The Blotting Book (6 page)

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 scrollwork 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, l905." 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.