a possession which was outside himself. Also the
dreadful reality of his dream still a little unnerved him, and though he was
himself now and awake, he felt that he had been no less himself when he
throttled the throat of that abhorred figure that walked up the noiseless path
over the downs to Brighton, and with vehement and savage blows clubbed it down.
And then the shock of finding it was his old friend whom he had done to death!
That, it is true, was nightmare pure and simple, but all the rest was clad in
sober, convincing garb of events that had really taken place. He could not at
once separate his dream from reality, for indeed what had he done yesterday
after he had learned who his traducer had been? He scarcely knew; all events
and facts seemed colourless compared to the rage and mad lust for vengeance
which had occupied his entire consciousness.
Thus, as he dressed,
the thoughts and the rage of yesterday began to stir and move in his mind
again. His hate and his desire that justice should be done, that satisfaction
should be granted him, was still in his heart. But now they were not wild and
flashing flames; they burned with a hard, cold, even light. They were already
part of himself, integral pieces and features of his soul. And the calm beauty
and peace of the morning ceased to touch him, he had a stern piece of business
to put through before he could think of anything else.
It was not yet six when
he arrived at the house in which was Mills’s flat. A few housemaids were about,
but the lift was not yet working, and he ran upstairs and rang at the bell. It
was answered almost immediately, for Mills’s servant supposed it must be his master
arriving at this early hour, since no one else would come then, and he opened
the door, half dressed, with coat and trousers only put over his night things.
"Is Mr. Mills back
yet?" asked Morris.
"No, sir."
Morris turned to go,
but then stopped, his mind still half-suspicious that he had been warned by his
partner, and was lying perdu.
"I ’ll give you
another ten shillings," he said, "if you ’ll let me come in and
satisfy myself."
The man hesitated.
"A
sovereign," said Morris.
He went back to Sussex
Square after this, roused Martin, ordering him to bring the motor round at
once, and drank a cup of tea, for he would breakfast in town. His mother he
expected would be back during the morning, and at the thought of her he
remembered that this was June 24th, her birthday, and that his present to her
would be arriving by the early post. He gave orders, therefore, that a packet
for him from Asprey’s was not to be unpacked, but given to her on her arrival
with her letters. A quarter of an hour later he was off, leaving Martin behind,
since there were various businesses in the town which he wanted him to attend
to.
Mr. Taynton, though an
earlier riser than his partner, considered that half past nine was soon enough
to begin the day, and punctually at that time he came downstairs to read, as
his custom was, a few collects and some short piece of the Bible to his
servants, before having his breakfast. That little ceremony over he walked for
a few minutes in his garden while Williams brought in his toast and tea-urn,
and observed that though the flowers would no doubt be all the better for the
liberal watering of the day before, it was idle to deny that the rain had not
considerably damaged them. But his attention was turned from these things to
Williams who told him that breakfast was ready, and also brought him a
telegram. It was from Morris, and had been sent off from the Sloane Square
office an hour before.
Mills is not in town; they say he left yesterday afternoon. Please
inform me if you know whether this is so, or if you are keeping him from me. Am
delayed by break-down. Shall be back about five. --MORRIS, Bachelors’ Club. Mr. Taynton read this through twice, as is the
habit of most people with telegrams, and sent, of course, the reply that all he
knew was that his partner intended to come back last night, since he had made
an appointment with him. Should he arrive during the day he would telegraph. He
himself was keeping nothing from Morris, and had not had any correspondence or
communication with his partner since he had left Brighton for town three days
before.
The telegram was a long
one, but Mr. Taynton still sat with poised pen. Then he added, "Pray do
nothing violent, I implore you." And he signed it.
He sat rather unusually
long over his breakfast this morning, though he ate but little, and from the
cheerful smiling aspect of his face it would seem that his thoughts were
pleasant to him. He was certainly glad that Morris had not yet come across
Mills, for he trusted that the lapse of a day or two would speedily calm down
the lad’s perfectly justifiable indignation. Besides, he was in love, and his
suit had prospered; surely there were pleasanter things than revenge to occupy
him. Then his face grew grave a moment as he thought of Morris’s mad, murderous
outburst of the evening before, but that gravity was short-lived, and he turned
with a sense of pleasant expectation to see recorded again the activity and
strength of Boston Coppers. But the reality was far beyond his expectations;
copper had been strong all day, and in the street afterward there had been
renewed buying from quarters which were usually well informed. Bostons had been
much in request, and after hours they had had a further spurt, closing at £7
10s. Already in these three days he had cleared his option, and at present
prices the shares showed a profit of a point. Mills would have to acknowledge
that his perspicacity had been at fault, when he distrusted this last purchase.
He left his house at
about half-past ten, and again immured himself in the birdcage lift that
carried him up to his partner’s flat, where he inquired if he had yet returned.
Learning he had not, he asked to be given pen and paper, to write a note for
him, which was to be given to him on his arrival.
DEAR MILLS,
Mr. Morris Assheton has
learned that you have made grave accusations about him to Sir Richard
Templeton, Bart. That you have done so appears to be beyond doubt, and it of
course rests with you to substantiate them. I cannot of course at present
believe that you could have done so without conclusive evidence; on the other
hand I cannot believe that Mr. Assheton is of the character which you have
given him.
I therefore refrain, as
far as I am able, from drawing any conclusion till the matter is cleared up.
I may add that he
deeply resents your conduct; his anger and indignation were terrible to see.
Sincerely yours, EDWARD
TAYNTON. GODFREY MILLS, ESQ.
Mr. Taynton read this
through, and glanced round, as if to see whether the servants had left the
room. Then he sat with closed eyes for a moment, and took an envelope, and
swiftly addressed it. He smudged it, however, in blotting it, and so crumpled
it up, threw it into the waste-paper basket. He then addressed a second one,
and into this he inserted his letter, and got up.
The servant was waiting
in the little hall outside.
"Please give this
to Mr. Mills when he arrives," he said. "You expected him last night,
did you not?"
Mr. Taynton found on
arrival at his office that, in his partner’s absence, there was a somewhat
heavy day of work before him, and foresaw that he would be occupied all
afternoon and indeed probably up to dinner time. But he was able to get out for
an hour at half-past twelve, at which time, if the weather was hot, he generally
indulged in a swim. But to-day there was a certain chill in the air after
yesterday’s storm, and instead of taking his dip, he walked along the sea front
toward Sussex Square. For in his warm-hearted way, seeing that Morris was, as
he had said, to tell his mother to-day about his happy and thoroughly suitable
love affair, Mr. Taynton proposed to give a little partie carrée on the
earliest possible evening, at which the two young lovers, Mrs. Assheton, and
himself would form the table. He would learn from her what was the earliest
night on which she and Morris were disengaged, and then write to that
delightful girl whose affections dear Morris had captured.
But at the corner of
the square, just as he was turning into it, there bowled swiftly out a victoria
drawn by two horses; he recognised the equipage, he recognised also Mrs.
Assheton who was sitting in it. Her head, however, was turned the other way,
and Mr. Taynton’s hand, already half-way up to his hat was spared the trouble
of journeying farther.
But he went on to the
house, since his invitation could be easily conveyed by a note which he would
scribble there, and was admitted by Martin. Mrs. Assheton, however, was out, a
fact which he learned with regret, but, if he might write a note to her, his
walk would not be wasted. Accordingly he was shown up into the drawing-room,
where on the writing-table was laid an open blotting-book. Even in so small a
detail as a blotting-book the careful appointment of the house was evident, for
the blotting-paper was absolutely clean and white, a virgin field.
Mr. Taynton took up a
quill pen, thought over for a moment the wording of his note and then wrote
rapidly. A single side of notepaper was sufficient; he blotted it on the pad,
and read it through. But something in it, it must be supposed, did not satisfy
him, for he crumpled it up. Ah, at last and for the first time there was a flaw
in the appointment of the house, for there was no waste-paper basket by the
table. At any rate one must suppose that Mr. Taynton did not see it, for he put
his rejected sheet into his pocket.
He took another sheet
of paper, selecting from the various stationery that stood in the case a plain
piece, rejecting that which was marked with the address of the house, wrote his
own address at the head, and proceeded for the second time to write his note of
invitation.
But first he changed
the quill for his own stylograph, and wrote with that. This was soon written,
and by the time he had read it through it was dry, and did not require to be
blotted. He placed it in a plain envelope, directed it, and with it in his hand
left the room, and went briskly downstairs.
Martin was standing in
the hall.
"I want this given
to Mrs. Assheton when she comes in, Martin," he said.
He looked round, as he
had done once before when speaking to the boy.
"I left it at the
door," he said with quiet emphasis. "Can you remember that? I left
it. And I hope, Martin, that you have made a fresh start, and that I need never
be obliged to tell anybody what I know about you. You will remember my
instructions? I left this at the door. Thank you. My hat? Yes, and my
stick."
Mr. Taynton went
straight back to his office, and though this morning there had seemed to him to
be a good deal of work to be got through, he found that much of it could be
delegated to his clerks. So before leaving to go to his lunch, he called in Mr.
Timmins.
"Mr. Mills not
been here all morning?" he asked. "No? Well, Timmins, there is this
packet which I want him to look at, if he comes in before I am back. I shall be
here again by five, as there is an hour’s work for me to do before evening.
Yes, that is all, thanks. Please tell Mr. Mills I shall come back, as I said.
How pleasant this freshness is after the rain. The ‘clear shining after rain.’
Wonderful words! Yes, Mr. Timmins, you will find the verse in the second book
of Samuel and the twenty-third chapter."
