The Fire Within

CHAPTER VI. THE LETTER

Oh, you shall walk in the mummers' train,

And dance for a beggar's boon,

And wear as mad a motley

As any under the moon,

And you shall pay the piper-

But I will call the tune.

OLD Mr. Mottisfont had been dead for about a fortnight when the letter arrived. David Blake found it upon his breakfast table when he came downstairs. It was a Friday morning, and there was an east wind blowing. David came into the dining-room wishing that there were no such thing as breakfast, and there, propped up in front of his plate, was the letter. He stared at it, and stared again. A series of sleepless or hag-ridden nights are not the best preparation for a letter written in a dead man's hand and sealed with a dead man's seal. If David's hand was steady when he picked up the letter it was because his will kept it steady, and for no other reason. As he held it in his hand, Mrs. Havergill came bustling in with toast and coffee. David passed her, went into his consulting room and shut the door.

“First he went red and then he went white,” she told Sarah, “and he pushed past me as if I were a stock, or a post, or something of that sort. I 'ope he 'asn't caught one of them nasty fevers, down in some slum. 'Tisn't natural for a man to turn colour that way. There was only one young man ever I knew as did it, William Jones his name was, and he was the sexton's son down at Du

David Blake sat down at his table and spread out old Mr. Mottisfont's letter upon the desk in front of him. It was a long letter, written in a clear, pointed handwriting, which was characteristic and unmistakable.

“My dear David,”-wrote old Mr. Mottisfont,-“My dear David, I have just written a letter to Edward-a blameless and beautiful letter-in which I have a

“Yours.

“E.M.M.”

David read the letter straight through without any change of expression. When he came to the end he folded the sheets neatly, put them back in the envelope, and locked the envelope away in a drawer. Then his face changed suddenly. First, a great rush of colour came into it, and then every feature altered under an access of blind and ungovernable anger. He pushed back his chair and sprang up, but the impetus which had carried him to his feet appeared to receive some extraordinary check. His movement had been a very violent one, but all at once it passed into rigidity. He stood with every muscle tense, and made neither sound nor movement. Slowly the colour died out of his face. Then he took a step backwards and dropped again into the chair. His eyes were fixed upon the strip of carpet which lay between him and the writing-table. A small, twisted scrap of paper was lying there. David Blake looked hard at the paper, but he did not see it. What he saw was another torn and twisted thing.

A man's professional honour is a very delicate thing. David had never held his lightly. If he had violated it, he had done so because there were great things in the balance. Mary's happiness, Mary's future, Mary's life. He had betrayed a trust because Mary asked it of him and because there was so much in the balance. And it had all been illusion. There had been no risk-no danger. Nothing but an old man's last and cruelest dupe. A furious anger surged in him. For nothing, it was all for nothing. He had wrenched himself for nothing, forfeited his self-respect for nothing, sold his honour for nothing. Mary had bidden him, and he had done her bidding, and it was all for nothing. A little bleak sunlight came in at the window and showed the worn patches upon the carpet. David could remember that old brown carpet for as long as he could remember anything. It had been in his father's consulting room. The writing-table had been there too. The room was full of memories of William Blake. Old familiar words and looks came back to David as he sat there. He remembered many little things, and, as he remembered, he despised himself very bitterly. As the moments passed, so his self-contempt grew, until it became unbearable. He rose, pushing his chair so that it fell over with a crash, and went into the dining-room.

Half an hour later Sarah put her head round the corner of the door and a

Edward presented a ruffled but resigned appearance. He was agitated, but beneath the agitation there was plainly evident a trace of melancholy triumph.

“I 've had a letter,” he began. David stood facing him.

“So have I,” he said.

Edward's wave of the hand dismissed as irrelevant all letters except his own. “But mine-mine was from my uncle,” he exclaimed.

“Exactly. He was obliging enough to send me a copy.”

“You-you know,” said Edward. then he searched his pockets, and ultimately produced a folded letter.

“You 've had a letter like this? He 's told you? You know?”

“That he 's played us the dirtiest trick on record? Yes, thanks, Edward, I 've been enjoying the knowledge for the best part of an hour.”

Edward shook his head.

“Of course he was mad,” he said. “I have often wondered if he was quite responsible. He used to say such extraordinary things. If you remember, I asked you about it once, and you laughed at me. But now, of course, there is no doubt about it. His brain had become affected.”

David's lip twitched a little.

“Mad? Oh, no, you need n't flatter yourself, he was n't mad. I only hope my wits may last as well. He was n't mad, but he 's made the biggest fools of the lot of us-the biggest fools. Oh, Lord!-how he 'd have laughed. He set the stage, and called the cast, and who so ready as we? First Murderer-Edward Mottisfont; Chief Mourner-Mary, his wife; and Tom Fool, beyond all other Tom Fools, David Blake, M.D. My Lord, he never said a truer word than when he wrote me down a damn fool!”