“You didn’t—not even unconsciously?” I asked. There was still a little anxiety in my voice, and, of course, Constance noticed it.
“Of course not, silly,” she said. “I liked him all right, but never—never—you know.”
“I suppose I do,” I said.
“But what are you going to do about it?” asked Constance. My head fell into my hands with a groan.
“What a question to ask on a Monday morning!” I said, “especially seeing that I ought to have started for the office at least five minutes ago. What the devil am I to do?”
“But you must do something, stupid.”
“But what? Tell me that, woman. What does a man do when some other bloke comes along writing letters to his wife? It hasn’t happened to me before.”
“You go to him and tell him to stop it.”
“That’ll be a treat for both of us. He boxed for Cambridge last year, you know. And I’ve often wondered whether I am still up to my old form.”
“Oh, you mustn’t fight him. Every one would know about it and I’d look such a fool. You must do something else instead.”
“Legal proceedings, I suppose? I’ll call in at the Law Courts at lunch time and get an interim injunction and a writ of mandamus, shall I? What a treat for the evening papers!”
“Don’t be silly,” said Constance.
“Well, can you suggest anything else I can do?”
Constance pondered for a while. “No, I can’t,” she reluctantly admitted.
“You don’t want me to go to him and offer him enough cash for a double week-end in Paris? One week-end ought to cure him.”
Constance’s only reply to this suggestion was to call me a pig once more.
“Well,” I said, “are you beginning to see now that this is your job and not mine? As soon as I have gone, sit down and write this young spark a real good letter. Tell him you didn’t know he could be such a fool. Then tell him that you are horribly insulted. Tell him that you never want to see him again—that’s true, I hope—and then say—say that if you have any more of this nonsense you’ll show this letter to every one he knows, and especially to his father (that ought to make him sit up). Treat the whole thing as if it were a bit of blind lunacy. That’s what it is, as a matter of fact, and treating it as such ought to quench his ardor. Don’t you think that’s the best thing to do?”
“M’yes,” said Constance.
“And now may I go to my office?”
“Of course, silly. But—but—you aren’t angry, dear, are you?”
“Angry? Why the devil should I be angry just because a man expresses his admiration for my wife in the most practical fashion possible. I like people to admire my property—it shows my good taste.”
I don’t know what Constance would have said in reply, for at that moment there was a knock at the door.
“Can I speak to you for a minute, mum?” asked Mrs. Black.
Constance went; it was hardly surprising that Mrs. Black should be unable to do her work for the first day in her new job without some sort of advice from the mistress of the house. I was just about to rise from the table to climb into my overcoat preparatory to going to the office when quite casually I turned over in my hand the letter which Constance had left with me. It was at once apparent that on the other side of that astonishing document there was a postscript which had so far escaped the notice of both of us.
“Dearest Woman on Earth—
“When you kissed me last night it seemed much too good to be true. I hardly thought you would. The idea never crossed my mind until it happened. It was a little moment of heaven in the shrubbery while lots of people were waiting for you outside. I hated those other people when you said you must go.
“Still your lover—P.”
It took a long time for the full meaning of those words to penetrate. The room turned dark and dull, and there was a hazy doubtfulness about everything. All I was at first conscious of was a feeling of intense, dreary disappointment. Other feelings came flooding up immediately, though. Within my clenched hands that crumpled the letter I thought I could feel Constance’s throat. I felt hot for murder. I could kill Constance and young Masters without care or scruple at that moment. And yet it was unbelievable. Could Constance have been so open about it, would she have shown me that letter so willingly had she felt in the least guilty? Most certainly she could not—and the argument brought up to a worse conclusion than ever. Constance must believe that casual kisses are weightless trifles. For a space I reined in my fury; Constance came back into the room.
“Not gone yet?” asked Constance, cheerfully. “You’ll get the sack.”
“I’m just going,” I said. Then, casually, “But tell me just one other thing. Was young Masters at the club yesterday?”
“Oh, yes,” said Constance, “I played with him several times, just the other side of the shrubbery to where you were. But he didn’t show any signs of—of—this.”
I looked at her would-be honest eyes; my fingers twitched as I looked at her white throat. But I forced myself to be patient.
“That’s queer,” I said heavily, with my face averted so that she could not see my eyes. All my faith in Constance vanished in that one moment. If Constance had confessed to a passing moment of weakness; if she had given me even a hint that she was in some, degree to blame for what had happened; if there had been any sign at all of conscience or of contrition, I might even then have let the matter pass. As it was, I could not. But with a huge effort I managed to control myself passably. Years of hot-tempered youth have taught me to act slowly; and though I realized that I was perfectly prepared to commit a double murder I had the sense to know that it would be a business requiring careful preparation to be successful.
“Good-by,” I said. But I could not bring myself to kiss her. That Judas-like action was beyond me, and I was sufficiently cowardly to make it appear as if I forgot in the hurry of leaving.