MR. TAYNTON made but a
short meal of lunch, and ate but sparingly, for he meant to take a good walk
this afternoon, and it was not yet two o’clock when he came out of his house
again, stick in hand. It was a large heavy stick that he carried, a veritable
club, one that it would be easy to recognise amid a host of others, even as he
had recognised it that morning in the rather populous umbrella-stand in the
hall of Mrs. Assheton’s house. He had, it may be remembered, more office work
to get through before evening, so he prepared to walk out as far as the limits
of the time at his disposal would admit and take the train back. And since
there could be nothing more pleasurable in the way of walking than locomotion
over the springy grass of the downs, he took, as he had done a hundred times
before, the road that led to Falmer. A hundred yards out of Brighton there was
a stile by the roadside; from there a footpath, if it could be dignified by the
name of path at all, led over the hills to a corner of Falmer Park. From there
three or four hundred yards of highway would bring him to the station. He would
be in good time to catch the 4.30 train back, and would thus be at his office
again for an hour’s work at five.
His walk was solitary
and uneventful, but, to one of so delicate and sensitive a mind, full of tiny
but memorable sights and sounds. Up on these high lands there was a
considerable breeze, and Mr. Taynton paused for a minute or two beside a
windmill that stood alone, in the expanse of down, watching, with a sort of
boyish wonder, the huge flails swing down and aspire again in the circles of
their tireless, toil. A little farther on was a grass-grown tumulus of Saxon
times, and his mind was distracted from the present to those early days when
the unknown dead was committed to this wind-swept tomb. Forests of pine no
doubt then grew around his resting place, it was beneath the gloom and murmur
of their sable foliage that this dead chief was entrusted to the keeping of the
kindly earth. He passed, too, over the lines of a Roman camp; once this sunny
empty down re-echoed to the clang of arms, the voices of the living were
mingled with the cries and groans of the dying, for without doubt this
stronghold of Roman arms was not won, standing, as it did, on the topmost
commanding slope of the hills, without slaughter. Yet to-day the peaceful
clumps of cistus and the trembling harebell blossomed on the battlefield.
From this point the
ground declined swiftly to the main road. Straight in front of him were the
palings of Falmer Park, and the tenantless down with its long smooth curves,
was broken up into sudden hillocks and depressions. Dells and dingles, some
green with bracken, others half full of water lay to right and left of the
path, which, as it approached the corner of the park, was more strongly marked
than when it lay over the big open spaces. It was somewhat slippery, too, after
the torrent of yesterday, and Mr. Taynton’s stick saved him more than once from
slipping. But before he got down to the point where the corner of the park
abutted on the main road, he had leaned on it too heavily, and for all its
seeming strength, it had broken in the middle. The two pieces were but luggage
to him and just as he came to the road, he threw them away into a wooded hollow
that adjoined the path. The stick had broken straight across; it was no use to
think of having it mended.
He was out of the wind
here, and since there was still some ten minutes to spare, he sat down on the
grassy edge of the road to smoke a cigarette. The woods of the park basked in
the fresh sunshine; three hundred yards away was Falmer Station, and beyond
that the line was visible for a mile as it ran up the straight valley. Indeed
he need hardly move till he saw the steam of his train on the limit of the
horizon. That would be ample warning that it was time to go.
Then from far away, he
heard the throbbing of a motor, which grew suddenly louder as it turned the
corner of the road by the station. It seemed to him to be going very fast, and
the huge cloud of dust behind it endorsed his impression. But almost
immediately after passing this corner it began to slow down, and the cloud of
dust behind it died away.
At the edge of the road
where Mr. Taynton sat, there were standing several thick bushes. He moved a
little away from the road, and took up his seat again behind one of them. The
car came very slowly on, and stopped just opposite him. On his right lay the
hollow where he had thrown the useless halves of his stick, on his left was the
corner of the Falmer Park railings. He had recognised the driver of the car,
who was alone.
Morris got out when he
had stopped the car, and then spoke aloud, though to himself.
"Yes, there ’s the
corner," he said, "there ’s the path over the downs. There----"
Mr. Taynton got up and
came toward him.
"My dear
fellow," he said, "I have walked out from Brighton on this divine
afternoon, and was going to take the train back. But will you give me the
pleasure of driving back with you instead?"
Morris looked at him a
moment as if he hardly thought he was real.
"Why, of
course," he said.
Mr. Taynton was all
beams and smiles.
"And you have seen
Mills?" he asked. "You have been convinced that he was innocent of
the terrible suspicion? Morris, my dear boy, what is the matter?"
Morris had looked at
him for a moment with incredulous eyes. Then he had sat down and covered his
face with his hands.
"It ’s
nothing," he said at length. "I felt rather faint. I shall be better
in a minute. Of course I ’ll drive you back."
He sat huddled up with
hidden face for a moment or two. Mr. Taynton said nothing, but only looked at him.
Then the boy sat up.
"I ’m all
right," he said, "it was just a dream I had last night. No, I have
not seen Mills; they tell me he left yesterday afternoon for Brighton. Shall we
go?"
For some little
distance they went in silence; then it seemed that Morris made an effort and
spoke.
"Really, I got
what they call ‘quite a turn’ just now," he said. "I had a curiously
vivid dream last night about that corner, and you suddenly appeared in my dream
quite unexpectedly, as you did just now."
"And what was this
dream?" asked Mr. Taynton, turning up his coat collar, for the wind of
their movement blew rather shrilly on to his neck.
"Oh, nothing
particular," said Morris carelessly, "the vividness was concerned
with your appearance; that was what startled me."
Then he fell back into
the train of thought that had occupied him all the way down from London.
"I believe I was
half-mad with rage last night," he said at length, "but this
afternoon, I think I am beginning to be sane again. It ’s true Mills tried to
injure me, but he didn’t succeed. And as you said last night I have too deep
and intense a cause of happiness to give my thoughts and energies to anything
so futile as hatred or the desire for revenge. He is punished already. The fact
of his having tried to injure me like that was his punishment. Anyhow, I am
sick and tired of my anger."
The lawyer did not
speak for a moment, and when he did his voice was trembling.
"God bless you, my
dear boy," he said gently.
Morris devoted himself
for some little time to the guiding of the car.
"And I want you
also to leave it all alone," he said after a while. "I don’t want you
to dissolve your partnership with him, or whatever you call it. I suppose he
will guess that you know all about it, so perhaps it would be best if you told
him straight out that you do. And then you can, well, make a few well-chosen
remarks you know, and drop the whole damned subject forever."
Mr. Taynton seemed much
moved.
"I will try,"
he said, "since you ask it. But Morris, you are more generous than I
am."
Morris laughed, his
usual boyish high spirits and simplicity were reasserting themselves again.
"Oh, that ’s all
rot," he said. "It ’s only because it ’s so fearfully tiring to go on
being angry. But I can’t help wondering what has happened to the fellow. They
told me at his flat in town that he went off with his luggage yesterday
afternoon, and gave orders that all letters were to be sent to his Brighton
address. You don’t think there ’s anything wrong, do you?"
"My dear fellow,
what could be wrong?" asked Mr. Taquta. "He had some business to do
at Lewes on his way down, and I make no doubt he slept there, probably
forgetting all about his appointment with me. I would wager you that we shall
find he is in Brighton when we get in."
"I ’ll take
that," said Morris. "Half a crown."
"No, no, my usual
shilling, my usual shilling," laughed the other.
Morris set Mr. Taynton
down at his office, and by way of settling their wager at once, waited at the
door, while the other went upstairs to see if his partner was there. He had
not, however, appeared there that day, and Mr. Taynton sent a clerk down to
Morris, to ask him to come up, and they would ring up Mr. Mills’s flat on the
telephone.
This was done, and
before many seconds had elapsed they were in communication. His valet was
there, still waiting for his master’s return, for he had not yet come back. It
appeared that he was getting rather anxious, for Mr. Taynton reassured him.
"There is not the
slightest cause for any anxiety," were his concluding words. "I feel
convinced he has merely been detained. Thanks, that ’s all. Please let me know
as soon as he returns."
He drew a shilling from
his pocket, and handed it to Morris. But his face, in spite of his reassuring
words, was a little troubled. You would have said that though he might not yet
be anxious, he saw that there was some possibility of his being so, before very
long. Yet he spoke gaily enough.
"And I made so
sure I should win," he said. "I shall put it down to unexpected
losses, not connected with business; eh, Mr. Timmins? Or shall it be charity?
It would never do to put down ‘Betting losses.’"
But this was plainly a
little forced, and Morris waited till Mr. Timmins had gone out.
"And you really
meant that?" he asked. "You are really not anxious?"
"No, I am not
anxious," he said, "but--but I shall be glad when he comes back. Is
that inconsistent? I think perhaps it is. Well, let us say then that I am just
a shade anxious. But I may add that I feel sure my anxiety is quite
unnecessary. That defines it for you."
Morris went straight
home from here, and found that his mother had just returned from her afternoon
drive. She had found the blotting book waiting for her when she came back that
morning, and was delighted with the gift and the loving remembering thought
that inspired it.
"But you should n’t
spend your money on me, my darling," she said to Morris, "though I
just love the impulse that made you."
"Oh, very
well," said Morris, kissing her, "let ’s have the initials changed
about then, and let it be M. A. from H. A."
Then his voice grew
grave.
"Mother dear, I ’ve
got another birthday present for you. I think--I think you will like it."
She saw at once that he
was speaking of no tangible material gift.
"Yes, dear?"
she said.
"Madge and
me," said Morris. "Just that."
