Love Lies Dreaming (15 page)

That was enough for me. But if Constance was not interested in the post, I was. I receive odd letters from publishers, and even odder ones from folk who have read my books; sometimes there are even checks in the letters I receive—although so far I have never
found one in any letter from any of my readers, And checks do not come on Monday mornings—they come at sixmonthly intervals, of which every month seems like a year. A regular check arriving on Monday mornings would be a vastly beneficial institution, Nevertheless, after I had passed my cup for my second go of coffee I went out to the door and examined the contents of the letterbox. There was only one letter there, and that was for Constance. I could hardly help noticing that it was addressed to her in the handwriting of one of her youthful train—a lad who has occasionally escorted her to dances. I took it in to her.

“Thanks,” she said, taking it from me without any sign of recovery from her dreary preoccupation. I fell, discomfited, into the welcoming embraces of the paper.

It was a queer sound from Constance which called me back to Monday morning. A queer sound, half squawk and half giggle; altogether a most unusual noise for Constance. I looked up from the paper. Constance was sitting staring at the letter I had brought her. First she held it under her nose, and then she held it at arm's length. Then she turned her,
attention to the envelope, and scrutinized the postmark.; Then she caught my eye turned on her, and was at once palpably embarrassed. For a second she made gestures indicative of a desire to conceal the letter, but she realized obviously that that was impossible. Then, equally obviously, she decided to brazen it out.

“Just look at that!” she said, tossing the missive over to me. I picked it up and began to read it, but before I had well begun it Constance had come round to my side of the table and was re-reading it over my shoulder. This is what I read:

“Dearest Woman on Earth.

“There are such lots of things which I want to say to you that I simply can't stop myself from writing this letter to you, although perhaps you will say that I ought not do so until things are more settled. But now that I have sat down with my pen and paper I feel that I can only write ‘I love you' over and over again. Perhaps you won't like it when I tell you that I only knew it a little time ago, but now that it has happened it is the most wonderful thing I have ever known. Long in coming, dear, so that it will last long, too, for ever and ever.

“A few days ago I tried to write to you, but I was afraid, and tore the letter up in case you would laugh at me, but this time you will see that I have more courage—unless I do not post it.

“Dearest, you will trust me, I know, until I can break through the difficulties that lie between us. It is cruel that a wretched question of money should be allowed to interfere with love, but if you will be patient, dearest, as I know you can be, I will soon have the money that will enable us to be together all our lives. Please let me hear from you, dear, even if I don't see you, soon. And don't laugh at me for writing this letter—I am not very clever yet at writing love letters, although if only you will let me, I shall get more into practise.

“Your lover (nothing can stop me from signing myself that at least),

“Pip.”

When I had finished reading this extraordinary epistle I could only sit and try to think, although my whirling brain made the exercise difficult.

“Say something, dear, for goodness' sake, or I shall scream or something quite soon,” said Constance.

“I can't say anything,” I said. “It's too near the beginning of the week. What do you want me to say? Do you want me to criticize it or something?”

“You can, if you like, for all I care,” said Constance.

“Right-ho, I'll see what I can do,” I said. I scanned the letter closely.

“Let's start with the more circumstantial evidence,” I said. “In the first place, he wasn't drunk when he wrote this. Any one could guess that from the writing. On the other hand, he must have been jolly careful over it. There isn't a single word misspelled. And from what I know of young Pip Masters that means he looked every blessed word up in a dictionary.”

“What a pig you are!” said Constance. She tried to grab the letter back again, but I was on my guard.

“Let us continue,” I said. Long experience has told me that Constance is powerless when I hold her two wrists with one hand, and good fortune had given me this hold at once. “From internal evidence we can deduce that despite his protestations he has written dozens of letters like this before. He protests too much. Probably he has lured scores of unfortunate females to their ruin by the aid of just such letters
and protestations as these. You should beware, Constance, of a man like this. He is either a bad lot or a dirty dog—conceivably both at once.”

“He isn't. I'm sure he isn't.”

“The final conclusion at which I arrive,” I said, judicially, “a conclusion to which I am led, I admit, more by my personal knowledge of Mr. Masters than by any indication in this letter, is that he must have received some encouragement.”

I said it lightly. God knows, I tried to feel light-hearted about it, too. But I was half afraid, and ashamed of being afraid, at the same time.

“Pig! Pig! Pig!” said Constance. “As if I would!”

I was reassured. The hateful doubt vanished almost as soon as it came. But Constance must have had an extraordinary effect on that young man, to stimulate him to go round making love to other men's wives. I never thought he would have the initiative—although I realized (it was this which had been the cause of my fear) that if once stimulated he would write rather nice love letters. Just the sort of boy Constance likes and—and—she might have been foolish for a moment or two.

“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.