During that day in the office I made the interesting discovery that a man with his soul dead within him, a man left with no more hope in the world, even a man planning bloody murder, may nevertheless perform his routine duties with credit. That black Monday I had several decisions to make regarding office work, and every decision I made was the right one. My brain worked with such clarity that I was able to dictate my letters at such a speed as seriously to embarrass my shorthand typist. By lunch-time I had thrown so heavy an effort into my work that the rest of the day would be a light one for me. I was glad of that, for I wanted to have time to myself to make plans.
But even as I was wondering whether to have lunch or not the boy came into my room.
“Mr. Masters to see you, sir.”
The office seemed to reel round me; I had to clutch my desk for support.
“Who?” I demanded.
“Mr. P. Masters, sir. He says he would be much obliged if you could spare him a few minutes.”
“Oh, show him in,” I said. I tried to work out the effect of this interview on future evidence, and decided that not even a criminal court or a coroner could be able to find any significance in this meeting.
Masters came in. He was a very resplendent young man this morning, dressed in the first summer suit of the year, of a cool silver fawn, a soft hat of exactly the same shade, light brown collar and tie, yellow gloves and cane—altogether a spruce and trim young lady-killer. With my clenched fists hidden behind my desk I said good morning to him. I tried unobtrusively to read his face while appearing unconcerned.
He seemed worried and agitated. I was asking myself rapidly what sort of plot lay behind this visit; what careful—careless things he would say to find out how much I knew or suspected; I knew he would be easy game for me, for that open face of his could hide no secrets from me. Unless he had been learning from Constance.
He lit the cigarette I offered, sat down in the chair which awaited him (placed, like every visitor’s chair in every office, so that his face was to the light) and then rose restlessly
and began to fidget about the room. I watched him like a snake menacing a bird.
“I say, Trevor,” he said at length, flicking nervously at non-existent ash on his cigarette, “I’m in awful trouble—I’ve let myself in for something terrible, I think.”
“Really?” said I politely, without relaxing my gaze.
“Yes. Hasn’t Mrs. Trevor said anything to you about anything?”
“My wife,” said I, ponderously, “frequently says things to me about various subjects.”
“Yes, but this is about—oh, don’t you know anything about it, then? That’s something.”
But he did not seem comforted. He continued to flick at his cigarette.
I was glad of it; he seemed to be in the mood for confidences, and if I could not win confidences from this boy then I must have lost much of my old power.
“Tell me what the trouble is,’ I said gently. “Perhaps I can help.”
He hesitated for a moment, and then plunged.
“It’s about a letter,” he said. I think I maintained my expression unmoved.
“What about it?” I asked.
“I think I must have sent your wife a letter I didn’t mean her to have,” he said.
I made a faintly interrogative noise, my eyes still glued to his face.
“Yes,” said Masters. Then, in a final burst of confidence—“You see, last night I got myself engaged to be married—at least, I think I did—I hope I did, you know. An’ I am booked to take Mrs. Trevor to that what’s its name dance on Wednesday—you know, there’s a whole gang of us going—an’ so I wrote to her last night askin’ her to let me off, because—well, because I might want to be doin’ something else. An’ at the same time I wrote to—to her about—all about nothing, and like a blasted fool I got the letters mixed up. At least, I think I did. The first thing I knew about it was when she rang me up at the office to tell me she’d just had a letter from me beginning ‘Dear Mrs. Trevor, She was—well, she was cross about it. I’ve been runnin’ round London all the rest of the morning tryin’ to find you to see if it’s all right.”
I am glad I had my face still under control. I did not want a cub like this to see that I was relieved.
“If you sent the letter to my wife,” I said, “it’s sure to be all right. Constance would keep any little secret like that as dark as anything. I don’t expect she’d even tell me. Were those the only two letters you wrote last night?”
“Yes.”
“Then Constance got it all right. You needn’t worry any more. What about some lunch?”
Masters, at least, looked relieved. “I’d like to, but I don’t think I’d better, thanks very much. Better get this settled altogether, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” said I. “And let this be a warning to you, young man. Next time you write several letters, put one in an envelope and address it as soon as you have finished it. Otherwise you’ll let yourself in for all sorts of trouble. Especially after a year or two of that married life toward which you appear to be looking forward with a misguided enthusiasm.”
“Yes,” said Masters, “I will. And thanks very much.”
And he left hurriedly. I quite liked that boy.
Some time after lunch my telephone bell rang. I took it up and said, “Yes?” into the receiver.
“Is that you, dear?” said the earpiece.
“Yes, darling. Who is that speaking?”
The “Oooh,” I heard in reply would have told me even if I had not known before.
“I’ve just had Kitty Fisher here,” said Constance, “she’s just gone. She came about that letter.”
“Really?”
“Yes. They’re engaged to be married—she and Pip Masters—and he put the wrong letters in the envelopes. The one that was meant for me only began ‘Dear Mrs. Trevor’ Isn’t it disappointing?”
“Pride goeth before a fall,” said I.