And Mrs. Assheton did
like this second present, and though it made her cry a little, her tears were
the sweetest that can be shed.
Mother and son dined
alone together, and since Morris had determined to forget, to put out of his
mind the hideous injury that Mills had attempted to do him, he judged it to be
more consistent with this resolve to tell his mother nothing about it, since to
mention it to another, even to her, implied that he was not doing his best to
bury what he determined should be dead to him. As usual, they played backgammon
together, and it was not till Mrs. Assheton rose to go to bed that she
remembered Mr. Taynton’s note, asking her and Morris to dine with him on their
earliest unoccupied day. This, as is the way in the country, happened to be the
next evening, and since the last post had already gone out, she asked Morris if
Martin might take the note round for her to-night, since it ought to have been
answered before.
That, of course, was
easily done, and Morris told his servant to call also at the house where Mr.
Mills’s flat was situated, and ask the porter if he had come home. The note
dispatched his mother went to bed, and Morris went down to the billiard room to
practise spot-strokes, a form of hazard at which he was singularly inefficient,
and wait for news. Little as he knew Mills, and little cause as he had for
liking him, he too, like Mr. Taynton, felt vaguely anxious and perturbed, since
"disappearances" are necessarily hedged about with mystery and
wondering. His own anger and hatred, too, like mists drawn up and dispersed by
the sun of love that had dawned on him, had altogether vanished; the attempt
against him had, as it turned out, been so futile, and he genuinely wished to
have some assurance of the safety of the man, the thought of whom had so
blackened his soul only twenty-four hours ago.
His errands took Martin
the best part of an hour, and he returned with two notes, one for Mrs.
Assheton, the other for Morris. He had been also to the flat and inquired, but
there was no news of the missing man.
Morris opened his note,
which was from Mr. Taynton.
DEAR MORRIS,
I am delighted that
your mother and you can dine to-morrow, and I am telegraphing first thing in
the morning to see if Miss Madge will make our fourth. I feel sure that when
she knows what my little party is, she will come.
I have been twice round
to see if my partner has returned, and find no news of him. It is idle to deny
that I am getting anxious, as I cannot conceive what has happened. Should he
not be back by to-morrow morning, I shall put the matter into the hands of the
police. I trust that my anxieties are unfounded, but the matter is beginning to
look strange. Affectionately yours, EDWARD TAYNTON.
There is nothing so
infectious as anxiety, and it can be conveyed by look or word or letter, and
requires no period of incubation. And Morris began to be really anxious also,
with a vague disquietude at the sense of there being something wrong.
MR. TAYNTON, according
to the intention he had expressed, sent round early next morning (the day of
the week being Saturday) to his partner’s flat, and finding that he was not there,
and that no word of any kind had been received from him, went, as he felt
himself now bound to do, to the police office, stated what had brought him
there, and gave them all information which it was in his power to give.
It was brief enough;
his partner had gone up to town on Tuesday last, and, had he followed his plans
should have returned to Brighton by Thursday evening, since he had made an
appointment to come to Mr. Taynton’s house at nine thirty that night. It had
been ascertained too, by--Mr. Taynton hesitated a moment--by Mr. Morris
Assheton in London, that he had left his flat in St. James’s Court on Thursday
afternoon, to go, presumably, to catch the train back to Brighton. He had also
left orders that all letters should be forwarded to him at his Brighton
address.
Superintendent Figgis,
to whom Mr. Taynton made his statement, was in manner slow, stout, and bored,
and looked in every way utterly unfitted to find clues to the least mysterious
occurences, unearth crime or run down the criminal. He seemed quite incapable
of running down anything, and Mr. Taynton had to repeat everything he said in
order to be sure that Mr. Figgis got his notes, which he made in a large round
hand, with laborious distinctness, correctly written. Having finished them the
Superintendent stared at them mournfully for a little while, and asked Mr.
Taynton if he had anything more to add.
"I think that is
all," said the lawyer. "Ah, one moment. Mr. Mills expressed to me the
intention of perhaps getting out at Falmer and walking over the downs to
Brighton. But Thursday was the evening on which we had that terrible
thunderstorm. I should think it very unlikely that he would have left the
train."
Superintendent Figgis
appeared to be trying to recollect something.
"Was there a
thunderstorm on Thursday?" he asked.
"The most severe I
ever remember," said Mr. Taynton.
"It had slipped my
memory," said this incompetent agent of justice.
But a little thought
enable him to ask a question that bore on the case.
"He travelled then
by Lewes and not by the direct route?"
"Presumably. He
had a season ticket via Lewes, since our business often took him there. Had he
intended to travel by Hayward’s Heath," said Mr. Taynton rather
laboriously, as if explaining something to a child, "he could not have
intended to get out at Falmer."
Mr. Figgis had to think
over this, which he did with his mouth open.
"Seeing that the
Hayward’s Heath line does not pass Falmer," he suggested.
Mr. Taynton drew a
sheet of paper toward him and kindly made a rough sketch-map of railway lines.
"And his season
ticket went by the Lewes line," he explained.
Superintendent Figgis
appeared to understand this after a while. Then he sighed heavily, and changed
the subject with rather disconcerting abruptness.
"From my notes I
understand that Mr. Morris Assheton ascertained that the missing individual had
left his flat in London on Thursday afternoon," he said.
"Yes, Mr. Assheton
is a client of ours, and he wished to see my partner on a business matter. In
fact, when Mr. Mills was found not to have returned on Thursday evening, he
went up to London next day to see him, since we both supposed he had been
detained there."
Mr. Figgis looked once
more mournfully at his notes, altered a palpably mistaken "Wednesday"
into Thursday, and got up.
"The matter shall
be gone into," he said.
Mr. Taynton went
straight from here to his office, and for a couple of hours devoted himself to
the business of his firm, giving it his whole attention and working perhaps
with more speed than it was usually his to command. Saturday of course was a
half-holiday, and it was naturally his desire to get cleared off everything
that would otherwise interrupt the well-earned repose and security from
business affairs which was to him the proper atmosphere of the seventh, or as
he called it, the first day. This interview with the accredited representative
of the law also had removed a certain weight from his mind. He had placed the
matter of his partner’s disappearance in official hands, he had done all he
could do to clear up his absence, and, in case--but here he pulled himself up;
it was at present most premature even to look at the possibility of crime
having been committed.
Mr. Taynton was in no
way a vain man, nor was it his habit ever to review his own conduct, with the
object of contrasting it favourably with what others might have done under the
circumstances. Yet he could not help being aware that others less kindly than
he would have shrugged sarcastic shoulders and said, "probably another
blackmailing errand has detained him." For, indeed, Mills had painted
himself in very ugly colours in his last interview with him; that horrid hint
of blackmail, which still, so to speak, held good, had cast a new light on him.
But now Taynton was conscious of no grudge against him; he did not say,
"he can look after himself." He was anxious about his continued
absence, and had taken the extreme step of calling in the aid of the police,
the national guardian of personal safety.
He got away from his
office about half-past twelve and in preparation for the little dinner festival
of this evening, for Miss Templeton had sent her joyful telegraphic acceptance,
went to several shops to order some few little delicacies to grace his plain
bachelor table. An ice-pudding, for instance, was outside the orbit, so he
feared of his plain though excellent cook, and two little dishes of chocolates
and sweets, since he was at the confectioner’s, would be appropriate to the
taste of his lady guests. Again a floral decoration of the table was indicated,
and since the storm of Thursday, there was nothing in his garden worthy of the
occasion; thus a visit to the florist’s resulted in an order for smilax and
roses.
He got home, however,
at his usual luncheon hour to find a telegram waiting for him on the
Heppelwhite table in the hall. There had been a continued buying of copper
shares, and the feature was a sensational rise in Bostons, which during the
morning had gone up a clear point.
Mr. Taynton had no need
to make calculations; he knew, as a man knows the multiplication table of two,
what every fraction of a rise in Bostons meant to him, and this, provided only
he had time to sell at once, meant the complete recovery of the losses he had suffered.
With those active markets it was still easily possible though it was Saturday,
to effect his sale, since there was sure to be long continued business in the
Street and he had but to be able to exercise his option at that price, to be
quit of that dreadful incubus of anxiety which for the last two years had been
a millstone round his neck that had grown mushroom like. The telephone to town,
of course, was far the quickest mode of communication, and having given his
order he waited ten minutes till the tube babbled and croaked to him again.
There is a saying that
things are "too good to be true," but when Mr. Taynton sat down to
his lunch that day, he felt that the converse of the proverb was the correcter
epigram. Things could be so good that they must be true, and here, still
ringing in his ears was one of them--Morris--it was thus he phrased it to
himself--was "paid off," or, in more business-like language, the
fortune of which Mr. Taynton was trustee was intact again, and, like a tit-bit
for a good child, there was an additional five or six hundred pounds for him
who had managed the trust so well. Mr. Taynton could not help feeling somehow
that he deserved it; he had increased Morris’s fortune since he had charge of
it by £10,000. And what a lesson, too, he had had, so gently and painlessly
taught him! No one knew better than he how grievously wrong he had got, in
gambling with trust money. Yet now it had come right: he had repaired the
original wrong; on Monday he would reinvest this capital in those holdings
which he had sold, and Morris’s £40,000 (so largely the result of careful and
judicious investment) would certainly stand the scrutiny of any who could
possibly have any cause to examine his ledgers. Indeed there would be nothing
to see. Two years ago Mr. Morris Assheton’s fortune was invested in certain
railway debentures and Government stock. It would in a few days’ time be
invested there again, precisely as it had been. Mr. Taynton had not been
dealing in gilt-edged securities lately, and could not absolutely trust his
memory, but he rather thought that the repurchase could be made at a somewhat
smaller sum than had been realised by their various sales dating from two years
ago. In that case there was a little more sub rosa reward for this well-inspired
justice, weighed but featherwise against the overwhelming relief of the
knowledge he could make wrong things right again, repair his, yes, his
scoundrelism.
How futile, too, now,
was Mills’s threatened blackmail! Mills might, if he chose, proclaim on any
convenient housetop, that his partner had gambled with Morris’s £40,000 that
according to the ledgers was invested in certain railway debentures and other
gilt-edged securities. In a few days, any scrutiny might be made of the
securities lodged at the County Bank, and assuredly among them would be found
those debentures, those gilt-edged securities exactly as they appeared in the
ledgers. Yet Mr. Taynton, so kindly is the nature of happiness, contemplated no
revengeful step on his partner; he searched his heart and found that no trace
of rancour against poor Mills was hoarded there.
Whether happiness makes
us good, is a question not yet decided, but it is quite certain that happiness
makes us forget that we have been bad, and it seemed to Mr. Taynton, as he sat
in his cool dining-room, and ate his lunch with a more vivid appetite than had
been his for many months, it seemed that the man who had gambled with his
client’s money was no longer himself; it was a perfectly different person who
had done that. It was a different man, too, who, so few days ago had connived
at and applauded the sorry trick which Mills had tried to play on Morris, when
(so futilely, it is true) he had slandered him to Sir Richard. Now he felt that
he--this man that to-day sat here--was incapable of such meannesses. And, thank
God, it was never too late; from to-day he would lead the honourable, upright
existence which the world (apart from his partner) had always credited him with
leading.
He basked in the full
sunshine of these happy and comfortable thoughts, and even as the sun of
midsummer lingered long on the sea and hills, so for hours this inward sunshine
warmed and cheered him. Nor was it till he saw by his watch that he must return
from the long pleasant ramble on which he had started as soon as lunch was
over, that a cloud filmy and thin at first began to come across the face of the
sun. Once and again those genial beams dispersed it, but soon it seemed as if
the vapours were getting the upper hand. A thought, in fact, had crossed Mr.
Taynton’s mind that quite distinctly dimmed his happiness. But a little
reflection told him that a very simple step on his part would put that right
again, and he walked home rather more quickly than he had set out, since he had
this little bit of business to do before dinner.
He went--this was only
natural--to the house where Mr. Mills’s flat was situated, and inquired of the
porter whether his partner had yet returned. But the same answer as before was
given him, and saying that he had need of a document that Mills had taken home
with him three days before he went up in the lift, and rang the bell of the
flat. But it was not his servant who opened it, but sad Superintendent Figgis.
For some reason this
was rather a shock to Mr. Taynton; to expect one face and see another is always
(though ever so slightly) upsetting, but he instantly recovered himself and
explained his errand.
"My partner took
home with him on Tuesday a paper, which is concerned with my business," he
said. "Would you kindly let me look round or it?"
Mr. Figgis weighed this
request.
"Nothing must be
removed from the rooms," he said, "till we have finished our
search."
"Search for
what?" asked Mr. Taynton.
"Any possible clue
as to the reason of Mr. Mills’s disappearance. But in ten minutes we shall have
done, if you care to wait."
"I don’t want to
remove anything." said the lawyer. "I merely want to
consult----"
At the moment another
man in plain clothes came out of the sitting-room. He carried in his hand two
or three letters, and a few scraps of crumpled paper. There was an envelope or
two among them.
"We have finished,
sir," he said to the Superintendent.
Mr. Figgis turned to
the lawyer, who was looking rather fixedly at what the other man had in his
hand.
"My document may
be among those," he said.
Mr. Figgis handed them
to him. There were two envelopes, both addressed to the missing man, one
bearing his name only, some small torn-up scrap of paper, and three or four
private letters.
"Is it among
these?" he asked.
Mr. Taynton turned them
over.
"No," he
said," it was--it was a large, yes, a large blue paper, official
looking."
"No such thing in
the flat, sir," said the second man.
"Very
annoying," said the lawyer.
An idea seemed slowly
to strike Mr. Figgis.
"He may have taken
it to London with him," he said. "But will you not look round?"
Mr. Taynton did so. He
also looked in the waste-paper basket, but it was empty.
So he went back to make
ready to receive his guests, for the little party. But it had got dark; this
"document" whatever it was, appeared to trouble him. The simple step
he had contemplated had not led him in quite the right direction.
The Superintendent with
his colleague went back into the sitting-room on the lawyer’s departure, and
Mr. Figgis took from his pocket most of his notes.
"I went to the
station, Wilkinson," he said, "and in the lost luggage office I found
Mr. Mills’s bag. It had arrived on Thursday evening. But it seems pretty
certain that its owner did not arrive with it."
"Looks as if he
did get out at Falmer," said Wilkinson.
Figgis took a long time
to consider this.
"It is
possible," he said. "It is also possible that he put his luggage into
the train in London, and subsequently missed the train himself."
Then together they went
through the papers that might conceivably help them. There was a torn-up letter
found in his bedroom fireplace, and the crumpled up envelope that belonged to
it. They patiently pieced this together, but found nothing of value. The other
letters referred only to his engagements in London, none of which were later
than Thursday morning. There remained one crumpled up envelope (also from the
paper-basket) but no letter that in any way corresponded with it. It was
addressed in a rather sprawling, eager, boyish hand.
"No letter of any
sort to correspond?" asked Figgis for the second time.
"No."
"I think for the
present we will keep it," said he.
The little party at Mr.
Taynton’s was gay to the point of foolishness, and of them all none was more
lighthearted than the host. Morris had asked him in an undertone, on arrival,
whether any more had been heard, and learning there was still no news, had
dismissed the subject altogether, The sunshine of the day, too, had come back
to the lawyer; his usual cheerful serenity was touched with a sort of
sympathetic boisterousness, at the huge spirits of the young couple and it was
to be recorded that after dinner they played musical chairs and blind-man’s
buff, with infinite laughter. Never was an elderly solicitor so spontaneously
gay; indeed before long it was he who reinfected the others with merriment. But
as always, after abandonment to laughter a little reaction followed, and when
they went upstairs from his sitting-room where they had been so uproarious, so
that it might be made tidy again before Sunday, and sat in the drawing-room
overlooking the street, there did come this little reaction. But it was already
eleven, and soon Mrs. Assheton rose to go.
The night was hot, and
Morris was sitting to cool himself by the open window, leaning his head out to
catch the breeze. The street was very empty and quiet, and his motor, in which
as a great concession, his mother had consented to be carried, on the promise
of his going slow, had already come for them. Then down at the seaward end of
the street he heard street-cries, as if some sudden news had come in that sent
the vendors of the evening papers out to reap a second harvest that night. He
could not, however, catch what it was, and they all went downstairs together.
Madge was going home
with them, for she was stopping over the Sunday with Mrs. Assheton, and the two
ladies had already got into the car, while Morris was still standing on the
pavement with his host.
Then suddenly a
newsboy, with a sheaf of papers still hot from the press, came running from the
corner of the street just above them, and as he ran he shouted out the news
which was already making little groups of people collect and gather in the
streets.
Mr. Taynton turned
quickly as the words became audible, seized a paper from the boy, giving him
the first coin that he found, and ran back into the hall of his house, Morris
with him, to beneath the electric light that burned there. The shrill voice of
the boy still shouting the news of murder got gradually less loud as he went
further down the street.
They read the short
paragraph together, and then looked at each other with mute horror in their
eyes.
THE inquest was held at
Falmer on the Monday following, when the body was formally identified by Mr.
Taynton and Mills’s servant, and they both had to give evidence as regards what
they knew of the movements of the deceased. This, as a matter of fact, Mr.
Taynton had already given to Figgis, and in his examination now he repeated
with absolute exactitude what he had said before including again the fact that
Morris had gone up to town on Friday morning to try to find him there. On this
occasion, however, a few further questions were put to him, eliciting the fact
that the business on which Morris wanted to see him was known to Mr. Taynton
but could not be by him repeated since it dealt with confidential transactions
between the firm of solicitors and their client. The business was, yes, of the
nature of a dispute, but Mr. Taynton regarded it as certain that some amicable
arrangement would have been come to, had the interview taken place. As it had
not, however, since Morris had not found him at his flat in town, he could not
speak for certain on this subject. The dispute concerned an action of his
partner’s, made independently of him. Had he been consulted he would have
strongly disapproved of it.
The body, as was made
public now, had been discovered by accident, though, as has been seen, the
probability of Mills having got out at Falmer had been arrived at by the
police, and Figgis immediately after his interview with Mr. Taynton on the
Saturday evening had started for Falmer to make inquiries there, and had
arrived there within a few minutes of the discovery of the body. A carpenter of
that village had strolled out about eight o’clock that night with his two
children while supper was being got ready, and had gone a piece of the way up
the path over the downs, which left the road at the corner of Falmer Park. The
children were running and playing about, hiding and seeking each other in the
bracken-filled hollows, and among the trees, when one of them screamed
suddenly, and a moment afterward they both came running to their father, saying
that they had come upon a man in one of these copses, lying on his face and
they were frightened. He had gone to see what this terrifying person was, and
had found the body. He went straight back to the village without touching
anything, for it was clear both from what he saw and from the crowd of buzzing
flies that the man was dead, and gave information to the police. Then within a
few minutes from that, Mr. Figgis had arrived from Brighton, to find that it
was superfluous to look any further or inquire any more concerning the whereabouts
of the missing man. All that was mortal of him was here, the head covered with
a cloth, and bits of the fresh summer growth of fern and frond sticking to his
clothing.