It was interesting to me to discover, that afternoon, that a man with a soul full of happiness is by no means a good business man. I had a couple of decisions to make, that afternoon, and both the decisions I took were incorrect. And several times when I was dictating the one or two letters which remained for me to do I noticed my stenographer looking at me appalled, and found, on my hurriedly asking her to read over as far as I had gone, I had been guilty of incredible solecisms and self-contradictions.
Chapter X
Somehow the happiness of the afternoon obstructed things in the evening. I admit I was a little tactless.
Dinner appeared with commendable promptitude as soon as I reached home. It was more of a disadvantage than otherwise, for it brought about the fact that almost the first words to pass my lips were a complaint.
“This soup’s burned,” I said. Truth, but not tact.
“I’m sorry,” said Constance, and the restraint in her voice ought to have warned me. As a matter of fact, I made a further effort before giving it up.
“Sorry,” I said, “but it can’t be done.” And I pushed my plate away.
While I was carving the next course, I displayed polite interest in the home.
“How did the new woman get on?” I asked.
“Rottenly,” said Constance.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “What was the matter?”
It was then that Constance let me have it.
“Matter? Everything was the matter. What would you expect when a new woman arrives at half-past eight in the morning and finds everybody still in bed? It gives her a bad impression at the start. And she’s a horribly superior sort of woman, too. When it came out as we were doing the rooms that you and I were—were sleeping in separate rooms she sniffed. She might just as well have said, ‘I know what that means.’ But I couldn’t very well be angry with her just for sniffing.”
“But my goodness gracious me!” I said. “Can’t people have separate bedrooms without charwomen sniffing? I thought charwomen were mainly interested in finding out if people were living in sin. You can’t be living in sin very much if you have separate bedrooms.”
“Can’t you? That’s all you know. That kind of woman always thinks the worst if there’s anything different from what she is used to. And she’ll go round telling everybody, too.”
“Does that matter much? I don’t mind people knowing that we don’t sleep together every night.”
“You don’t. Of course you don’t. You wouldn’t mind anything. That’s why you put things so coarsely.”
“Well, anyway, whose fault is it if we are sleeping apart? I don’t think it’s mine.”
“I suppose you could blame it on to me if you wanted to. You generally blame things on to me.”
“Oh, I say—”
“Yes, you do, and you go round finding fault and saying the soup’s burned and you can’t drink it when it’s only burned a little tiny bit. I expect you had too big a lunch to want to eat any dinner.”
Constance had me there. I certainly had had a good lunch by way of celebration.
“There! I knew it And what do you think I had for lunch? Bread and cheese and a tomato!”
“You could have had anything else you fancied.”
“And cooked it myself. Just because I wasn’t lucky enough to be born a man.”
“It was bad luck for me, too,” I said, losing my temper. By a desperate effort I recaptured it again.
“Whatever is the matter, old thing?” I asked. “Tell me the worst, and let’s see if I can do anything toward it.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Constance, in tones which implied reverse. “Everything’s gone wrong today right from the start when that old cat found us still in bed. And that beastly letter—”
“The letter? I thought that was rather amusing.”
“That’s what I didn’t like. I don’t think you ought to have found it amusing. Any decent man would have been horribly angry if he found that some one was writing letters like that to his wife.”
“Was that written to my wife?” I asked, scratching my head
with mock efforts at remembering. And then I caught in Constance’s eye a hint of a change of expression. It was only a hint, but I remembered what she had said over the telephone, too. After all, I suppose it must be desperately humiliating for a woman to find that the love letter she has been excited about was not intended for her at all. At the same time I am perfectly sure that Constance was following my line of thought and realizing exactly what I was thinking about, which could not have helped to soothe her.
“Don’t be silly,” said Constance, “you thought it was, anyway. And you didn’t mind at all.”
That was true, so far as she knew. I would not mind if every man on earth wrote love letters to Constance—provided that the letters did not hint either at past or expected reciprocation of the passion.
“You didn’t care!” said Constance, “You didn’t care!”
And that was where the damnable part of the business made itself apparent. I could not tell Constance how much I did care, unless I also told her at the same time that I had suspected her of deceiving me. And that was impossible; it would have hurt Constance very deeply indeed—to say nothing of the injury it would have given to my own self-respect. The struggle on my face must have been obvious, and Constance misconstrued it.
“You look guilty,” said Constance. “Yes, and what in the world were you up to in town with Pip? When Kitty Fisher came this afternoon I hadn’t any idea that he had come to see you at the office. You must have known that it was all right long before I did, and before I rang you up. But you didn’t let me know. And as far as I can see you told Pip that you didn’t know anything about any letter he had written.”
“I didn’t tell him that,” I said. It was perfectly true.
“You must have done. You nearly made me look an awful ass, because I started telling Kitty just what you said about it, and then I suddenly noticed how she was looking, and had to stop. In the end I told her that no one but myself knew about it, and she was very bucked because their engagement has got to be a secret for a bit. That’s what all that queer stuff about ‘difficulties’ in the letter was about.”