After the
identification of the body came evidence medical and otherwise that seemed to
show beyond doubt the time and manner of his death and the possible motive of
the murderer. The base of the skull was smashed in, evidently by some violent
blow dealt from behind with a blunt heavy instrument of some sort, and death
had probably been instantaneous. In one of the pockets was a first edition of
an evening paper published in London on Thursday last, which fixed the earliest
possible time at which the murder had been committed, while in the opinion of
the doctor who examined the body late on Saturday night, the man had been dead
not less than forty-eight hours. In spite of the very heavy rain which had
fallen on Thursday night, there were traces of a pool of blood about midway
between the clump of bracken where the body was found, and the path over the
downs leading from Falmer to Brighton. This, taken in conjunction with the
information already given by Mr. Taynton, made it practically certain that the
deceased had left London on the Thursday as he had intended to do, and had got
out of the train at Falmer, also according to his expressed intention, to walk
to Brighton. It would again have been most improbable that he would have
started on his walk had the storm already begun. But the train by which his bag
was conveyed to Brighton arrived at Falmer at half-past six, the storm did not
burst till an hour afterward. Finally, with regard to possible motive, the
murdered man’s watch was missing; his pockets also were empty of coin.
This concluded the
evidence, and the verdict was brought in without the jury leaving the court,
and "wilful murder by person or persons unknown" was recorded.
Mr. Taynton, as was
indeed to be expected, had been much affected during the giving of his
evidence, and when the inquest was over, he returned to Brighton feeling
terribly upset by this sudden tragedy, which had crashed without warning into
his life. It had been so swift and terrible; without sign or preparation this
man, whom he had known so long, had been hurled from life and all its vigour
into death. And how utterly now Mr. Taynton forgave him for that base attack
that he had made on him, so few days ago; how utterly, too, he felt sure Morris
had forgiven him for what was perhaps even harder to forgive. And if they could
forgive trespasses like these, they who were of human passion and resentments,
surely the reader of all hearts would forgive. That moment of agony short
though it might have been in actual duration, when the murderous weapon split
through the bone and scattered the brain, surely brought punishment and
therefore atonement for the frailties of a life-time.
Mr. Taynton, on his
arrival back at Brighton that afternoon, devoted a couple of solitary hours to
such thoughts as these, and others to which this tragedy naturally gave rise
and then with a supreme effort of will he determined to think no more on the
subject. It was inevitable that his mind should again and again perhaps for
weeks and months to come fall back on these dreadful events, but his will was
set on not permitting himself to dwell on them. So, though it was already late
in the afternoon, he set forth again from his house about tea-time, to spend a
couple of hours at the office. He had sent word to Mr. Timmins that he would
probably come in, and begin to get through the arrears caused by his
unavoidable absence that morning, and he found his head clerk waiting for him.
A few words were of course appropriate, and they were admirably chosen.
"You have seen the
result of the inquest, no doubt, Mr. Timmins," he said, "and yet one
hardly knows whether one wishes the murderer to be brought to justice. What
good does that do, now our friend is dead? So mean and petty a motive too; just
for a watch and a few sovereigns. It was money bought at a terrible price, was
it not? Poor soul, poor soul; yes, I say that of the murderer. Well, well, we
must turn our faces forward, Mr. Timmins; it is no use dwelling on the dreadful
irremediable past. The morning’s post? Is that it?"
Mr. Timmins ventured
sympathy.
"You look terribly
worn out, sir," he said. "Would n’t it be wiser to leave it till
to-morrow? A good night’s rest, you know, sir, if you ’ll excuse my mentioning
it."
"No, no, Mr.
Timmins, we must get to work again, we must get to work."
Nature, inspired by the
spirit and instinct of life, is wonderfully recuperative. Whether earthquake or
famine, fire or pestilence has blotted out a thousand lives, those who are
left, like ants when their house is disturbed, waste but little time after the
damage has been done in vain lamentations, but, slaves to the force of life,
begin almost instantly to rebuild and reconstruct. And what is true of the
community is true also of the individual, and thus in three days from this
dreadful morning of the inquest, Mr. Taynton, after attending the funeral of
the murdered man, was very actively employed, since the branch of the firm in
London, deprived of its head, required supervision from him. Others also, who
had been brought near to the tragedy, were occupied again, and of these Morris
in particular was a fair example of the spirit of the Life-force. His effort,
no doubt, was in a way easier than that made by Mr. Taynton, for to be
twenty-two years old and in love should be occupation sufficient. But he, too,
had his bad hours, when the past rose phantom-like about him, and he recalled
that evening when his rage had driven him nearly mad with passion against his
traducer. And by an awful coincidence, his madness had been contemporaneous
with the slanderer’s death. He must, in fact, have been within a few hundred
yards of the place at the time the murder was committed, for he had gone back
to Falmer Park that day, with the message that Mr. Taynton would call on the
morrow, and had left the place not half an hour before the breaking of the
storm. He had driven by the corner of the Park, where the path over the downs
left the main road and within a few hundred yards of him at that moment, had
been, dead or alive, the man who had so vilely slandered him. Supposing--it
might so easily have happened--they had met on the road. What would he have
done? Would he have been able to pass him and not wreaked his rage on him? He
hardly dared to think of that. But, life and love were his, and that which
might have been was soon dreamlike in comparison of these. Indeed, that
dreadful dream which he had had the night after the murder had been committed
was no less real than it. The past was all of this texture, and mist-like, it
was evaporated in the beams of the day that was his.
Now Brighton is a
populous place, and a sunny one, and many people lounge there in the sun all
day. But for the next three or four days a few of these loungers lounged
somewhat systematically. One lounged in Sussex Square, another lounged in
Montpellier Road, one or two others who apparently enjoyed this fresh air but
did not care about the town itself, usually went to the station after
breakfast, and spent the day in rambling agreeably about the downs. They also
frequented the pleasant little village of Falmer, gossiping freely with its
rural inhabitants. Often footmen or gardeners from the Park came down to the
village, and acquaintances were easily ripened in the ale-house. Otherwise
there was not much incident in the village; sometimes a motor drove by, and
one, after an illegally fast progress along the road, very often turned in at
the park gates. But no prosecution followed; it was clear they were not agents
of the police. Mr. Figgis, also, frequently came out from Brighton, and went
strolling about too, very slowly and sadly. He often wandered in the little
copses that bordered the path over the downs to Brighton, especially near the
place where it joined the main road a few hundred yards below Falmer station.
Then came a morning when neither he nor any of the other chance visitors to
Falmer were seen there any more. But the evening before Mr. Figgis carried back
with him to the train a long thin package wrapped in brown paper. But on the
morning when these strangers were seen no more at Falmer, it appeared that they
had not entirely left the neighbourhood, for instead of one only being in the
neighbourhood of Sussex Square, there were three of them there.
Morris had ordered the
motor to be round that morning at eleven, and it had been at the door some few
minutes before he appeared. Martin had driven it round from the stables, but he
was in a suit of tweed; it seemed that he was not going with it. Then the front
door opened, and Morris appeared as usual in a violent hurry. One of the
strangers was on the pavement close to the house door, looking with interest at
the car. But his interest in the car ceased when the boy appeared. And from the
railings of the square garden opposite another stranger crossed the road, and
from the left behind the car came a third.
"Mr. Morris
Assheton?" said the first.
"Well, what
then?" asked Morris.
The two others moved a
little nearer.
"I arrest you in
the King’s name," said the first.
Morris was putting on a
light coat as he came across the pavement. One arm was in, the other out. He
stopped dead; and the bright colour of his face slowly faded, leaving a sort of
ashen gray behind. His mouth suddenly went dry, and it was only at the third
attempt to speak that words came.
"What for?"
he said.
"For the murder of
Godfrey Mills," said the man. "Here is the warrant. I warn you that
all you say----"
Morris, whose lithe
athletic frame had gone slack for the moment, stiffened himself up again.
"I am not going to
say anything," he said. "Martin, drive to Mr. Taynton’s at once, and
tell him that I am arrested."
The other two now had
closed round him.
"Oh, I ’m not
going to bolt," he said. "Please tell me where you are going to take
me."
"Police Court in
Branksome Street," said the first.
"Tell Mr. Taynton
I am there," said Morris to his man.
There was a cab at the
corner of the square, and in answer to an almost imperceptible nod from one of
the men, it moved up to the house. The square was otherwise nearly empty, and
Morris looked round as the cab drew nearer. Upstairs in the house he had just
left, was his mother who was coming out to Falmer this evening to dine; above
illimitable blue stretched from horizon to horizon, behind was the free fresh
sea. Birds chirped in the bushes and lilac was in flower. Everything had its
liberty.
Then a new instinct
seized him, and though a moment before he had given his word that he was not
meditating escape, liberty called to him. Everything else was free. He rushed
forward, striking right and left with his arms, then tripped on the edge of the
paving stones and fell. He was instantly seized, and next moment was in the
cab, and fetters of steel, though he could not remember their having been placed
there, were on his wrists.
IT WAS a fortnight
later, a hot July morning, and an unusual animation reigned in the staid and
leisurely streets of Lewes. For the Assizes opened that day, and it was known
that the first case to be tried was the murder of which all Brighton and a
large part of England had been talking so much since Morris Assheton had been
committed for trial. At the hearing in the police-court there was not very much
evidence brought forward, but there had been sufficient to make it necessary
that he should stand his trial. It was known, for instance, that he had some
very serious reason for anger and resentment against his victim; those who had
seen him that day remembered him as being utterly unlike himself; he was known
to have been at Falmer Park that afternoon about six, and to have driven home
along the Falmer Road in his car an hour or so later. And in a copse close by
to where the body of the murdered man was found had been discovered a thick
bludgeon of a stick, broken it would seem by some violent act, into two halves.
On the top half was rudely cut with a pen-knife M. ASSHE . . . What was
puzzling, however, was the apparent motive of robbery about the crime; it will
be remembered that the victim’s watch was missing, and that no money was found
on him.
But since Morris had
been brought up for committal at the police-court it was believed that a
quantity more evidence of a peculiarly incriminating kind had turned up. Yet in
spite of this, so it was rumoured, the prisoner apparently did more than bear
up; it was said that he was quite cheerful, quite confident that his innocence
would be established. Others said that he was merely callous and utterly
without any moral sense. Much sympathy of course was felt for his mother, and
even more for the family of the Templetons and the daughter to whom it was said
that Morris was actually engaged. And, as much as anyone it was Mr. Taynton who
was the recipient of the respectful pity of the British public. Though no
relation he had all his life been a father to Morris, and while Miss Madge
Templeton was young and had the spring and elasticity of youth, so that, though
all this was indeed terrible enough, she might be expected to get over it, Mr.
Taynton was advanced in years and it seemed that he was utterly broken by the
shock. He had not been in Brighton on the day on which Morris was brought
before the police-court magistrates, and the news had reached him in London
after his young friend had been committed. It was said he had fainted straight
off, and there had been much difficulty in bringing him round. But since then
he had worked day and night on behalf of the accused. But certain fresh
evidence which had turned up a day or two before the Assizes seemed to have
taken the heart out of him. He had felt confident that the watch would have
been found, and the thief traced. But something new that had turned up had
utterly staggered him. He could only cling to one hope, and that was that he
knew the evidence about the stick must break down, for it was he who had thrown
the fragments into the bushes, a fact which would come to light in his own
evidence. But at the most, all he could hope for was, that though it seemed as
if the poor lad must be condemned, the jury, on account of his youth, and the
provocation he had received, of which Mr. Taynton would certainly make the most
when called upon to bear witness on this point, or owing to some weakness in
the terrible chain of evidence that had been woven, would recommend him to
mercy.
The awful formalities
at the opening of the case were gone through. The judge took his seat, and laid
on the bench in front of him a small parcel wrapped up in tissue paper; the
jury was sworn in, and the prisoner asked if he objected to the inclusion of any
of those among the men who were going to decide whether he was worthy of life
or guilty of death, and the packed court, composed about equally of men and
women, most of whom would have shuddered to see a dog beaten, or a tired hare
made to go an extra mile, settled themselves in their places with a rustle of
satisfaction at the thought of seeing a man brought before them in the shame of
suspected murder, and promised themselves an interesting and thrilling couple
of days in observing the gallows march nearer him, and in watching his mental
agony. They who would, and perhaps did, subscribe to benevolent institutions
for the relief of suffering among the lower animals, would willingly have paid
a far higher rate to observe the suffering of a man. He was so interesting; he
was so young and good-looking; what a depraved monster he must be. And that
little package in tissue paper which the judge brought in and laid on the
bench! The black cap, was it not? That showed what the judge thought about it
all. How thrilling!
Counsel for the Crown,
opened the case, and in a speech grimly devoid of all emotional appeal, laid
before the court the facts he was prepared to prove, on which they would base
their verdict.
The prisoner, a young
man of birth and breeding, had, strong grounds for revenge on the murdered man.
The prosecution, however, was not concerned in defending what the murdered man
had done, but in establishing the guilt of the man who had murdered him.
Godfrey Mills, had, as could be proved by witnesses, slandered the prisoner in
an abominable manner, and the prosecution were not intending for a moment to
attempt to establish the truth of his slander. But this slander they put
forward as a motive that gave rise to a murderous impulse on the part of the
prisoner. The jury would hear from one of the witnesses, an old friend of the
prisoner’s, and a man who had been a sort of father to him, that a few hours
only before the murder was committed the prisoner had uttered certain words
which admitted only of one interpretation, namely that murder was in his mind.
That the provocation was great was not denied; it was certain however, that the
provocation was sufficient.
Counsel then sketched
the actual circumstances of the crime, as far as they could be constructed from
what evidence there was. This evidence was purely circumstantial, but of a sort
which left no reasonable doubt that the murder had been committed by the
prisoner in the manner suggested. Mr. Godfrey Mills had gone to London on the
Tuesday of the fatal week, intending to return on the Thursday. On the
Wednesday the prisoner became cognisant of the fact that Mr. Godfrey Mills
had--he would not argue over it--wantonly slandered him to Sir Richard
Templeton, a marriage with the daughter of whom was projected in the prisoner’s
mind, which there was reason to suppose, might have taken place. Should the
jury not be satisfied on that point, witnesses would be called, including the
young lady herself, but unless the counsel for the defence challenged their
statement, namely that this slander had been spoken which contributed, so it
was argued, a motive for the crime it would be unnecessary to intrude on the
poignant and private grief of persons so situated, and to insist on a scene
which must prove to be so heart-rendingly painful.
(There was a slight
movement of demur in the humane and crowded court at this; it was just these
heart-rendingly painful things which were so thrilling.)
It was most important,
continued counsel for the prosecution that the jury should fix these dates
accurately in their minds. Tuesday was June 21st; it was on that day the
murdered man had gone to London, designing to return on June 23d, Thursday. The
prisoner had learned on Wednesday (June 22d) that aspersions had been made,
false aspersions, on his character, and it was on Thursday that he learned for
certain from the lips of the man to whom they had been made, who was the author
of them. The author was Mr. Godfrey Mills. He had thereupon motored back from
Falmer Park, and informed Mr. Taynton of this, and had left again for Falmer an
hour later to make an appointment for Mr. Taynton to see Sir Richard. He knew,
too, this would be proved, that Mr. Godfrey Mills proposed to return from
London that afternoon, to get out at Falmer station and walk back to Brighton.
It was certain from the finding of the body that Mr. Mills had travelled from
London, as he intended, and that he had got out at this station. It was certain
also that at that hour the prisoner, burning for vengeance, and knowing the
movements of Mr. Mills, was in the vicinity of Falmer.
To proceed, it was
certain also that the prisoner in a very strange wild state had arrived at Mr.
Taynton’s house about nine that evening, knowing that Mr. Mills was expected
there at about 9.30. Granted that he had committed the murder, this proceeding
was dictated by the most elementary instinct of self-preservation. It was also
in accordance with that that he had gone round in the pelting rain late that
night to see if the missing man had returned to his flat, and that he had gone
to London next morning to seek him there. He had not, of course, found him, and
he returned to Brighton that afternoon. In connection with this return, another
painful passage lay before them, for it would be shown by one of the witnesses
that again on the Friday afternoon the prisoner had visited the scene of the
crime. Mr. Taynton, in fact, still unsuspicious of anything being wrong had
walked over the Downs that afternoon from Brighton to Falmer, and had sat down in
view of the station where he proposed to catch a train back to Brighton, and
had seen the prisoner stop his motor-car close to the corner where the body had
been found, and behave in a manner inexplicable except on the theory that he
knew where the body lay. Subsequently to the finding of the body, which had
occurred on Saturday evening, there had been discovered in a coppice adjoining
a heavy bludgeon-like stick broken in two. The top of it, which would be
produced, bore the inscription M. ASSHE . . .
Mr. Taynton was present
in court, and was sitting on the bench to the right of the judge who had long
been a personal friend of his. Hitherto his face had been hidden in his hands,
as this terribly logical tale went on. But here he raised it, and smiled, a wan
smile enough, at Morris. The latter did not seem to notice the action. Counsel
for the prosecution continued.
All this, he said, had
been brought forward at the trial before the police-court magistrates, and he
thought the jury would agree that it was more than sufficient to commit the
prisoner to trial. At that trial, too, they had heard, the whole world had
heard, of the mystery of the missing watch, and the missing money. No money, at
least, had been found on the body; it was reasonable to refer to it as
"missing." But here again, the motive of self-preservation came in;
the whole thing had been carefully planned; the prisoner, counsel suggested,
had, just as he had gone up to town to find Mr. Mills the day after the murder
was committed, striven to put justice off the scent in making it appear that
the motive for the crime, had been robbery. With well-calculated cunning he had
taken the watch and what coins there were, from the pockets of his victim. That
at any rate was the theory suggested by the prosecution.
The speech was
admirably delivered, and its virtue was its extreme impassiveness; it seemed
quite impersonal, the mere automatic action of justice, not revengeful, not
seeking for death, but merely stating the case as it might be stated by some
planet or remote fixed star. Then there was a short pause, while the prosecutor
for the Crown laid down his notes. And the same slow, clear, impassive voice
went on.
"But since the
committal of the prisoner to stand his trial at these assizes," he said,
"more evidence of an utterly unexpected, but to us convincing kind has
been discovered. Here it is." And he held up a sheet of blotting paper,
and a crumpled envelope.
"A letter has been
blotted on this sheet," he said, "and by holding it up to the light
and looking through it, one can, of course, read what was written. But before I
read it, I will tell you from where this sheet was taken. It was taken from a
blotting book in the drawing-room of Mrs. Assheton’s house in Sussex Square. An
expert in handwriting will soon tell the gentlemen of the jury in whose hand he
without doubt considers it to be written. After the committal of the prisoner
to trial, search was of course made in this house, for further evidence. This
evidence was almost immediately discovered. After that no further search was
made."
The judge looked up
from his notes.
"By whom was this
discovery made?" he asked.
"By Superintendent
Figgis and Sergeant Wilkinson, my lord. They will give their evidence."
He waited till the
judge had entered this.
"I will read the
letter," he said, "from the negative, so to speak, of the blotting
paper."
June 21st.
TO GODFREY MILLS, ESQ.
You damned brute, I will
settle you. I hear you are coming back to Brighton to-morrow, and are getting
out at Falmer. All right; I shall be there, and we shall have a talk. MORRIS
ASSHETON.
A sort of purr went
round the court; the kind humane ladies and gentlemen who had fought for seats
found this to their taste. The noose tightened.
"I have here also
an envelope," said the prosecutor, "which was found by Mr. Figgis and
Mr. Wilkinson in the waste-paper basket in the sitting-room of the deceased.
According to the expert in handwriting, whose evidence you will hear, it is
undoubtedly addressed by the same hand that wrote the letter I have just read
you. And, in his opinion, the handwriting is that of the prisoner. No letter
was found in the deceased man’s room corresponding to this envelope, but the
jury will observe that what I have called the negative of the letter on the
blotting-paper was dated June 21st, the day that the prisoner suspected the
slander that had been levelled at him. The suggestion is that the deceased opened
this before leaving for London, and took the letter with him. And the hand,
that for the purposes of misleading justice, robbed him of his watch and his
money, also destroyed the letter which was then on his person, and which was an
incriminating document. But this sheet of blotting paper is as valuable as the
letter itself. It proves the letter to have been written."
Morris had been given a
seat in the dock, and on each side of him there stood a prison-warder. But in
the awed hush that followed, for the vultures and carrion crows who crowded the
court were finding themselves quite beautifully thrilled, he wrote a few words
on a slip of paper and handed it to a warder to give to his counsel. And his
counsel nodded to him.
The opening speech for
the Crown had lasted something over two hours, and a couple of witnesses only
were called before the interval for lunch. But most of the human ghouls had
brought sandwiches with them, and the court was packed with the same people
when Morris was brought up again after the interval, and the judge, breathing
sherry, took his seat. The court had become terribly hot, but the public were
too humane to mind that. A criminal was being chased toward the gallows, and
they followed his progress there with breathless interest. Step by step all
that was laid down in the opening speech for the prosecution was inexorably
proved, all, that is to say, except the affair of the stick. But from what a
certain witness (Mr. Taynton) swore to, it was clear that this piece of circumstantial
evidence, which indeed was of the greatest importance since the Crown’s case
was that the murder had been committed with that bludgeon of a stick,
completely broke down. Whoever had done the murder, he had not done it with
that stick, since Mr. Taynton deposed to having been at Mrs. Assheton’s house
on the Friday, the day after the murder had been committed, and to having taken
the stick away by mistake, believing it to be his. And the counsel for the
defence only asked one question on this point, which question closed the
proceedings for the day. It was:
"You have a
similar stick then?"
And Mr. Taynton replied
in the affirmative.
The court then rose.
On the whole the day
had been most satisfactory to the ghouls and vultures and it seemed probable
that they would have equally exciting and plentiful fare next day. But in the
opinion of many Morris’s counsel was disappointing. He did not cross-examine
witnesses at all sensationally, and drag out dreadful secrets (which had
nothing to do with the case) about their private lives, in order to show that
they seldom if ever spoke the truth. Indeed, witness after witness was allowed
to escape without any cross-examination at all; there was no attempt made to
prove that the carpenter who had found the body had been himself tried for
murder, or that his children were illegitimate. Yet gradually, as the afternoon
went on, a sort of impression began to make its way, that there was something
coming which no one suspected.
The next morning those
impressions were realised when the adjourned cross-examination of Mr. Taynton
was resumed. The counsel for the defence made an immediate attack on the
theories of the prosecution, and it told. For the prosecution had suggested
that Morris’s presence at the scene of the murder the day after was suspicious,
as if he had come back uneasily and of an unquiet conscience. If that was so,
Mr. Taynton’s presence there, who had been the witness who proved the presence
of the other, was suspicious also. What had he come there for? In order to
throw the broken pieces of Morris’s stick into the bushes? These inferences
were of course but suggested in the questions counsel asked Mr. Taynton in the
further cross-examination of this morning, and perhaps no one in court saw what
the suggestion was for a moment or two, so subtly and covertly was it conveyed.
Then it appeared to strike all minds together, and a subdued rustle went round
the court, followed the moment after by an even intenser silence.
Then followed a series
of interrogations, which at first seemed wholly irrelevant, for they appeared
to bear only on the business relations between the prisoner and the witness.
Then suddenly like the dim light at the end of a tunnel, where shines the
pervading illuminating sunlight, a little ray dawned.
"You have had
control of the prisoner’s private fortune since 1886?"
"Yes."
"In the year 1896
he had £8,000 or thereabouts in London and North-Western Debentures, £6,000 in
Consols, £7,000 in Government bonds of South Australia?"
"I have no doubt
those figures are correct."
"A fortnight ago
you bought £8,000 of London and North-Western Debentures, £6,000 in Consols, £7,000
in Government bonds of South Australia?"
Mr. Taynton opened his
lips to speak, but no sound came from them.
"Please answer the
question."
If there had been a
dead hush before, succeeding the rustle that had followed the suggestions about
the stick, a silence far more palpable now descended. There was no doubt as to
what the suggestion was now.
The counsel for the
prosecution broke in.
"I submit that
these questions are irrelevant, my lord," he said.
"I shall
subsequently show, my lord, that they are not."
"The witness must
answer the question," said the judge. "I see that there is a possible
relevancy."
The question was
answered.
"Thank you, that
is all," said the counsel for the defence, and Mr. Taynton left the
witness box.
It was then, for the
first time since the trial began, that Morris looked at this witness. All
through he had been perfectly calm and collected, a circumstance which the
spectators put down to the callousness with which they kindly credited him, and
now for the first time, as Mr. Taynton’s eyes and his met, an emotion crossed
the prisoner’s face. He looked sorry.
FOR the rest of the
morning the examination of witnesses for the prosecution went on, for there
were a very large number of them, but when the court rose for lunch, the
counsel for the prosecution intimated that this was his last. But again, hardly
any but those engaged officially, the judge, the counsel, the prisoner, the
warder, left the court. Mr. Taynton, however, went home, for he had his seat on
the bench, and he could escape for an hour from this very hot and oppressive
atmosphere. But he did not go to his Lewes office, or to any hotel to get his
lunch. He went to the station, where after waiting some quarter of an hour, he
took the train to Brighton. The train ran through Falmer and from his window he
could see where the Park palings made an angle close to the road; it was from
there that the path over the Downs, where he had so often walked, passed to
Brighton.
Again the judge took
his seat, still carrying the little parcel wrapped up in tissue paper.
There was no need for
the usher to call silence, for the silence was granted without being asked for.
The counsel for the
defence called the first witness; he also unwrapped a flat parcel which he had
brought into court with him, and handed it to the witness.
"That was supplied
by your firm?"
"Yes sir."
"Who ordered
it?"
"Mr.
Assheton."
"Mr. Morris
Assheton, that is. Did he order it from you, you yourself?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did he give any
specific instructions about it?"
"Yes, sir."
"What were
they?"
"That the blotting
book which Mrs. Assheton had already ordered was to be countermanded, and that
this was to be sent in its stead on June 24th."
"You mean not
after June 24th?"
"No, sir; the
instructions were that it was not to be sent before June 24th."
"Why was
that?"
"I could not say,
sir. Those were the instructions."
"And it was sent
on June 24th."
"Yes, sir. It was
entered in our book."
The book in question
was produced and handed to the jury and the judge.
"That is
all," Mrs. Assheton."
She stepped into the
box, and smiled at Morris. There was no murmur of sympathy, no rustling; the
whole thing was too tense.
"You returned home
on June 24th last, from a visit to town?"
"Yes."
"At what
time?"
"I could not say
to the minute. But about eleven in the morning."
"You found letters
waiting for you?"
"Yes."
"Anything
else?"
"A parcel."
"What did it
contain?"
"A blotting-book.
It was a present from my son on my birthday."
"Is this the
blotting-book?"
"Yes."
"What did you do
with it?"
"I opened it and
placed it on my writing table in the drawing-room."
"Thank you; that
is all."
There was no
cross-examination of this witness, and after the pause, the counsel for the
defence spoke again.
"Superintendent
Figgis."
"You searched the
house of Mrs. Assheton in Sussex Square?"
"Yes, sir."
"What did you take
from it?"
"A leaf from a
blotting-book, sir."
"Was it that leaf
which has been already produced in court, bearing the impress of a letter dated
June 21st?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where was the
blotting-book?"
"On the
writing-table in the drawing-room, sir."
"You did not
examine the blotting-book in any way?"
"No, sir."
Counsel opened the book
and fitted the torn out leaf into its place.
"We have here the
impress of a letter dated June 21st, written in a new blotting-book that did
not arrive at Mrs. Assheton’s house from the shop till June 24th. It threatens--threatens
a man who was murdered, supposedly by the prisoner, on June 23d. Yet this
threatening letter was not written till June 24th, after he had killed
him."
Quiet and unemotional
as had been the address for the Crown, these few remarks were even quieter.
Then the examination continued.
"You searched also
the flat occupied by the deceased, and you found there this envelope,
supposedly in the handwriting of the prisoner, which has been produced by the
prosecution?"
"Yes, sir."
"This is it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you. That
is all."
Again there was no
cross-examination, and the superintendent left the witness box.
Then the counsel for
the defence took up two blank envelopes in addition to the one already produced
and supposedly addressed in the handwriting of the prisoner.
"This blue
envelope," he said, "is from the stationery in Mrs. Assheton’s house.
This other envelope, white, is from the flat of the deceased. It corresponds in
every way with the envelope which was supposed to be addressed in the prisoner’s
hand, found at the flat in question. The inference is that the prisoner blotted
the letter dated June 21st on a blotting pad which did not arrive in Mrs.
Assheton’s house till June 24th, went to the deceased’s flat and put it an
envelope there.
These were handed to
the jury for examination.
"Ernest
Smedley," said counsel.
Mills’s servant stepped
into the box, and was sworn.
"Between, let us
say June 21st and June 24th, did the prisoner call at Mr. Mills’s flat?"
"Yes, sir,
twice."
"When?"
"Once on the
evening of June 23d, and once very early next morning."
"Did he go
in?"
"Yes, sir, he came
in on both occasions."
"What for?"
"To satisfy
himself that Mr. Mills had not come back."
"Did he write
anything?"
"No, sir."
"How do you know
that?"
"I went with him
from room to room, and should have seen if he had done so."
"Did anybody else
enter the flat during those days?"
"Yes, sir."
"Who?"
"Mr.
Taynton."
The whole court seemed
to give a great sigh; then it was quiet again. The judge put down the pen with
which he had been taking notes, and like the rest of the persons present he
only listened.
"When did Mr.
Taynton come into the flat?"
"About mid-day or
a little later on Friday."
"June 24th?"
"Yes, sir."
"Please tell the
jury what he did?"
The counsel for the
prosecution stood up.
"I object to that
question," he said.
The judge nodded at
him; then looked at the witness again. The examination went on.
"You need not
answer that question. I put it to save time, merely. Did Mr. Taynton go into
the deceased’s sitting-room?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did he write
anything there?"
"Yes, sir."
"Was he alone
there?"
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you."
Again the examining
counsel paused, and again no question was asked by the prosecution.
"Charles
Martin," said the counsel for defence.
"You are a servant
of the prisoner’s?"
"Yes, sir."
"You were in his
service during this week of June, of which Friday was June 24th?"
"Yes, sir."
"Describe the
events--No. Did the prisoner go up to town, or elsewhere on that day, driving
his motor-car, but leaving you in Brighton?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mrs. Assheton
came back that morning?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did anyone call
that morning? If so, who."
"Mr. Taynton
called."
"Did he go to the
drawing-room?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did he write
anything there?"
"Yes, sir; he
wrote a note to Mrs. Assheton, which he gave me when he went out."
"You were not in
the drawing-room, when he wrote it?"
"No, sir."
"Did he say
anything to you when he left the house?"
"Yes, sir,"
"What did he
say?"
The question was not
challenged now.
"He told me to say
that he had left the note at the door."
"But he had not
done so?"
"No, sir; he wrote
it in the drawing-room.
"Thank you. That
is all."
But this witness was
not allowed to pass as the others had done. The counsel for the prosecution got
up.
"You told Mrs.
Assheton that it had been left at the door?"
"Yes, sir."
"You knew that was
untrue?"
"Yes, sir."
"For what reason
did you say it, then?"
Martin hesitated; he
looked down, then he looked up again, and was still silent.
"Answer the
question."
His eyes met those of
the prisoner. Morris smiled at him, and nodded.
"Mr. Taynton told
me to say that," he said, "I had once been in Mr. Taynton’s service.
He dismissed me. I----"
The judge interposed
looking at the cross-examining counsel.
"Do you press your
question?" he asked. "I do not forbid you to ask it, but I ask you
whether the case for the prosecution of the--the prisoner is furthered by your
insisting on this question. We have all heard, the jury and I alike, what the
last three or four witnesses have said, and you have allowed that--quite
properly, in my opinion--to go unchallenged. I do not myself see that there is
anything to be gained by the prosecution by pressing the question. I ask you to
consider this point. If you think conscientiously, that the evidence, the trend
of which we all know now, is to be shaken, you are right to do your best to try
to shake it. If not, I wish you to consider whether you should press the
question. What the result of your pressing it will be, I have no idea, but it
is certainly clear to us all now, that there was a threat implied in Mr.
Taynton’s words. Personally I do not wish to know what that threat was, nor do
I see how the knowledge of it would affect your case in my eyes, or in the eyes
of the jury."
There was a moment’s
pause.
"No, my lord, I do
not press it."
Then a clear young
voice broke the silence.
"Thanks,
Martin," it said.
It came from the dock.
The judge looked across
to the dock for a moment, with a sudden irresistible impulse of kindliness for
the prisoner whom he was judging.
"Charles
Martin," he said, "you have given your evidence, and speaking for
myself, I believe it to be entirely trustworthy. I wish to say that your
character is perfectly clear. No aspersion whatever has been made on it, except
that you said a note had been delivered at the door, though you knew it to have
been not so delivered. You made that statement through fear of a certain
individual; you were frightened into telling a lie. No one inquires into the
sources of your fear."
But in the general
stillness, there was one part of the court that was not still, but the judge
made no command of silence there, for in the jury-box there was whispering and
consultation. It went on for some three minutes. Then the foreman of the jury
stood up.
"The jury have
heard sufficient of this case, my lord," he said, "and they are
agreed on their verdict."
For a moment the
buzzing whispers went about the court again, shrilling high, but
instantaneously they died down, and the same tense silence prevailed. But from
the back of the court there was a stir, and the judge seeing what it was that
caused it waited, while Mrs. Assheton moved from her place, and made her way to
the front of the dock in which Morris sat. She had been in the witness-box that
day, and everyone knew her, and all made way for her, moving as the blades of
corn move when the wind stirs them, for her right was recognised and
unquestioned. But the dock was high above her, and a barrister who sat below
instantly vacated his seat, she got up and stood on it. All eyes were fixed on
her, and none saw that at this moment a telegram was handed to the judge which
he opened and read.
Then he turned to the
foreman of the jury.
"What verdict, do
you find?" he asked.
"Not guilty."
Mrs. Assheton had
already grasped Morris’s hands in hers, and just as the words were spoken she
kissed him.
Then a shout arose
which bade fair to lift the roof off, and neither judge nor ushers of the court
made any attempt to quiet it, and if it was only for the sensation of seeing
the gallows march nearer the prisoner that these folk had come together, yet
there was no mistaking the genuineness of their congratulations now. Morris’s
whole behaviour too, had been so gallant and brave; innocent though he knew
himself to be, yet it required a very high courage to listen to the damning
accumulation of evidence against him, and if there is one thing that the
ordinary man appreciates more than sensation, it is pluck. Then, but not for a
long time, the uproar subsided, and the silence descended again. Then the judge
spoke.
"Mr.
Assheton," he said, "for I no longer can call you prisoner, the jury
have of course found you not guilty of the terrible crime of which you were
accused, and I need not say that I entirely agree with their verdict.
Throughout the trial you have had my sympathy and my admiration for your
gallant bearing." Then at a sign from the judge his mother and he were let
out by the private door below the bench.
After they had gone
silence was restored. Everyone knew that there must be more to come. The
prisoner was found not guilty; the murder was still unavenged.
Then once more the
judge spoke.
"I wish to make
public recognition," he said, "of the fairness and ability with which
the case was conducted on both sides. The prosecution, as it was their duty to
do, forged the chain of evidence against Mr. Assheton as strongly as they were
able, and pieced together incriminating circumstances against him with a skill
that at first seemed conclusive of his guilt. The first thing that occured to
make a weak link in their chain was the acknowledgment of a certain witness
that the stick with which the murder was supposed to have been committed was
not left on the spot by the accused, but by himself. Why he admitted that we
can only conjecture, but my conjecture is that it was an act of repentance and
contrition on his part. When it came to that point he could not let the
evidence which he had himself supplied tell against him on whom it was clearly
his object to father the crime. You will remember also that certain
circumstances pointed to robbery being the motive of the crime. That I think
was the first idea, so to speak of the real criminal. Then, we must suppose, he
saw himself safer, if he forged against another certain evidence which we have
heard."
The judge paused for a
moment, and then went on with evident emotion.
"This case will
never be reopened again," he said, "for a reason that I will
subsequently tell the court; we have seen the last of this tragedy, and
retribution and punishment are in the hands of a higher and supreme tribunal.
This witness, Mr. Edward Taynton--has been for years a friend of mine, and the
sympathy which I felt for him at the opening of the case, when a young man, to
whom I still believe him to have been attached, was on his trial, is changed to
a deeper pity. During the afternoon you have heard certain evidence, from which
you no doubt as well as I infer that the fact of this murder having been
committed was known to the man who wrote a letter and blotted it on the sheet
which has been before the court. That man also, as it was clear to us an hour
ago, directed a certain envelope which you have also seen. I may add that Mr.
Taynton had, as I knew, an extraordinary knack of imitating handwritings; I
have seen him write a signature that I could have sworn was mine. But he has
used that gift for tragic purposes.
I have just received a
telegram. He left this court before the luncheon interval, and went to his
house in Brighton. Arrived there, as I have just learned, he poisoned himself.
And may God have mercy on his soul."
Again he paused.
"The case
therefore is closed," he said, "and the court will rise for the day.
You will please go out in silence."